Manwhore +1

I review all my notes, specifically the notes on women’s first date concerns. They range from Should I let him kiss me on the first date if I’m interested in something long term? to What do I wear that will give out the right signals?

Typing up a rough draft, I start saying definitely you want to wear something that will tell your guy, I’m not a slut, but I’m good in bed.

I follow that with tips about wearing something that hints at your curves but isn’t completely skintight.

Then I continue forward with the next thing you want your outfit to say: I’m a woman, not a girl.

Something with a little cleavage, a little waist, I type.

If you like this guy, you want him to want you as much as you want him. So your outfit should hopefully say, Hey, I’m covered up a little more than I’d like, but wouldn’t you like to know what I’m wearing underneath?

On that, I elaborate on the psychological studies proving the less revealed, the more a man wonders.

I type out two pages and edit for the next hour, hardly noticing the newsroom is even noisier than usual today. By the time I’m ready to go home at noon, Valentine drops a copy of the Chicago Tribune on my desk.

“Read it,” he says.

It’s dated for today, but it looks so read already, the pages are soft as tissue.

LINTON CORPORATION INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING A NEW EDGE

Speculation abounds that the newly minted Linton Corporation has been actively considering the possible acquisition of a small local magazine, Edge. Linton Corporation’s director of acquisitions, Carl Braunsfeld, comments that Edge, mostly known for its fashion and culture pieces, has gotten quite a bit of press after renowned Chicago darling Malcolm Saint’s first ever-known girlfriend was caught investigating him for an exposé. The young director said, “We’re in the process of considering many investments, but there are no firm details on any particular directions we might go, yet . . .”

Ohgod.

I squeeze my eyes shut and loathe my stupid exposé with a passion now.

“Is there truth to this?”

“Helen knows nothing about it.” He shrugs. “Hell, I kinda wish it were. Or not.”

I frown, thoughtful as I read the article again and wonder if Saint knows this Carl Braunsfeld. I memorize the name before Valentine carries it over to the colleague in the next cubicle, then I gather my stuff and head home to change.

After all morning writing about First Dates, I’m buzzing as though I’m going on one now. And wouldn’t that be a dream? A fresh start with my guy?

Look pretty, Livingston!

I settle on a loose silk blouse with a V-neck, paired with a knee-length, high-waisted black skirt that hugs my waist rather nicely and emphasizes my slight, but pretty, top and bottom curves. I add a pair of tan pumps that blend with my legs and make them look longer, then a small, delicate necklace with an R that sits right where my pulse flutters. I add an ankle bracelet just to look sophisticated and female and young, then I add a layer of coral lipstick on my lips.

I’ve looked far more seductive for Saint, true.

But I’m going to M4 and I can’t be looking like a club kitten. What I have to say is serious and I need him to take me seriously today.

Running my comb over my hair one more time, I make sure that my shirt is nicely tucked, my bra blending with my skin and not see-through, and once I am happy with the way I look, I grab my bag, make sure I have the contract pages inside, and head out.

I ride the cab in silence. This thrill of exhilaration doesn’t lie. I’m excited to see him, nervous. Afraid.

Months ago, the first time I set foot in his building, I arrived at M4 thinking it would be the story of my life. This isn’t just a story now; this is my life.

M4 is as shiny and imposing as ever as I get out of the cab and stare at the building. I can’t even see the top from where I stand. I’ve never in my life felt so little. “Oh god,” I breathe as I smoothe my hands down my skirt.

I check my phone for the time—and it’s 2:08, so I’m officially seven minutes early for my appointment.

I start forward when I notice the gleaming silver BUG 3 just up ahead, and a man emerging from the driver’s seat.

There’s a sudden stutter in my heart. My body temperature hikes. I watch the decadent powerhouse that is Saint toss the keys over the car top to the driver waiting on standby. As he pulls his jacket out of the backseat and straightens to shrug it on, his hair is ruffled by the breeze.

Holding my breath, I watch him storm into the building. And still, for long seconds afterward, I stand here. Staring at the spot where he was. I decide to give myself half a minute between us, then I inhale and follow him into the building.

“Hi, Rachel Livingston for Malcolm Saint,” I say at reception, my eyes heading to the elevators.

Oh, fuck. He’s still there.

This isn’t how I imagined starting the meeting.

But when the blonde behind the desk verifies my name and efficiently points me to the glass executive elevator bank, I realize I can’t just stand here before her, waiting for him to go up.

Stomach knots.

Saint is standing there like an energy tower, as dark as the marble around him is light. He’s checking his phone as he waits for the elevator to arrive. Two men stand behind him—silent. Respectful. Kind of staring at the back of his head in awe.

I approach nervously and remain a few feet away too.

Once the elevator opens and the people shuffle out, many murmur their greetings to him, “Mr. Saint,” as he boards.

The men follow. I keep my eyes downcast as I board too and go into the first corner to the right.

Saint is standing right in the middle, taking up triple the space his body really occupies.

“Mr. Saint”—one of the men breaks the silence—“I’d just like to say, it’s an honor to be working with you. I’m Archie Weinstein, one of your new budget analysts—”

“Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure to have you.” I hear Saint’s voice.

I’m pretty sure Saint shakes his hand. And now I’m pretty sure he’s looking at me. I swear he is. I can feel his gaze on the back of my head. I could hear it in his voice in the way he answered the man. The men disembark on the nineteenth floor. Just thirty-nine more to go.

Oh fuck, I wasn’t prepared to ride an elevator with him.

The moment the doors close, there’s a crackle in the air.

“I’m expecting you’ll join M4 too.”

I close my eyes. I can’t believe how his presence stirs me. How, even while merely feeling him watch me, his looks still burn me. And how—when he speaks—his voice still ripples through me. I force myself to turn halfway around. He’s looking at me with those green eyes of his. His gaze is so endless. And looking at me as if he’s trying to find some sort of answer written on my face.