Manwhore +1

  My heart has turned into an empty eggshell. It feels ready to crack as my fingers fly up to brush one corner of my mouth. “Saint used to give me these torturously slow ghost kisses . . .”

  “Oh, you two!” Gina says in dismay. “You’re making me want to barf.”

  Wynn laughs, but I fall quiet as the hurt and the regret and the heartache come back with a vengeance.

  “Say, have you heard from Victoria?” Gina asks. “She lost her job after Saint canned her reveal article and all she does is tweet now and complain. She’s just some Tweleb now, but I bet she buys likes for her tweets, ’cause who’s even reading her?”

  Then, alarmed by what she said, she adds, “BUT DON’T GO ON SOCIAL MEDIA. Nothing good can come out of that.”

  I purse my lips and don’t tell them that I’ve already had a social-media fest recently and now I can’t stop.

  “I don’t understand why he didn’t can my article too. Why just hers?”

  “Obviously he didn’t care what they said about him.” Wynn shrugs. “Maybe that’s why he only canned Victoria’s, because she talked about you.”

  I play email roulette again several times, refreshing and refreshing, checking to be sure I have all the signal bars lit up.

  “Rache, we worry, you and those sad panda eyes,” Wynn says.

  “I’m not a sad panda, come on.”

  “The only times you don’t have the panda eyes is when you get the googly eyes from thinking of him.”

  “That, or the screen-saver face when she thinks of him,” Wynn counters.

  “Ha ha,” I say, rolling my eyes and pushing my cocktail away. “It’s just that I love him. I love him so much. It breaks me to think I hurt him. I’m so confused, I just don’t know what to do.”

  They fall quiet, and I find myself back at M4.

  Trapped again by forest-green eyes, cold as winter.

  MESSAGE

  I wake up in the middle of the night to hear the soft buzzing of my phone on my nightstand. Feeling for it in the dark, I tap it awake and my heart pumps when I see the message icon and then the name “Saint” on it.

  Wings flap against the walls of my stomach.

  Rachel,

  Thursday at 2:15 works for me, I trust we can wrap this up before my 2:30.

  M

  Oh god, he answered me himself.

  A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.

  Was he out?

  Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.

  My man @malcolmsaint has a new babe crying for his attention

  My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.

  A new babe?

  I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs. And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.

  I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.

  I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.

  Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Saint’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.

  I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.

  Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.

  I think of Malcolm and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.

  TRUTH

  I’m early to Edge on Thursday. Using my First Date piece as a distraction, I avoid a group of gossiping coworkers as I go get coffee, then I settle down in my spot and get to work.

  I review all my notes, specifically the notes on women’s first date concerns. They range from Should I let him kiss me on the first date if I’m interested in something long term? to What do I wear that will give out the right signals?

  Typing up a rough draft, I start saying definitely you want to wear something that will tell your guy, I’m not a slut, but I’m good in bed.

  I follow that with tips about wearing something that hints at your curves but isn’t completely skintight.

  Then I continue forward with the next thing you want your outfit to say: I’m a woman, not a girl.

  Something with a little cleavage, a little waist, I type.

  If you like this guy, you want him to want you as much as you want him. So your outfit should hopefully say, Hey, I’m covered up a little more than I’d like, but wouldn’t you like to know what I’m wearing underneath?

  On that, I elaborate on the psychological studies proving the less revealed, the more a man wonders.

  I type out two pages and edit for the next hour, hardly noticing the newsroom is even noisier than usual today. By the time I’m ready to go home at noon, Valentine drops a copy of the Chicago Tribune on my desk.

  “Read it,” he says.

  It’s dated for today, but it looks so read already, the pages are soft as tissue.

  LINTON CORPORATION INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING A NEW EDGE

  Speculation abounds that the newly minted Linton Corporation has been actively considering the possible acquisition of a small local magazine, Edge. Linton Corporation’s director of acquisitions, Carl Braunsfeld, comments that Edge, mostly known for its fashion and culture pieces, has gotten quite a bit of press after renowned Chicago darling Malcolm Saint’s first ever-known girlfriend was caught investigating him for an exposé. The young director said, “We’re in the process of considering many investments, but there are no firm details on any particular directions we might go, yet . . .”

  Ohgod.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and loathe my stupid exposé with a passion now.

  “Is there truth to this?”

  “Helen knows nothing about it.” He shrugs. “Hell, I kinda wish it were. Or not.”

  I frown, thoughtful as I read the article again and wonder if Saint knows this Carl Braunsfeld. I memorize the name before Valentine carries it over to the colleague in the next cubicle, then I gather my stuff and head home to change.

  After all morning writing about First Dates, I’m buzzing as though I’m going on one now. And wouldn’t that be a dream? A fresh start with my guy?

  Look pretty, Livingston!

  I settle on a loose silk blouse with a V-neck, paired with a knee-length, high-waisted black skirt that hugs my waist rather nicely and emphasizes my slight, but pretty, top and bottom curves. I add a pair of tan pumps that blend with my legs and make them look longer, then a small, delicate necklace with an R that sits right where my pulse flutters. I add an ankle bracelet just to look sophisticated and female and young, then I add a layer of coral lipstick on my lips.

  I’ve looked far more seductive for Saint, true.

  But I’m going to M4 and I can’t be looking like a club kitten. What I have to say is serious and I need him to take me seriously today.

  Running my comb over my hair one more time, I make sure that my shirt is nicely tucked, my bra blending with my skin and not see-through, and once I am happy with the way I look, I grab my bag, make sure I have the contract pages inside, and head out.

 
I ride the cab in silence. This thrill of exhilaration doesn’t lie. I’m excited to see him, nervous. Afraid.

  Months ago, the first time I set foot in his building, I arrived at M4 thinking it would be the story of my life. This isn’t just a story now; this is my life.

  M4 is as shiny and imposing as ever as I get out of the cab and stare at the building. I can’t even see the top from where I stand. I’ve never in my life felt so little. “Oh god,” I breathe as I smoothe my hands down my skirt.

  I check my phone for the time—and it’s 2:08, so I’m officially seven minutes early for my appointment.

  I start forward when I notice the gleaming silver BUG 3 just up ahead, and a man emerging from the driver’s seat.

  There’s a sudden stutter in my heart. My body temperature hikes. I watch the decadent powerhouse that is Saint toss the keys over the car top to the driver waiting on standby. As he pulls his jacket out of the backseat and straightens to shrug it on, his hair is ruffled by the breeze.

  Holding my breath, I watch him storm into the building. And still, for long seconds afterward, I stand here. Staring at the spot where he was. I decide to give myself half a minute between us, then I inhale and follow him into the building.

  “Hi, Rachel Livingston for Malcolm Saint,” I say at reception, my eyes heading to the elevators.

  Oh, fuck. He’s still there.

  This isn’t how I imagined starting the meeting.

  But when the blonde behind the desk verifies my name and efficiently points me to the glass executive elevator bank, I realize I can’t just stand here before her, waiting for him to go up.

  Stomach knots.

  Saint is standing there like an energy tower, as dark as the marble around him is light. He’s checking his phone as he waits for the elevator to arrive. Two men stand behind him—silent. Respectful. Kind of staring at the back of his head in awe.

  I approach nervously and remain a few feet away too.

  Once the elevator opens and the people shuffle out, many murmur their greetings to him, “Mr. Saint,” as he boards.

  The men follow. I keep my eyes downcast as I board too and go into the first corner to the right.

  Saint is standing right in the middle, taking up triple the space his body really occupies.

  “Mr. Saint”—one of the men breaks the silence—“I’d just like to say, it’s an honor to be working with you. I’m Archie Weinstein, one of your new budget analysts—”

  “Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure to have you.” I hear Saint’s voice.

  I’m pretty sure Saint shakes his hand. And now I’m pretty sure he’s looking at me. I swear he is. I can feel his gaze on the back of my head. I could hear it in his voice in the way he answered the man. The men disembark on the nineteenth floor. Just thirty-nine more to go.

  Oh fuck, I wasn’t prepared to ride an elevator with him.

  The moment the doors close, there’s a crackle in the air.

  “I’m expecting you’ll join M4 too.”

  I close my eyes. I can’t believe how his presence stirs me. How, even while merely feeling him watch me, his looks still burn me. And how—when he speaks—his voice still ripples through me. I force myself to turn halfway around. He’s looking at me with those green eyes of his. His gaze is so endless. And looking at me as if he’s trying to find some sort of answer written on my face.

  I flush. As usual. “I . . .” Clear my throat. “It’s a very generous offer but—”

  Ding!

  He signals for me to go out, and I force my legs to work, and when he comes out himself, I almost stumble over myself to catch up with his long strides.

  His assistants get flustered as they receive him. Catherine, his head assistant, leads them all with a string of messages and a pack of Post-its.

  “Mr. Saint, India and UK called,” Catherine murmurs only for his ears as she comes around the desk, then she mentions a long, long list of other callers and rescheduled meetings and people asking for appointments with him.

  “Update on the Interface board meeting?” he asks as he shuffles through the notes she hands out.

  “Report’s on your desk, sir.”

  “Good.”

  He finishes scanning the notes, and when I catch one of his assistants blatantly checking me out in these clothes, I start rethinking everything.

  Oh god. I want to turn around, go back down to the lobby, go home, and change.

  Instead I stand here as, now, two of his assistants eye me. Thoroughly. Head to toe.

  I feel a touch of nerves when he gives one last command to Catherine and then he opens the door to his spacious office and a muscle flexes in the back of his jaw before he speaks to me. “Come in, Rachel.”

  If I thought I could keep my shit together when I saw him today, I was so very, very wrong. All my systems are faltering as I walk forward. His eyes are on me. Straight on me, and oh so green.

  “Um, thank you.”

  Survival instincts beg me not to touch his body as I pass through.

  He secludes us inside and we head to his desk. He signals to the two chairs across from his desk. “Take your pick.”

  I waver between both options, tense.

  He sounds like such a . . . businessman.

  I choose the chair on the right, closest to where his own is aimed; I watch as he removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. I feel a rather big kick in my heart at the sight of that torso—which I know is hard and cut and beautiful—shrouded in his crisp white shirt.

  He takes his seat and leans back as the stock tickers continue shifting and Chicago surrounds us through the windows.

  Saint’s office is huge, but the center of its axis is where he is. I tell myself that the man he was with me is still there, under the intimidating businessman and under those cool green eyes. But he looks so much like the ruthless, ambitious Malcolm Saint right now. How can a girl find her courage like this?

  “Anything to drink, Mr. Saint? Miss Livingston?” Catherine asks, coming through the door.

  He waits for me to answer. I shake my head, and he adds without looking at her, “I’m set. Hold all calls.”

  She leaves, but the static between Saint and me remains.

  And where do I even start to apologize?

  “How are you?” he asks.

  I start when he speaks. It’s only three words and such a normal question. But that he cares to ask makes the arteries in my heart tie around like a pretzel.

  “I’m okay. I’m trying to distract myself with work and my friends.”

  “Distract yourself from what?”

  “Well,” I shrug. “You know.”

  Silence.

  “What about you? How are you?”

  “Good. Staying busy too.”

  “Busy getting the moon?” My lips quirk.

  His lips quirk back. “Always.”

  My smile quickly fades because I don’t like him across a desk. I don’t like him to look at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time, because he’s seen me so many others. The only guy who truly sees me when he stares.

  “Are you still doing those campouts?” he asks me, leaning back in his chair.

  “Of course. I take everything but the tent.”

  He laughs softly. “You can pretend you didn’t like the tent, but it shielded you from the elements.”

  I remember.

  I remember that there was no rain or earth or wind, only him.

  Suddenly, the now-familiar ache in my chest branches out from my heart, reaching all my extremities.

  “You must hate me. Why do you want me here, really?”

  “That you’re good isn’t enough?”

  I blush. “I’m not that good.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Saint . . .” I peer up at him. “Why are you still protecting me from . . . the elements?” Or your enemies?

  He leans forward, his expression confused again. “Because I need to. See, I really need to. And you need to le
t me, Rachel.”

  “I can’t,” I choke out.

  “Yes, you can.”

  I want to tell him that I would say yes to anything, anything he asked, except this.

  I cross my legs—inhaling, slowly—and try to look proper and calm when I finally speak. “I can’t take the job. It’s a dream job, with a dream salary, except that . . . I don’t want to work for you.”

  “And I want you to work for me. Very much,” he says quietly.

  God, this man. He’s a Bermuda Triangle of my life and I got lost there, never to be found. Why is he doing this to me?

  “I don’t want the job,” I repeat, laughing lightly over his stubbornness. Then I add, a pleading whisper, “I want you, Malcolm. Just you. Like before.”

  The calm in his eyes fades, replaced by something wild and stormy that makes me feel as if the entire room is shuddering.

  “When we talked for the last time on the phone and I told you how I felt about you . . .” I start.

  I’m knotted up inside as I force myself to look into those eyes, eyes that are carving into me with anger now.

  “I wanted to tell you, but I never got the chance before you returned. You see, I have ambitions too. I wanted . . . well, want to give my mom a bit of financial security so she can focus on painting and won’t have to be stuck at a job she doesn’t love. She’s on Medicaid but it’s not that reliable. I guess . . . Saint, I just wanted to feel secure knowing I could take care of her. I wanted to save my magazine because it’s all I’ve known. I wanted a story but after I started, I just wanted to spend more time with you.”

  My heart is pounding so hard in my ears, I can hardly hear my own words.

  “When I took the assignment, I never imagined that you’d be the way you are, Malcolm.” I shake my head a little, full of shame. “I was supposed to find out why you had an affinity . . . to number four. And it was supposed to be an article, four things about you . . .”

  My eyes well with unshed tears.

  “How to stop at four? You know? I never expected . . . I never expected you to be the way you are . . .”

  The heat is stealing into my face and I can’t bear having his eyes on me. It makes me anxious that I can’t read them so I stare at his throat, at his beautiful, perfect tie.