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Authors: Katy Evans

Tags: #Romance, #Manwhore

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BOOK: Manwhore +1
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I stare at my laptop once I get home. Only seconds after I boot it up, a familiar dread starts creeping into me, as it does when I sit to write now.

But I think of Interface. Malcolm. How relentless he is, how ruthless, how innovative, and he’s right.

My pride won’t let me write something I don’t like. I want to dazzle him. I want him to read it and, even if he hates me, I want him to feel awe or admiration for my words. I want to talk to him through the simple act of writing his speech and if he trusted me with this little thing—I don’t want to fail him.

Before I start writing, I call my mother to say hi, check up on her. Then I tell Gina, “I’m going to write!” so she doesn’t just burst into my bedroom. Then I turn off my cell phone, close my browser, and look at my Word file as I put in the first word:
Interface . . .

SPEECH

A
fter 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.

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.

BOOK: Manwhore +1
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