Manwhore (Manwhore #1)(88)

Saint’s voice, kind of smoky, thick and low, through the background of jet engines. “What . . .” I grumble and shake myself awake. “I thought you were flying?”

There’s pleasure in the low whisper. “I am.”

“Of course,” I groan. “Your plane has a phone. What else? Naked flight attendants?”

“I assure you they’re perfectly dressed.”

“Oh, but I bet you’re not,” I tease.

Surrounded by only dark in my bedroom, his voice is . . . everything.

His voice, his soft laugh.

It gives me such pleasure I can’t stop smiling. “I’m glad I amuse you,” I say softly.

“I’m glad too.”

My turn to laugh.

But this time, Saint doesn’t join in.

“We said a week, right?” Saint asks me.

“A week for . . .” I’m confused for a moment, but then I remember our conversation onboard The Toy, about him . . . and me. And I know exactly what he means. “Oh, that.” A hot flush creeps along my body, spreading down, down, down, all the way to my toes. “Yes, that’s what we said,” I admit.

“How about now?” he surprises me by saying.

Tingles and lightning bolts race through my bloodstream. The sensation covers my body from corner to corner. I try to suppress it; it’s wrong to feel it. But I can’t stop it, I can’t stop what he does to me. “What happened to your legendary patience?”

“How about now, Rachel?” he insists.

All my guilt, my insecurities, and my fear are suddenly weighing down on me. It’s really hard to speak as I shake my head in the dark. “I’m a mess, Saint,” I choke out.

“Be my mess, then.”

A truly sad laugh leaves me, and for a moment, I’m afraid it’ll turn into a sob. “Oh god.” I drag in a deep breath and blink the moisture from my eyes. “When can we talk about this in person?”

“When I land in Chicago. Saturday. Come stay over.”

I nod. “God, I need to see you.” I wipe the corners of my eyes. “I need to see you,” I say, then laugh to hide the way my voice is trembling and boy, how I really, desperately want to cry and spill my guts to him. “I really need to see you, Malcolm.”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

He’s teasing me?

He’s teasing me and I love it and I always have.

“Saint!” Thank god my voice didn’t break just now, because the rest of me really wants to.

I hear his chuckle, low and savoring.

Worst of all, I can tell he’s enjoying talking to me. And teasing me. I pinch my eyes painfully shut, savoring it too, “Don’t hang up yet, just say something long and important. . . . Say your name! Your ridiculously long name . . .”

“Malcolm.” He indulges me. Then, slowly, “Kyle,” then “Preston,” then “Logan,” then “Saint.” Then, more intensely: “I miss you, Rachel.”

I wipe away a stray tear and strain my throat to say something in reply. “Okay.”

“That’s all I get?” He laughs, incredulous.

“I love you,” I say. The emotion gets the best of me, and I repeat, “I love you, Saint,” and before he can answer, I hang up and cover my face.

Oh god. Oh god oh god, I just said it. And I have no idea what effect it had! OH GOD.

Shaking from the adrenaline, I put my phone on my nightstand and watch it for a few minutes.

What. Did. I. Just. Do?

I fall back in bed feeling a mix of excitement and dread and . . . disbelief. Well, I did say “I love you” to a man for the first time in my life. Just like that—wham!—over the phone. To Malcolm Saint.

How silly it must seem to him.

I must seem so . . . gah! Stupid!

Why could you not wait until you talked to him in person, Rachel? Why?!

I wish I hadn’t missed his face, his expression. I mean, he must have been completely dumbstruck. Dazed. Was he surprised to hear it? Pleasantly so? Or not-so-pleasantly so? Well, did he laugh? Or frown? Puzzle? Fuck my laptop, what did I do?

I lie awake for a while in full-blown stress mode, in his shirt, my body aching for his, haunted by his eyes and by the last time we were together and every moment in between. Haunted by the dread of LOSING HIM before I can really be his girlfriend.

“Dibs . . .” I remember.

“I’m an only son. . . .”

“Are you coming up, or do you want me to carry you?”

I’m flooded with him.

Remembering the way I could almost swear he caught his breath when he saw me at the Ice Box.

The way he kissed the corner of my mouth first, always, leading into his bigger kiss.

The way he saved an elephant.

The way he saved me.

The way he fed me grapes.

The way he opened up to me.

Please come back to Chicago and let me explain, let me tell you why I don’t deserve you . . . and give me your advice. Give me your wise advice on what to do. Because I should’ve come to you before anyone else. I should’ve trusted that you would help me because that’s all I’ve seen from you—I’ve just never trusted a man before.

I hear my text beep and read:

Sin: I’m going to take that as a yes