Manwhore +1
“You are such a top-level douche-bag, and I am so glad Saint keeps proving you wrong,” I mutter at the man behind the podium.
Feeling worse and worse the more I see, I start to seriously consider my options and what I’ll do if Noel Saint succeeds in acquiring Edge. Jumping to my inbox, I scan the emails that I received when my article broke out and I wonder if those who reached out still want to interview me. Then I open another search engine and scan the job boards.
“Why are you checking the online ads?”
I lift my head distractedly to spot Valentine peering at my computer screen. “What?” I ask him.
“The ads. Why are you looking at online ads? Are you leaving?”
I glance around to make sure nobody else is hearing, then close my search, determined to make some calls later.
BOX
When I get to my apartment, I’ve got a ton of research for my article but I can’t stop thinking about Noel Saint, Malcolm Saint feeding me wine from his thumb, and my embarrassing dream. After a quick shower I opt to add a mayonnaise treatment to my hair and let it sit under a shower cap for a while when I get a ring from the landlady who lives on the first floor. She says that there’s a package downstairs for me but it’s quite heavy so she’ll have someone bring it up.
The package, when it’s brought to my door by her burly bear of a husband, is a huge case of wine. My favorite wine.
And a note taped to the top in such familiar writing, my world tilts upside down.
Rachel,
I couldn’t keep all these to myself. I’ll never forget the look on your face when you met your new obsession.
M. S.
I reread it several times. I read even the white spaces between the letters. I read the M and the S and everything he wrote.
God. My obsession is YOU.
Exhaling shakily, I bend and heave a little as I carry the box inside, lock the door behind me, then I head to my room and lift my cell phone in trembling hands, press SIN, and call.
I’m wracking my brain for what to say.
It rings three times before I hear him pick up and say, “Saint.”
I literally feel the butterflies in my throat. “Hey, it’s me,” I say, trying to sound casual as I glance at the note in my hand, the want for my own obsession eating me inside as I talk to him on the phone. “So,” I begin, trying to not sound breathless, “some guy I know wants to get me drunk. I have a case of delicious wine right on my doorstep with the address to AA for when I’m done.”
“Bastard.”
I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. “Help me with this someday?”
The soft and unexpected chuckle on the other end of the line does something to me, and I have to stop pacing and sit down on the edge of my bed. I pluck nervously at the comforter as he tells me, “There are seven days in a week and none of them is someday. Tell me when, Rachel.”
A flush crawls up my cheeks. “I’d hoped this week, but I have to write after I did nothing but imbibe wine this weekend.”
“I have a better idea. Come downstairs.”
“What?”
“Come downstairs,” he repeats.
“You’re passing through the neighborhood?” I ask in disbelief, turning to gape at the window.
“I’m not passing; I’m in the neighborhood for you.”
Crossing the room, I pluck the curtain aside and see a shiny crimson car pulling over in front of my building. His big-shit new car.
“Come down,” he says, and then he cuts off. I drop the curtain and text him: Give me 5.
Tossing my phone on my bed, I hurry to the bathroom and yank off my shower cap and stare at my mayonnaise hair. Oh fuck, Rachel, why did you do a hair treatment today?!
Gina leans against the doorjamb and asks drolly from the door, “Shall I tell him you’ve got icky white stuff in your hair and to come back?”
Trembling, I open the faucet and stick my head under the running water, hurrying to wash the mayonnaise out of my hair.
Once done, I drape a towel over me and run it quickly up and down, trying to dry it as much as I can. Sin is downstairs. Sin is in the neighborhood. Sin came to see me.
Finally I toss my hair back, run a brush over it, tie it into a bun, slip into a pair of navy blue leggings, a clean gray T shirt, my easy slip-on Uggs, then rush outside.
Gravity.
Gravity is the force of attraction that exists between any two objects, any two masses, any two bodies. Gravity isn’t just an attraction between an object above being pulled toward the gravitational center of the earth. Gravity is an attraction that exists between all objects, in all of the universe—the closer they are, the stronger the pull.
There has never been such gravity as that which I feel to an object parallel to me. This man.
My most powerful gravitational pull—the one that makes me feel like I’m falling even when I’m standing still.
Square jaw, that edible mouth, broad, big, tall and dressed in a suit, surrounded by the raw force of a determination that whirls around his body.
We’re inside his car, parked outside my building. Quiet, toe-curlingly beautiful, noble, bold, controlled, and relentless, Saint is once again looking for me, as relentless as the M4’s sole proprietor and CEO that I know, and as uncatchable as a storm. A womanizer. A benefactor. A champion of his causes. An enigma.
Everybody dotes on him. Women make fools of themselves over and over in an attempt to attract his eye. He inspires lust, love, and everything in between.
Even obsession.
Even . . . from me.
He was standing by his car when I came out.
“Hey,” I said, feeling myself blush. “This is what I do now in my free time.” I pointed at my wet hair in its bun.
He stared at me and opened the gullwing door to his stunning car. “I was hoping we could have that talk now,” he said.
Now we’re in his car and he’s settled behind the wheel and I’m nervous.
Everyone wants something from him. He’s got a warrior’s instinct and is used to being asked for things. He rarely says no.
He . . . takes care of you.
He took care of me once and as I look at him in the dark with the streetlight casting shadows on his chiseled face, I remember how independent I wanted to be but how easily he overpowered me.
I remember the first time I saw him vividly. His slow, easy-spreading smile that caused a fire to churn in the pit of my belly. He’s a man whose fingers once spent hours memorizing the curves of my shoulders and back as we kissed.
The sharp edges of loss haven’t been dulled. Being in his car only heightens the ache.