Manwhore +1 (The Manwhore Series Book 2)

After a night spent writing draft after draft after draft, I’m at Edge early on Friday, quickly sipping an orange juice as I boot up my computer, then diving straight in to edit the best of what I wrote.

Using the brief guidelines Catherine gave me, I also applied what I’ve learned about Interface and double-checked my facts, then I marked those facts in bold so he pays extra care to double-check those.

My body’s in knots by the time everyone arrives at the office around nine, and I open an email, search his name, and attach the file.

To: Malcolm Saint

From: Rachel Livingston

Subject: Your speech

Here it is. I promised you it would be bad, but please know that I can’t bear for it to be—I hope, actually, that it’s good.

Good luck.

I would have loved to be there.

Rachel

I don’t expect a reply, but I get one nonetheless.

To: Rachel Livingston

From: Malcolm Saint

Subject: Re: Your speech

Your name’s up front, you’re welcome to come.

I’m halfway through reading his email and the butterflies are already flapping against the walls of my stomach.

He just invited me to his speech.

I exhale and try to calm myself, but god, it’s so hard to. I’ve got to turn in my article for the Sharpest Edge column and, suddenly riding on the momentum of Saint’s speech, I finally churn out the piece on what to wear on the first date. I think of the ways his eyes change and I write down things I’ve secretly believed since I met him. That men like women to look feminine, so wearing a soft color, or a soft fabric, or a soft wave to our hair, really makes a nice contrast to all that hardness of a man. Soft lipstick might work better for long-term interest rather than bold colors, which speak mostly about sex.

Once I finish the article, I go toward Helen’s office with my printout, when Valentine swings his chair around to stop me.

“Yo! Captain!” he calls, saluting me like an army general.

He’s really got his salutes mixed up, among other things: he’s wearing a yellow vest today with a purple shirt beneath.

“Helen’s having a ball with you. She’s basically selling the idea to young girls that you know what it takes to snag the hottest bachelor in town.”

I frown at that, because it’s definitely what Helen is doing and so far off the mark, it’s absolute bullshit. “That must be why she keeps looking at me like I’m the goose that lays golden eggs,” I say, just to make light of it.

But maybe . . . no, probably . . . it’s why she’s been so forgiving about my “writing issue.”

Val smirks. “Well, you’re the goose with the eggs Saint could have fertilized.”

I’m too hyped about Sin’s message and enjoying my writing high too much to let Valentine’s jibe have any effect.

I merely roll my eyes and ask, “Are you going to McCormick?”

“Nope, she wants me to revise all this bullshit.” He signals to his screen, then winks. “But the truth is, she needs to bully me to feel alive.”

“I’m glad you seem to enjoy it.” I head to Helen’s office with my printout even though I’ve already emailed the piece. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

I set it on her desk, and when she directs her attention to me, I say flat out, “Saint’s speaking at McCormick Place about Interface, and he got me a place in the reporting pool. You mind if I go, even if it’s just to observe?”

Helen looks at me levelly. “I expected you’d ask me after yellow-vest did. Yes,” she agrees. “But not as a dormouse. Ask a question! Let people know we’re covering.”

Seeing my hesitation, she quickly adds, “Getting out there and acting normal is the only chance you’ve got of things actually going back to normal.” A pause; a frown. “What? You’re not sure now?”

No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything these days.

Your name’s up front.

“Come on, go! Hurry out there and make some inquiries that make us sound smart!” Helen says. “Someone who will make up for Val’s clothing.”

Bracing myself for the worst but hoping for the best, I nod and head back to my seat. Helen’s right, I need to go on as normal.

I care about him more than what anyone can say about me. I won’t pass on a chance to see him.

Five minutes before the conference begins, I pay my driver and ease out of the cab. Keeping my hair out of the wind, I hurry into one of the four main buildings of McCormick Place.

This is the grandest convention center in the country, so massive that it takes several minutes to wind through the walkways and halls to reach the auditorium where Saint is keynote speaker.

The press is already in position near dozens of steel folding chairs: neighborhood papers, community radio stations, five local news teams. It’s a big deal, apparently. Hundreds of professionals fill up the room, sharp and prepared with cameras, notepads, microphones.

As I wait in line at reception and try to discreetly comb my hair with my fingers, a small group of new arrivals near the entrance spots me. I’m given a thorough examination and then, the whispers start.

Fuuuck me.

Red down to my toes, I force myself to stand in line until I reach the woman with the clipboard. “Hi, Rachel Livingston with Edge, here for Malcolm Saint.”

“Honey, they’re all here for him,” she mumbles without looking up. She locates my name on her page and I silently thank Saint’s press coordinator for the favor—or Saint himself. I notice how reluctantly the woman locates the badge, until she finally hands it to me. I fake confidence as I take the badge with my name and head inside.

There’s a crowd gathered already, applauding when a bald presenter in a gray suit takes the stage. “Welcome,” he says into a microphone.

Though I try to keep my attention on the stage as I search for a seat, there’s no missing the stares coming my way.

I feel an uncomfortable squeeze in my stomach when I think of Victoria and wonder what she’s doing, if she’s covering for that stupid magazine whose blog she exposed me in. She must be thirsting for my blood after Malcolm killed her article.

I don’t see Victoria here, thank god. But people see me. And suddenly, I. Don’t. Care. What they say.

I’m impassioned here. He impassions me. Just thinking of watching him speak today lights up my writing fire, so I should let him light me up and let me burn.

I stand before an empty chair at a back row, next to a long aisle.

That’s when a commotion from the entrance draws my eye, and the sight of Saint walking inside hits me with a jolt of feminine awareness as he takes the room with a trail of businessmen behind him. Malcolm owns every place he’s in, every floor he steps on. More virile than any man I have ever had the pleasure of staring upon, he uses that eat-you-up stride as he heads to the front of the room.

It’s impossible, but I swear even the air shifts—dynamically, energetically—with him in the room.

The presenter speaks his name into the microphone, and then, behind the wooden podium, stands Malcolm freaking perfection Saint.

“As many of you know, since inception, M4 has experienced record-breaking growth across all platforms . . . but there’s been an area among the M4 holdings that has captured my attention the most. For over the past year, a team of more than four thousand specialists and I have been laboring to bring to you Interface, which, in its short time online, has beaten every social-media site in the areas of engagement and user signup,” he says, and then he eyes the audience with a pause.

He’s so much larger than life that my eyes are wide as I absorb the full impact of him up there—owning the room. Owning everyone in it. Especially me.

But . . .

He’s not reading my speech. I’m a little bit confused, then I realize—I really did lose it. I’ve lost my spark, I’ve lost it all. He believed I could write well, maybe. Enough to want me to work at his company. He gave me a chance, and now he’s realized I’m no good. He won’t want me, even for a job. He won’t want me at all.

I’m stressing so much, I regret that I miss some parts of his speech, until the room bursts into applause.

I swallow. Look up at him.

I feel his presence in the knees. He smiles, waits for one of the reporters to ask him a question, his eye contact direct.

Noticing the enraptured looks of my companions, I can already predict the words used to describe his presentation and him: Mesmerizing. Concise and sharp.

Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address was only 270 words long. Likewise, Saint seems to embrace brevity and run with it.

As he starts to answer questions, I also notice that most everyone is standing, even when they have chairs, a phenomenon not many people accomplish.

God, what would it be like to say yes—yes—and work for him? See him at work every day, taking on the world, chasing and attaining his every ambition?

No, I could never do this.

NEVER work for a man who’s seen me naked.

It has to be a rule.

But it would also be complete and utter torture to never see him again . . .

A reporter from Buzz asks a multipart question, and after Saint lists down the answers and the man continues looking eager for more, Saint adds, “Now, what part of your question did I not answer?” His voice is low and deeply solid, the crowd hushes as though affected by its timbre.

“Saint! Saint! They say you couldn’t fit all your followers on your Facebook page and before it exploded, had to create your own Interface to fit them all.”

“If I’d created Interface for myself, I would’ve called it MyFace.”

Laughter.

He calls on someone else.

“Speaking of you, Saint, is it true you have as many men followers as you do women?”

“I haven’t been following the statistics.” He smiles. “But it is true the world is made of both.”

My stomach, which had been all gnarled up, seems to like that smile.

“Your M4 conglomerate is the most powerful corporation in the state. Is it true a lot of your employees aren’t college graduates?”

He keeps eye contact with the silver-haired, bearded reporter who asked, and succinctly answers, “We hire people who want to make things different. We encourage education and partner with educators across the country, but we prize free thinkers and people who can get things done above all else.”

He scans the crowd then, and suddenly a shockingly brilliant pair of green eyes lands on me. I had forgotten I’d been standing there with my arm raised. He calls on me.

“Rachel Livingston from Edge,” I hastily identify myself, as is customary, but when I hear gasps in the audience—fuck—I just forget what I was going to say.

Scrambling, I blurt out the second question that comes to mind, bypassing the real one I want to ask: Why did you not read my speech? “Interface, as a word, is a shared boundary across which two separate components of a computer system exchange information. In choosing this name, did you mean to make fun of how dispassionate relationships can become through online communication, the loss of personal contact?”

A hush spreads.

The room blurs as he holds my stare from the podium; everything blurs but the chiseled perfection of Saint’s masculine face and the shockingly personal look in his gaze.

“No, I’m not poking fun at relationships, especially since I admire anyone who can endure one.” He looks directly at me with a challenge in his eyes.

When finally some people laugh, a trickle of warm heat burns in the center of my tummy, spreading down my thighs.

What does that mean?

Dibs, I remember.

It had annoyed and confused me at the time. Now, I would give a billion times more than any other woman in the world for him to call dibs on me.

He scans the audience afterward and I don’t remember being this shaken since the first live press conference I attended as a journalist.

The answers continue, along with the questions, and then Saint thanks the crowd. Their applause is enormous as he leaves the stage, and the emptiness seems greater after his commanding presence. Reporters rush to edit their videos and write their stories.

I’m lingering in the room, I don’t know why exactly, when Catherine approaches me in her usual brisk, professional way. “He wants to see you. Follow me to the greenroom.”

I follow her to the back of a hall, then hear her announce me.

When she waves me in, I step inside and it’s full of beautiful furniture, new Persian rugs, technology, and classical background music, a huge fruit basket and chilled wine, as if only the best will do for this man, even if he’s here for only a few minutes.

I look at him. Glorious in the room. Sucking the space around him, like a beautiful, commanding, energetic black hole. Sucking me so that all I know right this second is him.

He looks at me. “I see you made it.”

His voice rumbles through me.

“Yes.” My lips tug upward and I laugh a little. “Wonderful speech,” I mumble. “Are you taking one-on-ones?”

“No. I leave for a meeting in . . .” He checks his watch, then raises his brow as if the time flew. “Five.”

His assistant hands over a couple of note cards; his dark head bends downward as he quickly skims them. She leaves after a questioning look in my direction, and I take the moment he’s distracted to regroup.

I’m embarrassed to look at him. Amazing how we’ve spent so much time together, shared so many things, and he still manages to make me feel more girly than anything because he’s so masculine. And more shy than anything because he’s so confident. And also because I like him and care about his opinion so much.

Which is why admitting the following hurts: “You didn’t read my speech.”

He lifts his head at that. “I didn’t read your speech,” he agrees, leaving me no choice but to laugh a little joylessly.

“I’m not surprised. I told you I’ve been struggling. Would you give me pointers as to what would’ve made it work for you? Was it too impersonal or too fact-oriented . . . ?”

He sets the note cards aside, frowning a little, his eyes a little bit amused. “Nothing like that,” he assures soberly. “It was merely too unique. It had your stamp all over it.” He looks at me with smoldering, intense eyes again, eyes that hold me motionless. “You couldn’t write for anyone else. You’re too unique to adopt someone else’s point of view; you’re too impassioned about yours. You should be writing about exactly and precisely what interests you, Rachel. That is what I’m offering you at M4.”

I’m stunned by the unexpected praise. He speaks honestly. In fact, I detect no flattery in his words or in his gaze. Only the truth as he sees it with those eyes that have seen more than they should by his age. Eyes that have seen everything and that somehow I can feel right now, seeing into me.

“I want to write, but . . . it’s the first thing I’ve written easily in weeks,” I admit.

Other than Helen, I haven’t admitted my block to anyone but him.

“It was good.”

Pride fills me at his words, a pride I haven’t felt for my work in a long time.

I’m almost weak with it when Saint steps forward and lifts his arm as if he’s about to touch my face.

I wait for the touch, my body tightening.

He stops himself, laughs mockingly under his breath, and then he stops laughing, admitting with sober intensity, “You can write. You won’t ever lose that.”

Yes I did, I lost it when I lost you.

I remain looking up at him, and then my eyes flick down at his hand as he lowers it to his side, his fingers—how they curl into his palm. His scent is filling my lungs and I don’t want to expel a breath just so I don’t lose that decadent smell. His hand is at his side, but how is it possible to feel his fingers in places they once touched? I’m crying out for them in every cell.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” I ask. “To get me writing? You didn’t need a speech. You just wanted me to realize I could work past my block.”

I’m almost weak when a smile touches his eyes so lightly, it’s barely there. “You think so.”

“I know so, Saint.” Then, looking into his eyes, eyes that watch me as if he knows what I’m thinking, I force out a little, “Thank you.” When he nods, I add, “I’d hoped not to embarrass myself completely in front of you. I’m glad you at least . . . liked what I sent.”

“Even if this means I still want you at M4?” he asks, a soft challenge.

I feel excitement surge through me. “You do?” I shake my head. “I couldn’t.”

“The offer’s still open,” he insists. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he looks at my lips—really stares at them—for three long heartbeats. Thud, thud, thud.

“Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Until when is it open?”

“Until you say yes.”

He walks away, leaving me aching, hopeful, happy, hurting, all at once.

He stops by the door, and looks at me again.

Making love was never as simple as him and me having sex.

Saint made love to me with his smile. There’s a smile in his eyes now.

“Are you available Saturday?” he asks.

I’m . . . hallucinating. I’m making things up, I’m this desperate.

“What do you mean?” I croak.

“There’s an all-day business event. I’d like to introduce you to some of my Interface crew.”

I don’t hesitate, not even a little. “I’m available.”

He grabs the doorknob. “Next Saturday. Someone will pick you up at noon.”

It’s late when I get home to find Wynn and Gina watching a movie in the living room. “Hey,” I say as I go to the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.

I plop down to watch some TV with them, replaying what he told me about my writing today.

“What did you do all day? Why are you so quiet?” Wynn asks.

I grin a little and shrug.

I used to tell them everything about Saint. They were my accomplices. My sidekicks as I went underground to infiltrate the player’s lair.

Now Saint is my treasure. He’s so precious and I have so little of him, is it wrong I want to keep him to myself ?

“Rachel! Share! All right, she’s gone mad!” Gina exaggeratedly declares to Wynn. “We need to get this girl some serious help.”

I grin as they both shake me.

“You dicks, let go!” I squirm to get free. “I saw him at McCormick Place today. He was keynote speaker at some socialmedia thing.” I keep replaying the looks we shared down to the very end. I snuggle my head into the back of the couch and sigh happily. “And he invited me over to this business thing,” I add.

“What business thing?” asks Wynn.

“What do you fucking mean? This should have been yelled out since you stepped in the door!” Gina cries, indignant.

“Oh god.” I moan into my pillow, then toss it over to them, red. “I can’t talk about it. I need to process! Good night, guys!”

I hear them murmur to themselves and speculate, I sit on my bed and scroll my contacts in my phone.

Do it, a part of me prods. No, don’t do it, another part goes. Yes, ask him something he needs to answer. But I can’t. I can’t push that hard. I need to take a page from his book and be patient.

I hug my pillow instead. Saturday, I think, making a mental list of things.

I need to look perfect.

I need to not make a fool of myself.

I need to remind him of what great friends we were even when we weren’t deliciously fucking.

I need to win Saint back.