Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(12)

Running my comb over my hair one more time, I make sure that my shirt is nicely tucked, my bra blending with my skin and not see-through, and once I am happy with the way I look, I grab my bag, make sure I have the contract pages inside, and head out.

I ride the cab in silence. This thrill of exhilaration doesn’t lie. I’m excited to see him, nervous. Afraid.

Months ago, the first time I set foot in his building, I arrived at M4 thinking it would be the story of my life. This isn’t just a story now; this is my life.

M4 is as shiny and imposing as ever as I get out of the cab and stare at the building. I can’t even see the top from where I stand. I’ve never in my life felt so little. “Oh god,” I breathe as I smoothe my hands down my skirt.

I check my phone for the time—and it’s 2:08, so I’m officially seven minutes early for my appointment.

I start forward when I notice the gleaming silver BUG 3 just up ahead, and a man emerging from the driver’s seat.

There’s a sudden stutter in my heart. My body temperature hikes. I watch the decadent powerhouse that is Saint toss the keys over the car top to the driver waiting on standby. As he pulls his jacket out of the backseat and straightens to shrug it on, his hair is ruffled by the breeze.

Holding my breath, I watch him storm into the building. And still, for long seconds afterward, I stand here. Staring at the spot where he was. I decide to give myself half a minute between us, then I inhale and follow him into the building.

“Hi, Rachel Livingston for Malcolm Saint,” I say at reception, my eyes heading to the elevators.

Oh, f*ck. He’s still there.

This isn’t how I imagined starting the meeting.

But when the blonde behind the desk verifies my name and efficiently points me to the glass executive elevator bank, I realize I can’t just stand here before her, waiting for him to go up.

Stomach knots.

Saint is standing there like an energy tower, as dark as the marble around him is light. He’s checking his phone as he waits for the elevator to arrive. Two men stand behind him—silent. Respectful. Kind of staring at the back of his head in awe.

I approach nervously and remain a few feet away too.

Once the elevator opens and the people shuffle out, many murmur their greetings to him, “Mr. Saint,” as he boards.

The men follow. I keep my eyes downcast as I board too and go into the first corner to the right.

Saint is standing right in the middle, taking up triple the space his body really occupies.

“Mr. Saint”—one of the men breaks the silence—“I’d just like to say, it’s an honor to be working with you. I’m Archie Weinstein, one of your new budget analysts—”

“Don’t mention it, it’s a pleasure to have you.” I hear Saint’s voice.

I’m pretty sure Saint shakes his hand. And now I’m pretty sure he’s looking at me. I swear he is. I can feel his gaze on the back of my head. I could hear it in his voice in the way he answered the man. The men disembark on the nineteenth floor. Just thirty-nine more to go.

Oh f*ck, I wasn’t prepared to ride an elevator with him.

The moment the doors close, there’s a crackle in the air.

“I’m expecting you’ll join M4 too.”

I close my eyes. I can’t believe how his presence stirs me. How, even while merely feeling him watch me, his looks still burn me. And how—when he speaks—his voice still ripples through me. I force myself to turn halfway around. He’s looking at me with those green eyes of his. His gaze is so endless. And looking at me as if he’s trying to find some sort of answer written on my face.

I flush. As usual. “I . . .” Clear my throat. “It’s a very generous offer but—”

Ding!

He signals for me to go out, and I force my legs to work, and when he comes out himself, I almost stumble over myself to catch up with his long strides.

His assistants get flustered as they receive him. Catherine, his head assistant, leads them all with a string of messages and a pack of Post-its.

“Mr. Saint, India and UK called,” Catherine murmurs only for his ears as she comes around the desk, then she mentions a long, long list of other callers and rescheduled meetings and people asking for appointments with him.

“Update on the Interface board meeting?” he asks as he shuffles through the notes she hands out.

“Report’s on your desk, sir.”

“Good.”

He finishes scanning the notes, and when I catch one of his assistants blatantly checking me out in these clothes, I start rethinking everything.

Oh god. I want to turn around, go back down to the lobby, go home, and change.

Instead I stand here as, now, two of his assistants eye me. Thoroughly. Head to toe.

I feel a touch of nerves when he gives one last command to Catherine and then he opens the door to his spacious office and a muscle flexes in the back of his jaw before he speaks to me. “Come in, Rachel.”

If I thought I could keep my shit together when I saw him today, I was so very, very wrong. All my systems are faltering as I walk forward. His eyes are on me. Straight on me, and oh so green.

“Um, thank you.”

Survival instincts beg me not to touch his body as I pass through.

He secludes us inside and we head to his desk. He signals to the two chairs across from his desk. “Take your pick.”