At least my writing has benefited from my growing obsession with this tormenting fascination that has nowhere to go. This thirst for information is leaking into my writing, into anything I turn my attention to. I’m like a glutton craving something in particular but stuffing herself on whatever she can get her hands on in the meantime. Even if it’s information on something else.
“This piece is phenomenal!” Helen says. “Such fire. I can’t wait to see what you do with the Saint piece. What’s the dibs on that?”
I gasp. “What?”
She smiles and taps the notebook on my desk with one word, underlined until the page tore.
DIBS.
She props her hip on my desk, and I feel Victoria nearly fall out of her chair in her eagerness to hear what I have to say.
“None,” I say, taking the tablet and putting it aside. Really, so I’m doodling “dibs” now?
“Oh, what do you mean, none?” She turns. “Victoria, Victoria.” She crooks a finger and Victoria gets up and walks over, casual as can be.
“Helen?” she says. “Hi, Rachel.” She beams.
“Help me get Rachel in with that stylist who always has you looking so spectacular? With this face”—she tips my chin up—“there’s no way Saint should be able to keep himself from hunting her down. Thank you, Vicky,” she says, sliding into her office.
With Victoria near, I suddenly wish I’d said I’d made moderate progress. I wish I’d said anything to keep me from having to see her enormous, gloating smile. I can almost hear her thinking that I can’t even write a piece without her help. That I can’t get a man without her help.
“It’s not necessary, really,” I tell her.
“Oh nonsense, I know just what you need. I’m going to borrow this for a second,” she says, gesturing to my landline. So she calls her stylist and hums while she waits, and I need to save and close my file because nothing can mess with my mojo as much as someone sneaking a peek at my screen.
I sit there, feeling like a loser and peering into my phone when I see Dean’s message.
Mr. Saint would like to give you a tour of the Interface corporate headquarters. Let me know if this is of interest; he’s looking forward to seeing you.
My toes curl a little and my cheeks are red. Fuck. I text back:
I’m looking forward to seeing him.
Oh god. Seeing him? I’m meeting with him, not seeing him. Professional. That’s all. What will I do when I see him again?
I pull out a picture of him I downloaded on my phone and peek at it. His profile is so perfect. He’s the only guy I’ve ever had a picture of in my phone—it came from one of the girls who tagged him, and since it got downloaded it’s somehow stayed in my phone. I haven’t been able to erase it.
Considering Saint erased my picture, I should do the same, but a part of me enjoys being able to look at him while he’s not watching me. And this picture . . . I’m pretty sure this picture was taken that day on the yacht, and what he’s staring at in the distance is me. Something about his unreadable expression demands that I figure him out.
Victoria slams down my office phone. “Done. I’ve got an in for you next week on Friday. Be ready to make Saint weep!” she declares, patting the top of my head and leaving me staring down at my phone to Dean’s new message.
Great. We’ll have a car at your place on Thursday at 4 p.m.
