Manwhore
Page 30
I sit there, feeling like a loser and peering into my phone when I see Dean’s message.
Mr. Saint would like to give you a tour of the Interface corporate headquarters. Let me know if this is of interest; he’s looking forward to seeing you.
My toes curl a little and my cheeks are red. Fuck. I text back:
I’m looking forward to seeing him.
Oh god. Seeing him? I’m meeting with him, not seeing him. Professional. That’s all. What will I do when I see him again?
I pull out a picture of him I downloaded on my phone and peek at it. His profile is so perfect. He’s the only guy I’ve ever had a picture of in my phone—it came from one of the girls who tagged him, and since it got downloaded it’s somehow stayed in my phone. I haven’t been able to erase it.
Considering Saint erased my picture, I should do the same, but a part of me enjoys being able to look at him while he’s not watching me. And this picture . . . I’m pretty sure this picture was taken that day on the yacht, and what he’s staring at in the distance is me. Something about his unreadable expression demands that I figure him out.
Victoria slams down my office phone. “Done. I’ve got an in for you next week on Friday. Be ready to make Saint weep!” she declares, patting the top of my head and leaving me staring down at my phone to Dean’s new message.
Great. We’ll have a car at your place on Thursday at 4 p.m.
12
THURSDAY
Thursday.
At 4:01 p.m., I’m exiting my building.
“Oh, I’ll get the door for you, Miss Sheppard.”
Our neighbor from the third floor (who makes killer coffee cakes every holiday) seems to have been out walking her dog, her cat nestled in her arm. “Rachel, you look lovely with your hair down.” The cat purrs as she strokes the back of its ear. “I can’t even think of an actress as blonde and fair-skinned as you. Who did your makeup? It’s so natural.”
“My roommate, Gina.” I hold the door open for her. “She works in a department store, in cosmetics, and we’re trying out different looks on me.”
“Ah, yes. The day I have a ball and a pretty dress, I’ll go visit her.”
Her dog yaps at my ankle and I wince a little but stand my ground, then turn back to the street once she’s inside. I freeze. Instead of the Rolls, Saint’s black and shiny BUG 1 is parked just outside.
He leans against it, watching me. And he’s smiling. At me. He steps forward and says, “Hey.” To me. And I forget about everything. Even my name. Even that I’m supposed to be working today. My stomach contracts, and so does my throat.
“Hey,” I say, taking in his black suit as he opens the passenger door for me.
Oh god, what is this?
He offers his hand, and I look at it with dread and anticipation before slipping my fingers into his. He grips my fingers lightly as I slip into the seat, the touch lingering long after he lets go and closes the door.
Then he’s in the car, shutting his door and enclosing us in the most confined space we’ve been in since we met. His scent envelops me along with the leather of his car, and my lungs start to ache with every breath I take.
As I dressed, I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to look perfect because nothing would come of it. But I actually spent more time than ever thinking about what I was going to wear and wondering how he’d feel about it.
Dean sent a message instructing me to wear something comfortable because parts of the building were still under construction. I ended up wearing a favorite pair of worn jeans, a loose shapeless sweater I love writing in, and my warm boots, because I love having comfy feet. I’m a fan of chunky socks, my Uggs, and tucking my feet into anything soft and snug. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes it, right? Because nothing can come of this. I’m working, and he’s . . . well, he’s being nicer to me than I ever imagined by giving me a tour in the first place.
“I hope I’m dressed okay,” I whisper.
His green eyes run up and down my body, and suddenly more than my feet are warm as a small smile appears. He reaches an arm behind my seat and faces me completely. “I like this almost as much as I love what you wore the day we met.”
I cover my face and laugh. “You absolutely don’t mean that.”
When I force myself to drop my hands, he’s staring at me. I really have never been looked at the way he looks at me, with that glint of mischief in his stare, sexy, dark, and deep, roiling with the most exquisite promises. When he teases me like this, my flesh goes warm and things happen to me that could only be explained by collisions and particles and energy and chemistry. I can’t take it.
Mr. Saint would like to give you a tour of the Interface corporate headquarters. Let me know if this is of interest; he’s looking forward to seeing you.
My toes curl a little and my cheeks are red. Fuck. I text back:
I’m looking forward to seeing him.
Oh god. Seeing him? I’m meeting with him, not seeing him. Professional. That’s all. What will I do when I see him again?
I pull out a picture of him I downloaded on my phone and peek at it. His profile is so perfect. He’s the only guy I’ve ever had a picture of in my phone—it came from one of the girls who tagged him, and since it got downloaded it’s somehow stayed in my phone. I haven’t been able to erase it.
Considering Saint erased my picture, I should do the same, but a part of me enjoys being able to look at him while he’s not watching me. And this picture . . . I’m pretty sure this picture was taken that day on the yacht, and what he’s staring at in the distance is me. Something about his unreadable expression demands that I figure him out.
Victoria slams down my office phone. “Done. I’ve got an in for you next week on Friday. Be ready to make Saint weep!” she declares, patting the top of my head and leaving me staring down at my phone to Dean’s new message.
Great. We’ll have a car at your place on Thursday at 4 p.m.
12
THURSDAY
Thursday.
At 4:01 p.m., I’m exiting my building.
“Oh, I’ll get the door for you, Miss Sheppard.”
Our neighbor from the third floor (who makes killer coffee cakes every holiday) seems to have been out walking her dog, her cat nestled in her arm. “Rachel, you look lovely with your hair down.” The cat purrs as she strokes the back of its ear. “I can’t even think of an actress as blonde and fair-skinned as you. Who did your makeup? It’s so natural.”
“My roommate, Gina.” I hold the door open for her. “She works in a department store, in cosmetics, and we’re trying out different looks on me.”
“Ah, yes. The day I have a ball and a pretty dress, I’ll go visit her.”
Her dog yaps at my ankle and I wince a little but stand my ground, then turn back to the street once she’s inside. I freeze. Instead of the Rolls, Saint’s black and shiny BUG 1 is parked just outside.
He leans against it, watching me. And he’s smiling. At me. He steps forward and says, “Hey.” To me. And I forget about everything. Even my name. Even that I’m supposed to be working today. My stomach contracts, and so does my throat.
“Hey,” I say, taking in his black suit as he opens the passenger door for me.
Oh god, what is this?
He offers his hand, and I look at it with dread and anticipation before slipping my fingers into his. He grips my fingers lightly as I slip into the seat, the touch lingering long after he lets go and closes the door.
Then he’s in the car, shutting his door and enclosing us in the most confined space we’ve been in since we met. His scent envelops me along with the leather of his car, and my lungs start to ache with every breath I take.
As I dressed, I kept telling myself that I didn’t need to look perfect because nothing would come of it. But I actually spent more time than ever thinking about what I was going to wear and wondering how he’d feel about it.
Dean sent a message instructing me to wear something comfortable because parts of the building were still under construction. I ended up wearing a favorite pair of worn jeans, a loose shapeless sweater I love writing in, and my warm boots, because I love having comfy feet. I’m a fan of chunky socks, my Uggs, and tucking my feet into anything soft and snug. But it doesn’t matter whether he likes it, right? Because nothing can come of this. I’m working, and he’s . . . well, he’s being nicer to me than I ever imagined by giving me a tour in the first place.
“I hope I’m dressed okay,” I whisper.
His green eyes run up and down my body, and suddenly more than my feet are warm as a small smile appears. He reaches an arm behind my seat and faces me completely. “I like this almost as much as I love what you wore the day we met.”
I cover my face and laugh. “You absolutely don’t mean that.”
When I force myself to drop my hands, he’s staring at me. I really have never been looked at the way he looks at me, with that glint of mischief in his stare, sexy, dark, and deep, roiling with the most exquisite promises. When he teases me like this, my flesh goes warm and things happen to me that could only be explained by collisions and particles and energy and chemistry. I can’t take it.
