It’s a busy day at Face.
Face is my baby—brand new and still taking its first steps into publishing, both online and in print. I teased Malcolm about calling it that as a play on Interface, and when he chuckled in that amused way of his that tells me he kind of liked what I just said, I knew it was the perfect name.
Valentine, Sandy, and twelve other reporters are busy outside my office today.
It’s great. But it’s difficult to be in the same building as the guy I’m dating.
Sometimes I spot him leaving out the window, his hair and suit dark as the gleaming Rolls-Royce parked outside. Sometimes I watch him arrive from a business lunch, a conference, a board meeting at one of the multiple companies he advises—it’s hard to keep my Saint hormones from running wild.
Sometimes we accidentally meet in the elevator as I ride up to my floor . . . and he rides to his. He’s good at showing no emotion. But when our eyes lock, there’s that inevitable spark I see light his green eyes. Our companions move as though by instinct to let him get close to me. We don’t touch. At least, I don’t. But he sometimes stands so that our hands graze. Sometimes his thumb comes out for mischief, brushing the back of my finger—the tiniest bit. Other times, he laces our fingers for a heartbeat.
A most delicious, achingly sensual heartbeat.
And there was this one time when he hooked his pinky to mine and rode the entire way up to my floor standing there, tall, quiet, among the bustle of people, nobody but me knowing that this man—this man really loves me.
Sometimes I go up to his office or he comes down—and somehow we both know why we’re there. To talk, sometimes.
But sometimes to be quiet.
Superduper quiet as he kisses my mouth red, and red, and red, and simply coaxes me to promise him that I’ll come over to his place tonight.
At his place, we fuck all night long.
In mine, we fuck quietly so that Gina doesn’t hear us.
It’s perfect. I wouldn’t change a single thing.
Not of him, not of us.
I took the leap, and Malcolm caught me.
So we have this arrangement. During the week, we generally sleep at my place because I don’t want Gina to feel lonely. The weekend, we’re in his. This Thursday he has offered to drive me home, but he makes a five-minute stop at the bank. I stay answering some last emails on my phone and then peer curiously out the window when he comes out with one of the managers, who shakes his hand goodbye, then he climbs on board and asks Claude to take us to his building.
He’s holding a suspicious envelope in one hand as he settles into the seat across from mine and slowly gets rid of his tie and tucks it into his jacket pocket.
“This is so not the arrangement, mister,” I chide him, scowling.
He smirks. “Are you mad at me now?”
“So absolutely mad,” I exaggerate.
“I’ll make it up to you easy.” He leans forward and runs the pad of his thumb down my jawline. “I have a surprise.” He waves the manila folder in his hand in the air, and the butterflies respond.
“What is that?” I pry.
“Something.”
“It’s clearly something. But what?”
“Patience, grasshopper.” He leans back in the seat with this infuriating smirk, the very image of patience itself, and stretches his arm out behind him, a very self-satisfied look in his eye as he watches me squirm to find out his surprise.
We head to the top of the building. At the very top, there’s a pool exclusive to the penthouse. It’s an infinity pool, where the water seems to blend out into the twinkling lights of Chicago.
We’ve used this pool a couple of weekends, but this evening, the luxurious white chaises have been removed. They have been vacated to make room for one lone table at the center platform that crosses the pool. Connected, also, to the pool is another platform featuring the only lounge area that seems to have been left untouched.
The one Saint and I always sit in to enjoy the view.
The paths toward both the table and the lounge are littered with electric candles that glow quietly as we pass.
It’s so breathtaking—and so unexpected—that I spin around with wide eyes.
“So this is how you’re making it up to me?” I catch him watching me a little too closely, and I kiss his jaw and whisper, “I like it. Make me mad again.”
His hand engulfs mine, then he leads me forward to the lounge. “Dinner comes after the surprise.”
He sits me down on the larger couch and settles next to me, and then draws the envelope to his thigh.
“If my mother couldn’t meet you, I thought you could still meet her.” He pulls out a 5 x 7 color photograph from inside and extends it to me.
I feel a visceral reaction to the image of the woman I see, and the handsome teenager standing beside her, letting her wrap her arm around him even though he’s already taller. I recognize him instantly.
How can I not? I love him to pieces. Every part of him. And I love that woman in the picture simply because of the smile she’s wearing and how lovingly she’s holding him.
“She was reckless, spent money like her life depended on it,” Malcolm tells me. “She was passionate, and brave, and she loved me. Despite everything.”
He reaches into the folder again, and this time takes out a box with the name Harry Winston on it. He snaps it open. And there’s this lovely, exquisite ring sitting proudly at its center. It’s a round stone, super classical.
“When I was born my father told her to go buy the biggest rock she could find to celebrate the birth of what could now only be their only son. She didn’t buy the biggest rock, she bought the most perfect: D, internally flawless, 4.01 carats. She took off her engagement ring and wore this ring for as long as I can remember. When her leukemia was diagnosed, she told me she wanted to give me this ring. This was symbolic to her for me, and she wanted my bride to have it. I told her there would be no bride, to keep it. When I . . .”
He pauses, his expression troubled by the memory.
“When I came back from my skiing trip with the guys, I was given a folder with that picture she kept on her nightstand. A trust fund. And this ring.”
As he lifts the ring, it refracts all the lights around us, sparkling rainbows.
“So I went to the bank, got it the biggest box I could find, and stored it, having no intention of ever opening that vault. But all I’ve been able to think of lately is getting this ring out of that vault . . .” He kisses my hand and slips it on. “And onto your finger.”
The ring slides easily onto my finger. It’s a little big, and suddenly my finger feels just as heavy as my chest. Sin surveys my adorned hand, then looks up at me with this hopeful, loving gleam in those eyes of his. Eyes that used to be cold, when I met him for the first time, now look at me with the heat at the core of the earth.
There’s a smile on his lips too, a smile so adorable it’s almost boyish.
“Tie the knot with me. Be safe with me. Reckless with me. Be who you are with me. Be my wife, Rachel—marry me.”
My eyes get blurry and my lips are trembling as I purse them painfully because of his story. Because I’m wearing a ring on my finger.
And he speaks: “You once told me you wanted the world to stand still, you wanted a safe spot to stand still. I want to be that place for you.” His hands are almost swallowing my face, but it’s his stare that swallows me most—swallows me whole. “Even if I’m spinning through life, the spot beside me will be the eye of the hurricane, and nothing there can be touched or harmed. I want you here with me, beside me.”
My breaths have become ragged and I’m shaking all over in disbelief and happiness and emotion.
“Have you wondered what a man in love looks like?” As confident as ever, he kneels, ducks his head and kisses my naked hand. “This is what he looks like.”
I break down and duck my face and bury it in his hair as a sob escapes me. I’m melting. Swooning. Dying. I should probably speak but I’m struggling with a wet face and a clogged throat. His mother. The only other woman this man has ever truly loved before me. I feel so grateful to hear about her. I feel so humbled that he thinks me worthy of wearing this ring.
Saint hears my sniffles and straightens back so he can dry my tears.
I love my mother so much; I can’t imagine how it must’ve hurt him to lose her.
“This . . .” I struggle to explain, “is what a woman in love looks like when the man she loves shows her he loves her too.”
There’s a deep texture in his voice when he lets out a breath and says, “She looks lovely.”
He starts to straighten and tucks his hands under my armpits. “What are you doing? What is—what are you—Malcolm!”
Laughing, he lifts me up to his eye level as he stands—lifts me up as if I weigh nothing—kisses me on the mouth. “What does she say?”
He waits a little, eyes searching, impatient, anxious, claiming, primal, male, Malcolm’s. “Rachel?” he prods softly.
I’m hyperventilating. “We never . . . we never . . . you never told me you wanted . . . you were thinking . . .”
He takes my hand. I feel him rub the diamond under his thumb in a slow, languorous circle. “I’m telling you with this.” He looks at me somberly.
My reaction is visceral, instinctive, there is no doubt in my mind as I grab his shirt, boost up and I’m shaking all over and press my mouth to his, answering with my wet kiss. He lifts me up by the waist and my skirt hikes up as I curl my legs around him.
“Yes,” I breathe, grabbing his jaw in my hands and drowning in the lights inside those green forests of his that I swear to god contain the sun right now.
He nuzzles my nose. “Yes?”
“Yes, Malcolm. Always yes.” I press my lips to his, no tongue, just lips, and I squeeze my legs and arms around him as tight as I can as we hug . . . for a long time. Simply hold each other. For a long time.
The wind teases my hair, and I feel it wrap around our faces as we lean our foreheads against each other.
I’m crying and laughing and, suddenly, raining wet kisses all over his jaw, his temple, his forehead, his nose, his lips again . . .
He stops me with his hands to look into my eyes. “Two more times.”
“You want me to say yes four times?”
God. What do you do when the man you love asks you something?
You say yes.
Four times yes.
What do you do when a Saint loves you? You love him with all that you possess.
What do you do when Sin comes calling?
You do him.
Well, ladies, it’s official @malcolmsaint is off the market, aka ENGAGED. From now on @racheldibs gets both the Saint and the #sinner
FUCK THAT BITCH I GIVE IT A MONTH
WHATTTT!
Seriously there’s no way Saint can get sated with just one! EVER!
Is anyone else in mourning now that Saint’s engaged? I’m having a severe case of blues!
Are you still going to throw those big parties of yours @malcolmsaint? The city won’t be the same without you!
@malcolmsaint and @racheldibs Congratulations to the hottest couple I’ve ever seen!
Please, please post pictures from the wedding! Post pictures of the honeymoon! Rachel, post pictures of Saint!
From @gggina:
So happy for my best friend! I’m still going to kick @malcolmsaint’s ass if he hurts her.
From @wynnleyland:
My boyfriend and I are toasting tonight celebrating.
From @CallanCarmichael:
Well, like they say, never say never. Cause guess who said never? #SaintSaidNever @malcolmsaint
From @TahoeRoth:
Now that Saint’s off duty @Callan Carmichael and I are doubling up on our duties to you ladies.
And then again from @TahoeRoth:
While our man & his bride have a honeymoon sexfest in a few months, we’re having a sexfest & everyone’s invited—THIS MEANS YOU GINA @gggina
And from me:
Fear not @gggina My fiancé knows how to take a woman to heaven and keep her there! #HighInHeaven #HighOnSin
