He leans over to his computer and types in several digits, locking it. “Why?”
He finally takes the metal hanger; his fingers curl over mine—warm, long, his grip strong as he takes the shirt back. He crosses the huge expanse of his office to hang it with the rest, and I quickly button up the two buttons I’d undone, finally able to take a breath.
“Have you never gotten a gift from a man before, Rachel?” he asks.
He’s too perceptive, too observant. “Well, actually, I . . . no. Not really . . .”
“Not even flowers?”
With a tap on the wall, he opens the hidden closet and keeps eyeing me from across the room. I can’t imagine why it matters or why he’d even care, but I manage to answer.
“No,” I say.
He shoves the shirt back inside with dozens of others, but by the glint in his eye, he looks fascinated by this news, and I can’t begin to fathom why. I groan. “You’re going to tease me about it, aren’t you?”
A brow raises in question. “Me? Tease you?”
“I think you like teasing me. Your eyes are laughing at me right now,” I accuse, pointing at his face as he comes back with that long, sure stride of his and the most beautiful smile he’s ever worn in front of me.
“Maybe because I like the way you blush.”
I’m blushing pretty hard now.
His stare isn’t as icy as I remember. I feel as warm as his eyes look.
“What about your father?” He motions toward the doors and we exit his office.
I want to find something fun and light to say in answer, but I can never find anything fun and light to say about my dad that actually happened to me. We wait for the elevator. “He was gone before it was time for gift giving,” I finally murmur.
The elevator arrives, and he signals for me to board. As I pass, he lowers his face until I feel his breath on my ear. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, Rachel.”
When we board, all his assistants and everyone on the floor seem to be on standby, alert to what Saint does. I stand there quietly at his side, just as alert. “You didn’t,” I whisper so only he can hear. But oh. He really doesn’t need to do much to make me uncomfortable. Why does my personal life matter? Will he think me too green, not experienced enough, to be able to interview him the way a man in his position deserves?
One of the assistants calls, “Oh, Mr. Saint,” and jumps into the elevator before we can leave.
“Yeah, Cathy?”
She opens a folder and points at something written down on there.
“That’s right,” he answers out loud.
“Okay,” she says. “And this?”
He doesn’t wear too much cologne. He smells of aftershave and soap. His lips distract me a little bit as he keeps answering whatever questions the assistant seems to be tapping. They suddenly face me and tip upward slightly, those lips, and when I look up a few inches higher, I realize he just caught me staring.
I’m red as we hit the lobby. “Thanks, Cathy,” he tells her.
“You’re welcome, Mr. Saint.”
Cathy. She’s at least one or two decades older and clearly in love with him. How long has she been here? I wonder, and shoot myself a little reminder email.
“You doing okay?” He hands me a bottle of water once we’re in the car. Seated facing me, the guy fills the bone-colored leather seat with broad shoulders that look about a mile wide. He looks relaxed, his hair black and silky—shorter on the sides, a little more generous and playful at the top, slicked back today to reveal his smooth forehead and chiseled features. The green of his eyes is never the same each day. Maybe that’s why I can never seem to pull my own eyes away?
“Yes, thanks for seeing me,” I finally tell him.
I pull out my note cards, because I’m not messing it up this time. He silently sips his water as I start charging forward with my questions. I learn that:
Interface will also offer Tumblr vids, gifs, and YouTube videos.
The site will have high file-sharing capacity.
Its user subscriptions are exceeding their initial estimates by 160 percent daily.
“So Interface is the thirty-fifth company you’ve begun from scratch?”
“Thirty-fifth, thirty-sixth . . . The number is irrelevant. Each feels like the first.”
When we arrive, the event is happening in a huge garden in the back of a mansion. There are several dozen tables with white linens, a podium, and floral arrangements to spare. A huge canopy shields the tables from both the sun and rain, the effect elegant and beautiful.
SAVE AN ANIMAL, the tall banner over the podium declares in navy-blue letters. When Saint stops by a table to get a paddle for the auction, I’m confused.
“I thought you were speaking publicly today?” I ask as I follow him through the tables.
“I’m letting my wallet do the speaking.”
“Saint,” a guy calls, coming over with a camera. “I thought you didn’t do reporters.”