Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(11)

M

Oh god, he answered me himself.

A part of me doesn’t miss the time he’s answering. It came in at 3:43 a.m.

Was he out?

Turning on my lamp, I lean back in bed and check Tahoe’s Twitter because that man is a living newscast.

My man @malcolmsaint has a new babe crying for his attention My heart stops in my chest. I feel like a horse just kicked me.

A new babe?

I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Holy god. He’s ruined me. He’s ruined my sleep. He’s ruined the word dibs. And elephants, and grapes, and men’s white dress shirts—and suits. He’s ruined me for other men. He’s ruined sex with anyone else—something I don’t even want to try—and he’s even ruined sex with myself. I can’t go back to sleep.

I reread the tweet—my stomach squeezing painfully—and I force myself to click the link once and for all. And then, I stare at a picture of a beautiful car with shiny wheels that looks like it could sprout wings and fly.

I smile to myself, exhaling in relief.

Tahoe goes on to say the “beauty” is a Pagani Huayra Gullwing. Pagani Huayra is an all-handmade, top-of-the-line luxury sports car, only six cars produced a year, worldwide. Worth close to $2 million, Saint’s has a black interior with red stitching, and a shiny red outer color. By the revealing way in which the doors, the hood, and the trunk open, the car is a real-life equivalent of a Transformer—designed to showcase what lays within it by cracking open.

I’m not a car buff, but even to my untrained eye, it’s exquisite.

Chosen with exquisite taste by a man who wants and appreciates the best.

I think of Malcolm and how he loves using his cars fast, and a pang of longing to be with him hits me in the chest. What I’d give to sit again in his passenger seat as he takes me on the ride of my life, driving those fast cars like a young billionaire with too much confidence and too much testosterone does. And me, just holding on to my heart while he steals it.





TRUTH


I’m early to Edge on Thursday. Using my First Date piece as a distraction, I avoid a group of gossiping coworkers as I go get coffee, then I settle down in my spot and get to work.

I review all my notes, specifically the notes on women’s first date concerns. They range from Should I let him kiss me on the first date if I’m interested in something long term? to What do I wear that will give out the right signals?

Typing up a rough draft, I start saying definitely you want to wear something that will tell your guy, I’m not a slut, but I’m good in bed.

I follow that with tips about wearing something that hints at your curves but isn’t completely skintight.

Then I continue forward with the next thing you want your outfit to say: I’m a woman, not a girl.

Something with a little cleavage, a little waist, I type.

If you like this guy, you want him to want you as much as you want him. So your outfit should hopefully say, Hey, I’m covered up a little more than I’d like, but wouldn’t you like to know what I’m wearing underneath?

On that, I elaborate on the psychological studies proving the less revealed, the more a man wonders.

I type out two pages and edit for the next hour, hardly noticing the newsroom is even noisier than usual today. By the time I’m ready to go home at noon, Valentine drops a copy of the Chicago Tribune on my desk.

“Read it,” he says.

It’s dated for today, but it looks so read already, the pages are soft as tissue.

LINTON CORPORATION INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING A NEW EDGE

Speculation abounds that the newly minted Linton Corporation has been actively considering the possible acquisition of a small local magazine, Edge. Linton Corporation’s director of acquisitions, Carl Braunsfeld, comments that Edge, mostly known for its fashion and culture pieces, has gotten quite a bit of press after renowned Chicago darling Malcolm Saint’s first ever-known girlfriend was caught investigating him for an exposé. The young director said, “We’re in the process of considering many investments, but there are no firm details on any particular directions we might go, yet . . .”

Ohgod.

I squeeze my eyes shut and loathe my stupid exposé with a passion now.

“Is there truth to this?”

“Helen knows nothing about it.” He shrugs. “Hell, I kinda wish it were. Or not.”

I frown, thoughtful as I read the article again and wonder if Saint knows this Carl Braunsfeld. I memorize the name before Valentine carries it over to the colleague in the next cubicle, then I gather my stuff and head home to change.



After all morning writing about First Dates, I’m buzzing as though I’m going on one now. And wouldn’t that be a dream? A fresh start with my guy?

Look pretty, Livingston!

I settle on a loose silk blouse with a V-neck, paired with a knee-length, high-waisted black skirt that hugs my waist rather nicely and emphasizes my slight, but pretty, top and bottom curves. I add a pair of tan pumps that blend with my legs and make them look longer, then a small, delicate necklace with an R that sits right where my pulse flutters. I add an ankle bracelet just to look sophisticated and female and young, then I add a layer of coral lipstick on my lips.

I’ve looked far more seductive for Saint, true.

But I’m going to M4 and I can’t be looking like a club kitten. What I have to say is serious and I need him to take me seriously today.