Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(15)

I sit here, struggling.

I want to see him. I want to have an excuse to see him.

“This wouldn’t mean I’m working for you. You won’t pay me for this. It’s just so you can see that writing is . . . hard. I’m not who you need at M4, Malcolm.”

I’m feeling tingles in my stomach from the smile he wears. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

“When do you need it by?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“And the event is at noon?”

He nods slowly, eyes glimmering in challenge. “Get it to me by ten.”

“Mr. Saint, your two thirty is here,” a female voice says from the door.

I come to my feet when Malcolm uncoils from his seat. He eases his arms into his crisp black jacket. “Ask Catherine for the guidelines the other speechwriters were working with.” He buttons up, and pauses. “I’ll expect to see your email.”

“Malcolm,” I start, but then stop. After a moment, I whisper, surprising myself, “You will.”

As I watch him head to the door, adrenaline courses through me, every part of me shaking except my determination.



When I get back to Edge, I walk to my seat like a horse with blinders, avoiding everyone. I print out some stuff for the speech and then head home. I haven’t told Gina I met with him, or my mom, or Wynn, or Helen. He’s my secret, somehow, too precious for me to share, my hope too raw and too tiny to survive the questioning of anyone else.

I don’t want to hear if what I’m doing is dangerous. Wrong. Or right. I’m doing it because I have to—I need to—because he asked me to, and this is the only way I can be close to him for now. Yes, I could accept his job offer and be closer for longer—but I’d define myself as his employee for possibly forever. That’s not what I want to be to him.

I stare at my laptop once I get home. Only seconds after I boot it up, a familiar dread starts creeping into me, as it does when I sit to write now.

But I think of Interface. Malcolm. How relentless he is, how ruthless, how innovative, and he’s right.

My pride won’t let me write something I don’t like. I want to dazzle him. I want him to read it and, even if he hates me, I want him to feel awe or admiration for my words. I want to talk to him through the simple act of writing his speech and if he trusted me with this little thing—I don’t want to fail him.

Before I start writing, I call my mother to say hi, check up on her. Then I tell Gina, “I’m going to write!” so she doesn’t just burst into my bedroom. Then I turn off my cell phone, close my browser, and look at my Word file as I put in the first word: Interface . . .





SPEECH


After a night spent writing draft after draft after draft, I’m at Edge early on Friday, quickly sipping an orange juice as I boot up my computer, then diving straight in to edit the best of what I wrote.

Using the brief guidelines Catherine gave me, I also applied what I’ve learned about Interface and double-checked my facts, then I marked those facts in bold so he pays extra care to double-check those.

My body’s in knots by the time everyone arrives at the office around nine, and I open an email, search his name, and attach the file.

To: Malcolm Saint

From: Rachel Livingston

Subject: Your speech

Here it is. I promised you it would be bad, but please know that I can’t bear for it to be—I hope, actually, that it’s good.

Good luck.

I would have loved to be there.

Rachel

I don’t expect a reply, but I get one nonetheless.

To: Rachel Livingston

From: Malcolm Saint

Subject: Re: Your speech

Your name’s up front, you’re welcome to come.

I’m halfway through reading his email and the butterflies are already flapping against the walls of my stomach.

He just invited me to his speech.

I exhale and try to calm myself, but god, it’s so hard to. I’ve got to turn in my article for the Sharpest Edge column and, suddenly riding on the momentum of Saint’s speech, I finally churn out the piece on what to wear on the first date. I think of the ways his eyes change and I write down things I’ve secretly believed since I met him. That men like women to look feminine, so wearing a soft color, or a soft fabric, or a soft wave to our hair, really makes a nice contrast to all that hardness of a man. Soft lipstick might work better for long-term interest rather than bold colors, which speak mostly about sex.

Once I finish the article, I go toward Helen’s office with my printout, when Valentine swings his chair around to stop me.

“Yo! Captain!” he calls, saluting me like an army general.

He’s really got his salutes mixed up, among other things: he’s wearing a yellow vest today with a purple shirt beneath.

“Helen’s having a ball with you. She’s basically selling the idea to young girls that you know what it takes to snag the hottest bachelor in town.”

I frown at that, because it’s definitely what Helen is doing and so far off the mark, it’s absolute bullshit. “That must be why she keeps looking at me like I’m the goose that lays golden eggs,” I say, just to make light of it.

But maybe . . . no, probably . . . it’s why she’s been so forgiving about my “writing issue.”