Manwhore +1 (Manwhore, #2)(3)

I shift in my seat. “Several years,” I answer.

“Only child, correct?”

“Correct.”

“Says here you won a CJA award for commentary last year?”

“Yes. I . . .” I search for a word through all the I’m sorrys and I love yous foremost in my head right now. “. . . was really humbled to be even considered.”

Slowly shifting in place and folding his outstretched arm, Saint absently strokes the pad of his thumb over his lower lip, studying me with a gaze that gleams with intelligence, surveying me in silence.

“I see here that you started working at Edge before you graduated from Northwestern, correct?” Merrick continues.

“Yes, actually, I did.” I tug the sleeve of my sweater, trying to keep my attention on his questions.

In my peripheral, I still can’t stop being aware of what he is doing; Sin. How he sips from his glass of water, how he smells, how tightly his fingers curl around the glass.

His dark hair, the crescents of his eyelashes, how they frame his eyes. His lips. So unsmiling. His eyes, so untwinkling.

I turn my head to face him, and it’s almost as if he was waiting for me to turn.

He stares at me, so deeply into me the way only he can, and green becomes my whole world. A world of purely arctic, untouchable, unbreakable green ice.

Nothing this cool should have the ability to make me this hot. But there is heat in the ice. Ice burns just as much as heat does.

“I’m sorry, I lost my train of thought.” I jerk my eyes away.

Flustered, I shift in my seat and look at Merrick. The man is staring at me strangely and with a bit of pity. There’s a slight movement in the direction of Saint as he shifts his shoulders on the couch to face Merrick better, and I notice Saint is looking at Merrick with a dark but controlled look of displeasure.

“Cut through the bullshit, Merrick.”

“Of course, Mr. Saint.”

Ohgod. The fact that Saint has noticed his man is making me nervous makes me blush tenfold.

“Miss Livingston,” Merrick begins again, pausing as though he’s about to say something monumental. “Mr. Saint has an interest in expanding the services we offer our Interface subscribers. We’re offering fresh content from specific sources, mainly a group of young journalists, columnists, and reporters we’re planning to take on.”

Interface. His newest enterprise. Growing like a monster—a force to be reckoned with on its own, it’s been breaking through all the technological and market barriers in its expansion. I’m not surprised that Saint is taking it into this next step; it’s a genius move, from an admirable businessman, the next logical move for a company just named among the top ten places to work for.

“I love it, Malcolm. I love the idea,” I tell him.

Ohmigod!

Did I just call him Malcolm?

I seem to catch him off guard. For a fraction of a second, his eyes shadow. It’s as if there’s a storm brewing inside him . . . but the next instant, he cools it back down.

“Well, that’s wonderful to hear,” Merrick says then. “Mr. Saint has an eye for talent, as you know, Miss Livingston. And he wants to make it very clear that he means to bring you on board.”

Sin has been watching me the whole time Merrick speaks. He watches as the smile leaves my face, replaced by shock instead. “You’re offering me a job?”

“Yes.” Merrick is the one who responds. “Indeed, Miss Livingston. A job at M4.”

I’m stunned speechless.

I stare at my lap as I register what I heard.

Sin doesn’t want to talk to me.

He’s barely affected by me at all.

He called me, after four weeks, for this.

I lift my gaze to his, and the instant our eyes lock, I feel a crackle in my system. I feel it like a jolt. Forcing my gaze to stay on his face, which is beyond unreadable, I try to keep my voice level. “A job is the last thing I’d expected you’d offer. Is that all you want from me?”

He leans forward in a fluid move, elbows to his knees, his stare never leaving me. “I want you to take it.”

Oh.

God.

He sounds just as stern as when he called Dibs on me that night . . .

Knotted up inside, I tear my eyes away and stare out the window for a moment. I want to call him Malcolm, but he’s not Malcolm anymore to me, I realize. He’s not even Saint, who teased me mercilessly until I caved. This is Malcolm Saint. Looking at me as if he never held me in his arms.

“You know I can’t leave my job,” I tell him, turning.

He doesn’t seem bothered. “We’ll meet your price.”

Shaking my head with a little laugh of disbelief, I rub my temples.

“Merrick,” is all he says.

And Merrick instantly continues.

Sitting tensely in his seat, a huge contrast to Saint’s lounging form, Mr. Merrick explains, “As I was saying, we’ll be offering news content to our subscribers, and Mr. Saint has been a longtime fan of your voice. He appreciates its honesty and the angles you take.”

Red-hot color spreads up my body. “Thank you. I’m super flattered,” I say. “But there’s really only one answer,” I add breathlessly, “and I’ve already given it to you.”

Mr. Merrick forges on with a look from Saint. “This is the proposal for the job and we need an acceptance or decline within the week.”