Chapter 15: Manwhore +1: Chapter 15

On Monday morning, I feel as if someone just turned on the light switch. Colors are bright and clear, my awareness of my body is exquisite. I wake up and Malcolm’s chest is beneath my ear, his heart beating solid and slow, our bodies tangled along with the sheets.

When the alarm of his phone buzzes, he stretches slightly, exhales, then gets up to shower. I stay in bed, deliciously dead. I text the girls, I feel so delicious today OMG! And sore to my bones. I never want to leave this bed (smiley)

I’m excited to scream with my friends but that’s almost the extent of what I plan to tell them—what I wrote on the text.

Is it strange that when you grow close to a man, you start keeping details from your closest friends? Friends who used to know everything about you? I’d never held things from my friends until I met Malcolm. Now there are things that seem to be private. Worthy of just me and him.

I text my mother, Momma, how are you feeling today?! So much to talk about when I see you! Love you!

Then I send an email to myself reminding me to work on my column when I get home.

I roll over and my sexy places hurt.

He rode me to the crests last night over and over.

It’s like the world contains only two people, him and me.

I ease up from the bed, force my sore body into walking mode, and follow him into the huge bathroom. Quietly I brush my teeth with my finger using a little bit of his toothpaste and then I wash my hands, dry them, and run my fingers through my hair.

In the mirror, I see the frosted glass of his shower and I can make out the dark shadow of his tall, muscular figure inside. Then there’s the pattering noise of water slapping his hard skin. After all the sex we had I shouldn’t be instantly hot and aching but I am.

My phone pings outside, and I run out to check it. Interview, it warns. I check the time and notice I only have fifty minutes. Feeling too embarrassed to just leap into the shower with him, I go ahead and dress and then wait for him in the kitchen.

I prop myself up on the massive granite kitchen bar and sip my coffee, light streaming from the floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s sunny today, windy of course because the flags and trees are swaying from what I can see, and from here it almost feels possible to hold the entire city if you spread your arms wide enough.

Between that view, and the view of the storm coming out of his bedroom in black slacks and open shirt, his hair wet as he talks on the phone and stares out the window, I feel a sigh work its way up my throat. I think of Gina and suddenly wish she didn’t think donuts were the thing to sigh over; this is so much better. Maybe she should give Tahoe a chance?

Rachel! You’re turning into the girl who wants all girls to see hearts and stars just because you are? That’s Wynn! And Tahoe and Gina? Really? The last thing she needs is another broken heart.

Scowling at that, I scan the online news, stopping when I see some comments about Chicago’s Darth Vader, aka Noel Saint, on the usual sites I visit.

NOEL SAINT’S LINTON CORP. TO ACQUIRE LOCAL MAGAZINE THAT EXPOSED SON’S SECRET ROMANCE ONLY LAST MONTH

I feel sick to my stomach.

Malcolm’s just hung up and is having his own coffee, the Tribune spread before him while he’s scanning his phone with the other hand. I slide off the bar. “Saint, I have to go. I can’t be late today. I have an interview.”

Malcolm frowns a little and lifts his head. “Interview? Where?”

I hesitate. “Well . . . I don’t want to jinx it. But you know that I made some calls.”

“Tell me who’s seeing you,” he coaxes.

His attention is too intense for that to be a casual question. One beat later under his scrutiny, I add, with a reluctant smile, “Please don’t pull strings.”

He cocks an arrogant brow. “Strings are there to be pulled.”

I laugh. “Saint! Promise me.”

“Tell me where,” he says, setting everything aside.

“Not M4,” I assure. I search his unreadable expression, then sigh. “I can’t be at Edge anymore. I don’t feel safe there.”

He looks at me in silence as if waiting for me to say more.

“I can’t go with you either, so don’t suggest it. It would complicate things and I have a hard time with all the attention you get. This would only put your business sense into question.”

“I disagree. I’ve got perfect business sense. We’d be lucky to have you.” He cocks his head, and his eyes suddenly bathe me with admiration and concern. “You did everything for that magazine. You bared your soul for that magazine.”

“It wasn’t for Edge. I ended up baring my soul for you. I can get another job. Edge is not going to survive . . . you know that. Not without someone very savvy behind the wheel and with large pockets too. And if your father succeeds in purchasing it, I don’t want to be there.”

His glance becomes opaque as it always does when his father is mentioned.

“I know truth and loyalty are important to you, Saint,” I continue. “And I won’t work for a man who’s constantly butting heads with you.”

“Come work with me, Rachel.” His voice is full of its usual depth and authority but it’s silky with entreaty.

Hating to deny him, I still manage to shake my head. “I couldn’t have you as a boss and then come to your bed, a girl has to draw a line somewhere, Sin.” And then, when I realize what I just said—and wonder if I’m jumping into fourth gear too fast—I backtrack. “I mean . . . IF you want to sleep with me again.”

Fuuuuck. I turn around and take my plate to the sink to quickly wash it.

God, did I say that?

He approaches. “What’s so wrong about working for me?”

I set it aside to dry and then towel my hands before turning to meet his gaze. I take his face in my hands, boost up on my toes, and set a soft, dry kiss on his lips. “We said we’d take this slow, but wherever this goes, I don’t want you to be my boss. Promise me.”

He looks at me carefully as I drop down to my toes. His jaw starts to flex in frustration. “Don’t make me promise, Rachel.” He shakes his head and heads back to fold the newspaper.

“If you promise me, I’ll believe it,” I say.

“We’ll discuss this later. I can’t make that promise.”

Urgh. Impossible man. But because he said we’ll discuss this later, I let it go with a little tingle of joy at the prospect. “You won’t sway me, I’m sorry to say, but you can try with sex and kisses of course. God, I’m so late.” I hurry to get my bag from his bedroom and when I come back, he’s also getting ready, knotting his tie and then pulling out one of his many identical jackets.

I pause and take a moment to drink him in and think, incredulously, Dibs on that, bitches.

“I’m late too.” He shoves his arms into the sleeves and steps into his ruthless Saint persona the moment the suit is fully on him. “Otis called in sick. Claude’s picking up my eight o’clock, who flew in from Dubai.”

As I finish strapping my shoes, I grab my phone to call a cab service when he stops my hand and tucks something into the palm of the other.

“Here,” he tells me.

I’m super confused as I investigate the shiny leather and steel key ring, suspicious by the twinkle in his eye. “What is it?”

“Your ride.”