Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(77)

He laughs, the sound full and rich. Mischievous, I lean over and press my mouth to the collar. His smile fades. “You have a rebel streak in you, Rachel.” His eyes are admiring, filling me with heat.

“You bring it out . . .” I accuse, laughing as I step back, and I swear he looks even more powerful, more unattainable, and more handsome with my lipstick on his shirt. Just a little bit mine.

He asks me to visit him at his office, teasing me on the phone that he’s got an opening. Do I want to talk about Interface? he asks.

Why, yes, I say.

I drop in at the time he indicates, and then he stands there, taking me in, his shirt up to his elbows as if he’d been knee deep in work, his hair rumpled. His voice sounds tired as he tells Cathy to leave us, and then he asks me, “How are you, Rachel?”

“Good now,” I whisper, and we start kissing, the papers on his desk shoved aside with one of his arms as he props me there like his most pressing business, and he goes right to taking care of it.

I text him in the afternoon, wondering what he’s doing tonight. Just then, he appears inside Edge, to everyone’s shock. My eyes widen, sure that my stomach just flew to my throat, and I glance over to see if Helen has seen him. She’s both pale and flushing. I hurry to ask her, “Helen, can I—?”

“Go!”

I grab my bag and come out of my cubicle. “Hey,” I say.

He smiles at me, especially at my bag. “I hope this means you’re coming with me,” he says, eyes twinkling, the entire office melting right with me. Even Valentine.

“’Bye, Rachel!” he calls excitedly.

“’Bye, Valentine,” I say, slipping my arm into the crook of Malcolm’s.

“Friend?” Malcolm asks me about Valentine. Sizing him up. The girl inside me shivers as I wonder if he’s jealous.

I nod. “Fan of yours,” I whisper.

He cocks a brow. “Not heterosexual?”

“Not fully. More like bi.”

He bursts out laughing, a sound that is rich and makes my knees weak, and I grab his face and flat-out kiss him in the elevator, pulling that laughter inside me. “I like to hear you laugh,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything, but I feel thoroughly liked when he looks down at me, his lips smiling, but his eyes hot and admiring.

I’m staring at my computer screen.

Every link I click about Saint is talking about him having a possible relationship with ME.

Speculation is fierce.

Somehow, people are more interested in wondering whether or not he’s in a relationship than they ever were about him womanizing.

His Twitter feed is full of questions about his girlfriend.

I’m stressing about it, wondering what I’ve gotten myself into, until I spot a new tweet from Tahoe appear in my feed.

So the guy actually tagged me.

Hanging tonight w/ my boys unless @MalcolmSaint girlfriend @RachelLiv objects

Fuuuuuck.

A dozen replies have followed up in the next few seconds:

I give it a week

Saint could not be monogamous if he wanted to, he needs the variety

She’s not pretty enough!

Is this for real? I thought this was some sort of publicity stunt. Saint really has a girlfriend?

Hours later, I see Tahoe deleted the tweet, and I’d bet my life Malcolm made him.

Later that week, Saint asks me out.

“I can’t, your social media is already ablaze about us.”

He ends up taking me to The Toy, and we go out onto the lake in the afternoon.

He spends all of the first hour doing business. “How many hours can you be on the phone, who are you talking to?” From my lounger, I attempt to pry his phone away, and he holds it above his head, out of my reach.

“Do you see the blonde on that other yacht?” I point, distracting him.

He’s wearing shades, so I can’t see what he’s looking at, but he keeps his phone in his hand and leans back casually on a folded arm. The sun really loves this man. He’s gold, his hair gleaming, my own reflection in a blue bikini staring back at me in his mirrored lenses. He doesn’t bother to turn around to scan the girls on the other yacht nearby. “I see the one in front of me,” he murmurs huskily.

“Blondes are your type, no?” I point at her again—she’s on the top deck of the other yacht, in a striped navy-and-white bikini, definitely looking this way. “Look at her. Pretty. Just your type.”

He tucks his phone under his lounger. “I don’t have a type, not really.”

“Am I your type?”

“You’re the first of a type.”

I laugh. “You’re the first of your type. Unfortunately, I don’t think there’s another one quite like you.” I look at the girls again. “The other one is beautiful too. Malcolm! Look at them!”

He sits up now, lowering his elbows to his knees as he edges closer to me, the line of his mouth curving a little. “The things I used to like in a woman have lost some of their charm.”

“Why?”

I pry his sunglasses off. His eyes shine under the sun and sparkle with secrets, and my stomach dips and my breath goes when they meet mine. “I look at them and see one glaring fault in them all,” he tells me soberly, and he tsks and shakes his head, his gold skin gleaming under the sun. “A pity, really.”