Manwhore +1
“I won’t work for Malcolm’s father,” I say.
“Does your boyfriend know?”
“He’s not my boyfriend. We’re just . . .” I inhale. “Edge won’t be hurting my relationship this time around. I love it here but . . . my relationship with him now comes first. I really want to make it work, Helen. In my gut it just feels so right, if I let him go without a fight I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Her eyes soften, then she shakes her head as if angry at herself. “Enough about this speculating! Get to work.” She snaps her fingers. “But Rachel . . . I don’t think the owners are going to let you go that easy. Noel Saint wants you at Edge.”
“Well, then that’s even more of a reason to leave. He can go BLEEP himself for all I care.”
I go back to my desk and then text, People are dying at the office over my ride
I love it, he writes back. But paying for their funerals is going to consume so much of my time that I’d rather spend it doing something else.
So when can I take your Bug back? You could play a little with me too if you’d like
OMG! I’m such a slut. I did not text him that.
But I did.
I did and he answers, I’m feeling rather playful. Sadly, 9:00 is the best?
SOCIAL MEDIA WHIRL
Before I leave Edge for the day, Valentine updates me on the latest social media whirl after our club sighting.
Latest blog entry from chicagogal243—
Malcolm Saint, our favorite bad boy, in a relationship? So, readers, do you believe that our sexiest bachelor could ever be monogamous? I sure don’t . . .
Twitter:
Spotted this weekend @MalcolmSaint back on with the lying reporter!
She’s SO wrong for you @MalcolmSaint SO WRONG!!!! YOU’RE A PRINCE AND SHE’S A FROG!
On his Interface page:
Saint, my darling! Jeremiah and I sent you an invite to our 1st anniversary—you can bring your friend along.
On Facebook:
Just PM’ed you, S. We’re planning the yearly group trip to Monte Carlo. RSVP soon?
His Instagram:
Your new girl is luscious and lovely! Call me if you want me to meet her and kiss her, give you a little show. CALL ME!
“You’ve hired a team of bodyguards, I hope?” Valentine asks me when he closes the internet search.
“No, but I have a Saint protecting me,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“So it’s a no to that threesome that woman’s offering?” he baits.
“Really, that lady has no clue how full Saint’s hands are going to be with me.”
Valentine laughs, and I shake my head and head to the elevators, smiling to myself. Sin, oh Sin, should I learn to wrestle so I can properly deal with these chicks?
Can’t we just tell them all I’m the one who has dibs on you?
THAT NIGHT
It’s 9 p.m. And I’ve already called Mom, and told Gina I won’t be sleeping in, and am heading to his place. I find him striding out of his bedroom, recently showered and in a pair of jeans and slipping into a soft navy blue T-shirt.
God, I tremble at the sight of this man.
“How was it?” he asks.
“What? The car? The interview? My day?” I set his keys down on the coffee table along with the Tribune I brought.
“Let’s start with the interview. I already know the car’s good stuff.” He smiles, then cocks his head when he drops down beside me and I curl up against his side.
He kisses my jaw and gives a little cup to the swells of my breasts rising enticingly to press into my top. I kiss the tendon in his throat that I bit the night before¸ noticing a slight pink mark at the bottom of his neck, hidden under his shirt.
“Do you realize someone recently left you a hickey?”
I moan when he ducks his head, seizes a piece of skin, suckles and does the same.
“Now she’s wearing one to match,” he says wickedly.
I moan again as he sucks one more time. It feels so good I don’t want to talk, to eat, to do anything but fuck with him.
He nuzzles my ear. “You make the best sounds when I’ve got my hands all over you.”
“Sin, you’re making me self-conscious now . . .” I groan, and he smiles against me.
I drag my hands up his chest to his face. “I thought about you all day.”
His eyes darken. He brings me close, until I’m sitting over his thigh. “This is getting in my way,” he says in mischief, fingering the top button of my blouse but not removing it yet. I think he knows—we both know—if he takes it off, our talk is over. “So how was it?”
“Good.”
“Good?” he repeats, clearly not convinced.
“Not spectacular or anything. I don’t want to get my hopes up.”
When he keeps giving me a that’s-just-bullshit look, I sigh.
“Not really good,” I finally admit. “But I love Bluekin. I love how they do things, how they don’t box themselves into a certain market, they’re read by young people, by old people, women, men . . . they’re open.”
“Who did you see there? Harkin?”
“Yes.” I narrow my eyes. “He said you’re friends with his boss.”
He nods and eases away, pours us drinks and comes back to pass me a glass.
“Where do you think I should go?” I ask him, taking a soft sip.
“You know where.” He smirks as he lowers back down on the couch next to me, his eyes twinkling but serious.
“Come on, I value your opinion.”
“Bluekin’s good,” he says, furrowing his brow in thought. “Buzz, Lokus, the Sun-Times, the Tribune, the Reader. I can get you into any of those. Maybe even RedEye too.”
“No. No string pulling. I need to do this on my own. What would you do if you were given something just that easily, hmm?” I dare.
“I’d take it and use it to go higher.” He lifts his eyebrows, challenging me. “You pull yourself up by your bootstraps or by whoever’s are closest, Rachel.”
“You say that because you have the biggest bootstraps and don’t need anyone to help you up.” I add, “I’m not even considering the mag where Victoria is.”
“Was.” He shrugs. “I can get you in there too.”
“Was? What’s she doing now?”
“Not messing with you.”
I gape at him, perplexed and amazed. “How do you even know all these people?”
“Fund-raisers. Benefits. Business. They like my wallet.” He winks at me and smirks a little. “Some even like me.” He lifts his wine to drink. “Still, don’t take me off your list,” he murmurs.