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 . . .”
Oh God.
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 let 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.
“I wasn’t going to write the article anymore. I told my boss I wouldn’t, except Victoria—I told you about her. Remember? She’s . . . she’s the one who always seems to do better than me. She released her article and I was desperate for you to hear my side.”
I inhale shakily, my eyes still on fire.
“I can’t bear to think what you think of me but I need you to please believe me when I say not one moment with you was a lie. Not one.”
With a slow, deliberate move that makes me breathless, he stands from his chair and walks to the window, giving me his back.
Oh god, what must he think of me! How he must hate me. Think I used him. Lied to him.
I stand and take a few steps but I stop when I hear him take four deep breaths, and just like that, I crumble, and a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Malcolm, I am so sorry,” I say.
I quickly wipe the tear away before he can see it. He’s still facing the window as he mutters fuck me under his breath and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, his anger like an incoming hurricane in the room. It seems to be costing him everything to keep that simmering energy of his on a leash. I have never seen him like this. Not ever. He’s under control, but there’s a storm inside him and I can feel it.
Finally, he speaks, and his voice is so low and controlled that I’m afraid of the force of the anger it conceals. “You could’ve talked to me. When you kissed me. When you told me about Victoria. When you needed my comfort, Rachel. When your neighbor died. When you couldn’t see eye to eye with your family and friends. You came to me when you needed me. You came to me when I needed you . . . you could have talked to fucking me, trusted fucking me.” He turns and leaves me breathless when I feel the full force of his flashing green eyes on me. “I could’ve made this go away so fast.” He snaps his finger. “Like that. With one call.”
“I was afraid of losing you if you knew!”
A flash of bleak disappointment crosses his face, and as he stares me down, his green eyes could melt steel. “So you kept on lying instead.”
I wince and stare at his throat.
An eternity passes.
“There’s nothing more here for you, Rachel. Except a job. Take it.” He goes back to his chair and drops into his seat.
I can hardly speak. “There’s you here. Don’t shut me out because I made a mistake.”
As I walk back, it’s the first time I feel his eyes run over me, evaluating what I’m wearing. They were supposed to make me feel powerful and good, these clothes, and I feel tender and naked and fake. So fake. Thinking any clothes would make him see me differently. Thinking something so superficial could hide the real me—the flawed me.
I’m blushing when I sit again, and Saint doesn’t say anything at all. He’s stroking his thumb slowly over his lower lip, the only part of his body moving now.
“Consider my job offer,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t want you as my boss.”
“I’m a fair boss, Rachel.”
“I don’t want you as a boss.”
I wait a moment. His gaze smolders with frustration.
“You shouldn’t want me here,” I blurt out. “I am not a good journalist, Malcolm. If you want to know the truth, I lost the heart for it. I’m worthless to you. I’m not someone you will probably ever trust again.”
He cocks his head with a slight frown, as if curious over this development. “Take a week to think this through. In fact, take two.” He watches me as I struggle for words.
“I don’t want to hold you up—”
“You’re not.”
The way he studies my features causes a thousand tiny pinpricks of awareness inside of me. I know this stare. It’s a stare that makes my heart race because I can tell he’s trying to get a read on me.
“What’s so wrong about working with me?” He narrows his eyes.
I shake my head with a soft laugh. Would I even know where to begin?
I think of his assistants, half in love with him or worse. I don’t want this to be me. I don’t want to be forty, in love with a man I can never have. At least when I had my career goals, ambitious as they were, I always imagined I’d be able to attain them someday. But him? He’s already as unreachable to me as all of the sixty-seven Jupiter moons.
“Even if I dared leave Edge, which I won’t, but even if I did, I’d never accept a job I was unsure I could even do.”
“You can do it,” he says, firm and calm.
“I’m telling you, I can’t.” I laugh a little and lower my face.
When he speaks, his voice is soberly low. “I’ll stop asking you to work for me when you prove to me you can’t write anymore.”
“How am I supposed to do that? Write you something bad?” I scowl in confusion.
He seems to ponder that for a moment. “Write one of my speeches. Write the one for tomorrow. You’re familiar with Interface, its business model, objectives, cultural footprint.”
I narrow my eyes.
“If it’s as bad as you say, I’ll back off,” he adds with the kind of lazy indulgence only people who hold all the cards emit.
He sits behind his desk with a familiar little twinkle in his eye, so powerful and tanned and dark-haired and green-eyed and toe-curlingly masculine, challenging me to rise to his bait. The temptation is so strong, I have to fight it.
“I can make it bad enough you’ll stop asking me to work for you.”
“But you won’t.” His eyes gleam, and his lips form a smile that causes all kinds of visceral tugs inside me. “I know you won’t.”
I sit here, struggling.
I want to see him. I want to have an excuse to see him.
“This wouldn’t mean I’m working for you. You won’t pay me for this. It’s just so you can see that writing is . . . hard. I’m not who you need at M4, Malcolm.”
I’m feeling tingles in my stomach from the smile he wears. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“When do you need it by?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“And the event is at noon?”
He nods slowly, eyes glimmering in challenge. “Get it to me by ten.”
“Mr. Saint, your two thirty is here,” a female voice says from the door.
I come to my feet when Malcolm uncoils from his seat. He eases his arms into his crisp black jacket. “Ask Catherine for the guidelines the other speechwriters were working with.” He buttons up, and pauses. “I’ll expect to see your email.”
“Malcolm,” I start, but then stop. After a moment, I whisper, surprising myself, “You will.”
As I watch him head to the door, adrenaline courses through me, every part of me shaking except my determination.
When I get back to Edge, I walk to my seat like a horse with blinders, avoiding everyone. I print out some stuff for the speech and then head home. I haven’t told Gina I met with him, or my mom, or Wynn, or Helen. He’s my secret, somehow, too precious for me to share, my hope too raw and too tiny to survive the questioning of anyone else.
I don’t want to hear if what I’m doing is dangerous. Wrong. Or right. I’m doing it because I have to—I need to—because he asked me to, and this is the only way I can be close to him for now. Yes, I could accept his job offer and be closer for longer—but I’d define myself as his employee for possibly forever. That’s not what I want to be to him.
I stare at my laptop once I get home. Only seconds after I boot it up, a familiar dread starts creeping into me, as it does when I sit to write now.
But I think of Interface. Malcolm. How relentless he is, how ruthless, how innovative, and he’s right.
My pride won’t let me write something I don’t like. I want to dazzle him. I want him to read it and, even if he hates me, I want him to feel awe or admiration for my words. I want to talk to him through the simple act of writing his speech and if he trusted me with this little thing—I don’t want to fail him.
Before I start writing, I call my mother to say hi, check up on her. Then I tell Gina, “I’m going to write!” so she doesn’t just burst into my bedroom. Then I turn off my cell phone, close my browser, and look at my Word file as I put in the first word: Interface . . .
