Malcolm Saint—
Ms. Livingston, this is Dean, Mr. Saint’s press coordinator. We have a ten-minute opening today at 12 p.m.
So I get that notification right now, Saturday, at like 11:18 a.m.
“Shit, I got it!” I tell Gina as I show her the message. But instead of high-fiving me because I freaking landed this and I rock, she glances pointedly at my coveralls.
“Oh no,” I groan. “I can’t see him like this!”
“Okay, take my belt.”
“OMG, really? I look ridiculous!”
She ties it around my waist and cinches it. “Rachel, focus. There’s no store around, you don’t have time to go change.”
We share panicked looks, then we both survey my clothes. I’m now wearing a jean coverall with a tank top beneath and a red belt, with paint splats here and there. “I look like an absolute slut on a washing day!”
“You have paint on your cheek,” says Gina, wincing on my behalf.
I groan and whisper to the universe: Next time you make one of my dreams come true, can I please be dressed for the occasion?
As if reading my mind, Gina tries to pep me up. “Come on, clothes don’t make the girl. Hey, at least you’re not naked.”
I’ve tried to twist my hair this way and that, and no, my appearance hardly improves. I’m passionately hating on this entire situation while riding in the back of the cab, sitting sideways because I suspect that, when Gina washed her hands after me, she got some paint on my back. Just seconds ago I felt it sticking to the cab vinyl, and now I’m hating on this situation so bad, my stomach hurts. I ask the driver to drop the passenger mirror, and I stare at my face.
“Ohmigod,” I say.
And there I am. My long blonde hair twisted into messy pigtails, a slash of paint on the side of my neck, stark like blood against my pale skin. “Ohmigod,” I moan.
This is the woman the renowned Malcolm Saint is going to see?
And, if I thought in the back of the cab that I really loathed this situation, I had no idea how much more I would hate it when I got to the M4 corporate building.
The building itself looms with its fancy mirrored windows piled up almost as high as the Sears—supposedly-called-Willis-now-but-screw-that-name—Tower. Inside the lobby, from one end to the other, marble and granite floors spread out beneath my feet. Steel structures hold glass staircases leading to a second lobby floor, while see-through elevators zoom up and down.
M4 is about as edgy as a nightclub but as quiet as a museum. I feel like a balloon delivery girl who forgot the balloons as I walk past the revolving doors and deeper toward reception. Oh fuck me, this is so not optimal right now. Everybody in the lobby is looking at me.
I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.
Livingston! Focus. YES. You can.
I thrust my chin out and proudly walk up to the receptionist. “Rachel Livingston for Malcolm Saint.”
She eyes me quietly. Inspects my ID card. Frowns a little.
At five foot seven, I’m not short by any means. But I feel smaller and smaller. I am shrinking, right here, as I wait. Humiliated quietly.
“Top floor,” she says, eyeing me down to my Converse sneakers.
Fuck. Me.
I head to the elevator with as much pride as I can muster.
The elevator zips up to the top floor, dropping my companions—all of them in sharp black-and-white exec suits—along the way until it’s just me. And a knot of nerves tightening more and more. I bet Victoria wouldn’t be caught dead wearing this. Not even if she were paid to do it.
But Victoria isn’t here, Rachel. You are.
The elevator tings, and I step out.
There are four desks, two to the right, two to the left, and huge frosted-glass doors leading to . . . his lair. I know it’s his because of how the frosted doors give the impression of a glass fortress that is both bold and strangely understated. It signals accessibility while being completely out of reach from the world.
A woman comes around a desk and gestures for me to take a seat in a section to the left.
Thanking her under my breath, I perch on the edge of a chair for a few minutes, watching all four of his assistants—all of them sharp and attractive in different ways—take continual calls. They work in absolute perfect synchronicity.
An elevator opens and a glimpse of a tall, striking man hits me with a jolt of pure feminine awareness as he steps out with a trail of businessmen behind him. Shoulders a mile wide, jet-black hair, crisp designer suit, snowy white shirt, and a stride to eat up the universe. He’s taking the folder that one of the other men extends and, after issuing some sort of command that sends his followers dispersing out with bullet speed, he charges forward. He passes me with the simmering force of a hurricane and disappears into the glass cave, leaving me dizzy and frantically absorbing my last sight of the dark hair, broad back, and the hottest male ass I’ve ever seen walking Chicago.
For a second I feel like the world moved faster, that somehow ten seconds were all crammed into the space of one—the one where this man went past me. Like a lightning bolt.
One of the assistants leaps to her feet and goes into the glass office where he vanished, while the other three stare at the door as if they wish the lightning bolt had hit a little bit closer to home.
Then it hits me.
That the storm was Malcolm Saint.
Yes, the hurricane was Saint.
I feel a prick of dread.
I glance at my sneakers. And yep. They’re still sneakers. Urgh.
I notice the assistant left the door slightly ajar, and I can’t help but lean forward, straining to hear her whispers.
“Your twelve o’clock is here. You have ten minutes.”
I can’t hear the reply through the nervous pounding of my heart.
“Oh, and Mr. Saint, this . . . reporter . . . she’s dressed a little bit unconventionally.”
God, I still can’t hear.
“From Edge, a low-circulation magazine. Dean thought it important we use whatever outlets we could to push the new Facebook.”
My skin pebbles when I hear a low, excruciatingly deep male voice murmur something unintelligible.
“Rachel Livingston,” the assistant answers.
I feel shivers when the indiscernible but deep sound of his voice reaches me again. The shivers race from the top of my spine down to my tailbone.
I’ve never shivered like this before, not even when I’ve been freezing my ass outside. Is this from nerves?
“Yes, Mr. Saint . . .” the assistant finally says.
She comes out and can’t quite manage to conceal the fact that she’s flustered. Shit, and I’m the one going in next. Looking like I was just tossed into a blender with a can of paint and I’m the result of that fun little expedition.
She calls me over to the door. “Mr. Saint is truly pressed for time today. Enjoy your ten minutes,” she says as she pushes it open.
I try to reply, but I’m so nervous only a little croak of a “thank you” comes out as I step inside. Stock tickers scroll on one wall on dozens of different screens. There are no live plants, nothing but technology and natural stone floors, and a lot of space, as if this man needs it.
The windows have an open view of the city of Chicago, but I can’t absorb it for long because I see him—quiet, storm-like intensity in Armani—walk toward me in that hurricane force that is almost otherworldly.
Wow. Wow on every part of him. His face, his presence, his shoulders, his eyes. His eyes are glowing, alive—green and deep, like moving rivers, but there’s no missing the little shards of ice glinting inside, almost screaming for me to warm them.
“Miss Livingston.”
He extends his hand, and it’s when I slide my fingers into his warm grip that I notice that I can’t breathe.
Nodding and swallowing and pasting a stupid smile on my face as I pry my hand free, I watch him with mounting awe.
Once in his chair and leaning back comfortably, he sits there, the pose deceptively casual, but I can feel the energy humming from his being.
“Mr. Saint,” I mumble at last, never more aware of my attire and how out of place I must seem amid such polished luxury.
He’s staring too, in a slightly puzzled, quiet way. I bet I’m the only woman he’s ever seen in coveralls. In sneakers. I bet everyone wears their best when they’re going to see him.
Shit.
He glances at his watch, startling me when he speaks. “Clock is ticking, Miss Livingston, so you might as well shoot.” He signals to a chair across from his desk, and . . . can I just say that his voice is really quite an experience?
His presence is quite the experience. No wonder people talk about it online—hell, to whoever will listen.
His jaw all lean bone, his eyebrows two dark slashes above thick-lashed, deep-set eyes. His lips are sensual, slightly tilted at the corners. The kind of lips Gina calls “edible.”
“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Saint,” I say.
“Saint is fine.” He leans back in his chair.
Adrenaline courses through me as I finally have no other choice but to attempt to sit on the chair he indicated, every effort I make focused on my movements. I’m trying not to recline to avoid getting paint on the fabric—a bit stiffly, I pull out the questions I wrote on my phone on my way here.
“So my main interest is, of course, your new social media platform, the first to ever really compete against Facebook . . .”
I can’t help but notice he’s distracted by my clothes as I sit across from him. I can feel his eyes on me, checking me out. Is he disgusted by my outfit? I can feel his hot eyes on me, and I’m just about squirming.
He shifts in his chair, a hand covering his face. Is he hiding a smile? Ohmigod, is his chest moving a little? He’s laughing because of my clothes! Because I’m rigid as a mannequin here, nervous and frantically wondering if I have paint on me or not.
“As you know,” I force myself to continue, but god, I’m mortified, “investors have not only been wondering whether it will remain privately held . . .”
I trail off when he stands and walks to the far end of his office. He walks in a way only confident men walk. It’s unsettling when he walks back to me, extending what looks to be a clean men’s dress shirt.
“Here, put this on.”
Holy crap. Is this his shirt? “Oh no.”
His eyes are extraordinary up close, peering down at me with a curiosity I hadn’t seen there before.
“I insist,” he says, with a hint of a smile.
My heart speeds up. “Truly,” I protest, shaking my head.
“You’ll be more comfortable.” He gestures down at me, and I feel myself go hot. He just smiles, a twinkle in his eye.
Standing to take the shirt, I pluck each button open with shaky fingers, then slip my arms into the sleeves. I start buttoning it up as he heads back to his desk, his strides slow this time, almost predatory . . . because he won’t take his eyes off me as he walks around.
The faster I try to make my fingers move, the more inept they feel. The shirt falls to the middle of my thighs—a shirt that has touched him, his chest, his skin, and suddenly I can’t stop being aware of what he’s doing; slowly lowering Chicago’s most coveted male body back into his chair.
“Okay,” I announce.
But it’s not okay. It’s so not okay right now.
I’m blushing to the tips of my ears, and his eyes are twinkling mercilessly, as though he knows it. “You wear it better than I do,” he assures me.
“You’re teasing me, Mr. Saint,” I say under my breath, lowering myself to the chair again. His shirt smells of soap, the collar starchy, loose around my neck. God. My knees feel weak. I couldn’t feel more vulnerable if I’d bared myself naked in front of him.
“All right, so now that you’ve managed to dress me properly,” I tell him laughingly, then scorn myself for my familiarity. Pull out your questions, Rachel. And while you’re at it, pull out your objectivity, too.
His cell phone rings. He ignores it, and I realize he’s smiling over my comment. Lips curled seductively at the corners, teeth perfectly even and white against his tan.
His. Smile.
Oh.
My stomach dips unexpectedly. “Would you like to answer?”
“No,” he says bluntly. “Go ahead. This is your time.”
It rings again. He glances at the screen, narrowing his eyes.
“Please go ahead,” I encourage.
I really need for him to look at something else for a hot second.
What is going on in my life?
I’m wearing his shirt!
He finally murmurs, “Excuse me,” and takes the call and turns his chair a bit as he listens into the receiver.
Exhaling as I pull my questions up from my phone again, I lift my lashes and watch his profile as he listens attentively. Just sitting there doing nothing but taking a call, he sucks up all the oxygen in the room. He screams class, money, sophistication, and purely powerful things.
They say he once leaped from the top of his office building.
He’s been called bold and daring both in business and out of it.
I hadn’t believed everything I read last night.
I’m not sure it’s all a lie now.
There’s quite an energy under those business clothes.
He wears those clothes like second skin—hell, as if he sometimes sleeps in them. Under his white shirt, I can see the impressive muscle tone of his arms and chest. No picture I saw online truly captured the effect of that tanned, well-structured face in person. Absolutely none. His face is walk-straight-into-a-wall stunning, and I won’t even dwell on his body, but now I understand why his bed is the most coveted spot in town.
He hangs up and settles back down, and we stare again for a moment. “Do you want to go ahead now, Miss Livingston?” he prods, gesturing to my phone.
“I amuse you,” I blurt.
Hiking up one eyebrow, he seems to turn the question in his head a bit, steepling his fingers before him. “Intrigue me, yes. Do you paint?”
“I was at a neighborhood park this morning. Members of my community get together sometimes; we’re trying to stay active against street violence, gang fights, drug selling in general.”
“Are you now?” he says, without inflection.
I’m not sure if he’s really intrigued or has simply decided he doesn’t want to allow me to interview him after all. Thinking back to my questions, and how much I need to draw out the most information that I can, I open my mouth to try to get on his good side—maybe a little flattery?—but one of his assistants interrupts.
“Mr. Saint, China calling,” she says as she peers through the doors. “And the car’s ready.”
He eases out of his chair, and his muscles ripple under his shirt as he maneuvers his arms back into his crisp black jacket. He grabs the Chicago Cubs cap sitting on the side of his desk, and as he looks at it, a muscle jumps in the back of his jaw as if he’s suddenly irritated about something.
I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I force myself to stand.
He lifts his head to briefly spare me one last glance. “It was interesting. Rachel,” he adds.
A horrible sense of loss weighs down on me, growing heavily with each sound of his sure, steady footsteps heading toward the door. Oh god, that’s it?
“Mr. Saint, could you see me again . . . ? ” I begin.
He’s already at the threshold of the open doors. His assistant hands over a couple of yellow Post-its, and he bends his dark head as he quickly skims them. He has an extremely toned back, an inverted triangle from his broad shoulders down to his waist—covered perfectly by that black designer jacket. As another one of his assistants goes to summon one of the elevators, one of his employees catches up to him with a ball.
A baseball. Of course. Either he’s getting it signed by the players today or throwing that ball out at Wrigley Field.
I glance around at his assistants. Two are typing. One is waiting by the elevator. And the one who’s always hovering by his side is . . . hovering by his side. All their eyes are on him as he boards. It seems like nobody is breathing until he leaves, not even me.
When the elevator takes him away, his assistants return to their desks. Other than me, I’ve never met people more eager to get back to work.
I smile as I approach the one who let me into his office. Her name plaque reads CATHERINE H. ULYSSES. “He’s got an effect, hasn’t he?” I fished. Does he sleep with any of you girls? is what I really want to know.
She scowls a little. Protective? “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’d like to see about the possibility of booking another appointment with Mr. Saint. We couldn’t cover the subject I’m interested in. I’d love at least an hour with him, even two, if it’s not too much to ask.”
She says she’ll keep me posted, and the four of them stare at the shirt I’m wearing and none of them looks happy. Sigh.
His assistants hate me, and he’s probably banning me from M4 for life.
I’m so disappointed when I ride the cab back to my apartment that I replay the scene over and over, trying to find something I can use. It takes an effort to push away my embarrassment first, digging underneath to the gist of the meeting.
I jot down—
Punctual
Respected by his staff = good boss?
Even when he sat there, there always seemed to be something happening in his head (what was he thinking? Mergers? )
His stare is . . . the deepest I’ve ever seen (indicates a man who can read people?)
He gave me his shirt
I look down at his shirt and study the buttons, the lapel. It’s an unexpected gesture, that he gave me his shirt. Unexpected. Yes, that’s him. Cool and composed, with a tight leash on his exhilarating hurricane energy, hiding something deep and interesting inside him.
I roll the sleeves to my elbows and jot that down. Sometimes my stories start with a list of words. I end up with this list of five things. So this is what I got out of the meeting? Five things with very little concrete evidence to back them up, and a strange knot in my tummy. And his incredibly nice-smelling shirt.
“What’s a man’s shirt doing here? This is sacred feminine space,” Gina protests when she gets in from work.
“He was embarrassed for me and gave me his shirt.”
I’m sitting in front of a blank computer screen, and I’m not that thrilled. Usually I love blank computer screens—they’re like my playground. But a playground with one lone subject and no information to play with leaves me grumpy. I’ve got a bag of yogurt pretzels from Whole Foods sitting right beside me, and even that won’t lift my mood.
“He covered you up rather than told you to remove your coverall? What kind of manwhore is he?”
“Gina! We were in his office. He has a good work ethic. He clearly doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”
Gina comes over to dive into my yogurt pretzels. “Saint lives for pleasure; he’s the tsar of pleasure. . . . What’s with the frown?”
I groan and set my laptop aside and plop down on the bed. “I need to give that shirt back, and the stain on the inside from your damn handprint won’t come off.”
“Why would you need to give it back?”
“Because! I’ve never . . . you know. Gotten gifts from a guy. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”
“You missed out on a dad giving you stuff. Or a brother. Or even a boyfriend. Still, you need to take stuff when you can get it because, trust someone who knows this shit, it doesn’t come that often.”
“I’m not keeping his shirt. What does that even say about me?” I shake my head and tsk.
She chows another pretzel and kicks off her shoes. “He’s a billionaire, he’s probably got a dozen more still with the tags on. Were you just planning on dropping by to hand it over? Are you like a permanent badge-holder of M4 corporate, or what?”
“No,” I admit, and I reach to my bureau for my phone and open my internet so she can see for herself the message I got.
Malcolm Saint
Miss Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint can see you Monday. If you don’t mind that we’re squeezing the interview in between some of his other obligations, he’s open to seeing you at 3 p.m.
“Rachel!” she says, jabbing my arm. “You go, girl!”
I grin quietly and stare at his shirt hanging on the back of my bedroom door again.
They say when you want something, you should visualize getting it and it will materialize. Well, this is the first time in my life I’ve wanted something bad enough, to prove myself so much, that it’s finally taking shape.
He gave me another interview. He’s got other obligations, but he will see me again. Even after that first mess of a meeting. It’s so beyond perfect I can’t stop a fresh wave of story-giddiness creeping up on me until finally 3 p.m. Monday rolls around.
