by Katy Evans
“I wasn’t going to write the article anymore. I told my boss I wouldn’t, except Victoria—I told you about her. Remember? She’s . . . she’s the one who always seems to do better than me. She released her article and I was desperate for you to hear my side.”
I inhale shakily, my eyes still on fire.
“I can’t bear to think what you think of me but I need you to please believe me when I say not one moment with you was a lie. Not one.”
With a slow, deliberate move that makes me breathless, he stands from his chair and walks to the window, giving me his back.
Oh god, what must he think of me! How he must hate me. Think I used him. Lied to him.
I stand and take a few steps but I stop when I hear him take four deep breaths, and just like that, I crumble, and a tear rolls down my cheek.
“Malcolm, I am so sorry,” I say.
I quickly wipe the tear away before he can see it. He’s still facing the window as he mutters fuck me under his breath and shoves his hands into his pants pockets, his anger like an incoming hurricane in the room. It seems to be costing him everything to keep that simmering energy of his on a leash. I have never seen him like this. Not ever. He’s under control, but there’s a storm inside him and I can feel it.
Finally, he speaks, and his voice is so low and controlled that I’m afraid of the force of the anger it conceals. “You could’ve talked to me. When you kissed me. When you told me about Victoria. When you needed my comfort, Rachel. When your neighbor died. When you couldn’t see eye to eye with your family and friends. You came to me when you needed me. You came to me when I needed you . . . you could have talked to fucking me, trusted fucking me.” He turns and leaves me breathless when I feel the full force of his flashing green eyes on me. “I could’ve made this go away so fast.” He snaps his finger. “Like that. With one call.”
“I was afraid of losing you if you knew!”
A flash of bleak disappointment crosses his face, and as he stares me down, his green eyes could melt steel. “So you kept on lying instead.”
I wince and stare at his throat.
An eternity passes.
“There’s nothing more here for you, Rachel. Except a job. Take it.” He goes back to his chair and drops into his seat.
I can hardly speak. “There’s you here. Don’t shut me out because I made a mistake.”
As I walk back, it’s the first time I feel his eyes run over me, evaluating what I’m wearing. They were supposed to make me feel powerful and good, these clothes, and I feel tender and naked and fake. So fake. Thinking any clothes would make him see me differently. Thinking something so superficial could hide the real me—the flawed me.
I’m blushing when I sit again, and Saint doesn’t say anything at all. He’s stroking his thumb slowly over his lower lip, the only part of his body moving now.
“Consider my job offer,” he says.
I shake my head. “I don’t want you as my boss.”
“I’m a fair boss, Rachel.”
“I don’t want you as a boss.”
I wait a moment. His gaze smolders with frustration.
“You shouldn’t want me here,” I blurt out. “I am not a good journalist, Malcolm. If you want to know the truth, I lost the heart for it. I’m worthless to you. I’m not someone you will probably ever trust again.”
He cocks his head with a slight frown, as if curious over this development. “Take a week to think this through. In fact, take two.” He watches me as I struggle for words.
“I don’t want to hold you up—”
“You’re not.”
The way he studies my features causes a thousand tiny pinpricks of awareness inside of me. I know this stare. It’s a stare that makes my heart race because I can tell he’s trying to get a read on me.
“What’s so wrong about working with me?” He narrows his eyes.
I shake my head with a soft laugh. Would I even know where to begin?
I think of his assistants, half in love with him or worse. I don’t want this to be me. I don’t want to be forty, in love with a man I can never have. At least when I had my career goals, ambitious as they were, I always imagined I’d be able to attain them someday. But him? He’s already as unreachable to me as all of the sixty-seven Jupiter moons.
“Even if I dared leave Edge, which I won’t, but even if I did, I’d never accept a job I was unsure I could even do.”
“You can do it,” he says, firm and calm.
“I’m telling you, I can’t.” I laugh a little and lower my face.
When he speaks, his voice is soberly low. “I’ll stop asking you to work for me when you prove to me you can’t write anymore.”
“How am I supposed to do that? Write you something bad?” I scowl in confusion.
He seems to ponder that for a moment. “Write one of my speeches. Write the one for tomorrow. You’re familiar with Interface, its business model, objectives, cultural footprint.”
I narrow my eyes.
“If it’s as bad as you say, I’ll back off,” he adds with the kind of lazy indulgence only people who hold all the cards emit.
He sits behind his desk with a familiar little twinkle in his eye, so powerful and tanned and dark-haired and green-eyed and toe-curlingly masculine, challenging me to rise to his bait. The temptation is so strong, I have to fight it.
“I can make it bad enough you’ll stop asking me to work for you.”
“But you won’t.” His eyes gleam, and his lips form a smile that causes all kinds of visceral tugs inside me. “I know you won’t.”
I sit here, struggling.
I want to see him. I want to have an excuse to see him.
“This wouldn’t mean I’m working for you. You won’t pay me for this. It’s just so you can see that writing is . . . hard. I’m not who you need at M4, Malcolm.”
I’m feeling tingles in my stomach from the smile he wears. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
“When do you need it by?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“And the event is at noon?”
He nods slowly, eyes glimmering in challenge. “Get it to me by ten.”
“Mr. Saint, your two thirty is here,” a female voice says from the door.
I come to my feet when Malcolm uncoils from his seat. He eases his arms into his crisp black jacket. “Ask Catherine for the guidelines the other speechwriters were working with.” He buttons up, and pauses. “I’ll expect to see your email.”
“Malcolm,” I start, but then stop. After a moment, I whisper, surprising myself, “You will.”
As I watch him head to the door, adrenaline courses through me, every part of me shaking except my determination.
When I get back to Edge, I walk to my seat like a horse with blinders, avoiding everyone. I print out some stuff for the speech and then head home. I haven’t told Gina I met with him, or my mom, or Wynn, or Helen. He’s my secret, somehow, too precious for me to share, my hope too raw and too tiny to survive the questioning of anyone else.
I don’t want to hear if what I’m doing is dangerous. Wrong. Or right. I’m doing it because I have to—I need to—because he asked me to, and this is the only way I can be close to him for now. Yes, I could accept his job offer and be closer for longer—but I’d define myself as his employee for possibly forever. That’s not what I want to be to him.
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
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.
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?”