“C’mon up,” I murmur and buzz him in, then hurry back to my bedroom, slipping on some leggings and exchanging my T-shirt for a long blouse, checking my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
Sighing in despair over my swollen eyelids, I scrub my face with soap and head to the door. He’s waiting outside when I open it, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, staring down at his shoes, his eyebrows furrowed.
He looks up at me. My legs feel paralyzed, as if they’re not getting enough blood. He doesn’t know how monumental it is for me to step back and wave him inside. God, he looks so good—as good as he did minutes or hours ago—that I almost trip on the rug.
“Do you want coffee?”
He glances around my place with a nod.
His tie is unfastened and hanging around his neck, the top buttons of his shirt undone. His hair curls at the collar of his shirt, and when he rumples it and keeps surveying my place, it sticks out all over his head, dark and lovely. I have to fight the urge to reach out and touch it. Instead, I bring us two cups to the coffee table. I take the couch and watch him lower himself into my favorite oversize reading chair, the one I do my best thinking in. I’m a little afraid now that I won’t ever use it again without remembering he was parked right there.
“I’m sorry I bailed,” I whisper, sliding a cup across the table and retrieving my hand before he can reach for it.
“I heard you weren’t feeling well.” He leans forward, ignoring the coffee. Ignoring my apartment and everything except me.
His dissecting look makes me lower my face and exhale. “Yeah, I guess,” I agree.
“Somebody hurt you, Rachel?”
“Maybe . . .” I raise my head at the protectiveness in his tone and cross my arms over my chest. A male figure has never been concerned over me, protective. I like it so much I smile a little in happy amusement. “Will you punch her for me?”
“Her?”
“Me,” I specify, shaking my head. “I’m referring to me, she’s the one who hurt me.” I tighten my arms because seeing him in my place makes my mind keep going elsewhere, to another time, at the top of the Interface building. I can’t believe I’ve kissed those lips. I can’t believe he kissed me for so long.
He laughs softly, runs a hand through his hair. “Then no, I won’t punch her.” A pause, a laden look.
Then kiss her again, I think recklessly.
Groaning inwardly at the thought, I put my face in my hand for a moment.
Saint seems to be beyond puzzled by me right now.
“Is this a girl thing?” His voice brings my head up, his tone a mix of confusion and amusement that, coming from such a hard and closed man, is unexpectedly sweet.
“It’s a me thing,” I admit. “I saw someone tonight—she works where I work. She’s always so spot-on. Everything she writes is absolute gold. Her topics, her metaphors, her similes!”
His chuckle fills the room—a rich, beautiful sound—and then he reclines farther back in the chair, the embodiment of a businessman relaxing.
“I’m personally a fan of your work, Rachel.”
My . . . what!?
“You always lay out your topics with refreshing honesty.”
“You’ve been reading me?” I’m sure my voice and round eyes betray my surprise.
That small smile again, combined with a scowl this time. “You think I give interviews to just anyone?”
“Honest?” I ask.
When he nods, I dip my head low. “I thought you saw my boobs pushing out of that top on my profile picture and told Dean you’d see me.”
His eyes crinkle with humor, but then we stare for long, heavy minutes, and our smiles fade.
“I read your column before that interview was granted.”
“I must’ve been such a disappointment in person. That first interview? It’s the most embarrassing interview I’ve ever had,” I admit.
We stare again.
I want him to say something, so I wait.
“I thought you were lovely.”
I’m blushing red.
He’s not known to be big on compliments, or a big flatterer. He’s known to be blunt, his honesty close to making people uncomfortable.
I’m uncomfortable now because I feel him looking at me with new intensity, and when he speaks again, the girl inside me feels euphoric.
“It gave me great pleasure to watch you walk out with my shirt. It seems every single one of my employees who saw you knew that I wanted you. Everyone knew this except maybe me.”
My breath catches.
“Oh,” I say, when I manage to expel it.
“I didn’t know then,” he specifies, his stare unflinching.
The desire I feel is so absolute, so powerful, I cannot think of anything else but him and the fact that I cannot have him.
I’m acutely aware of the distance between us—of exactly how many feet lie between him and me in my living room. I turn on a lamp, and the room becomes more alive; all the light seems to make love to him, to the angles of his face.
“Why are you here, Saint? If it was because of what happened at Interface, I made a mistake.”
“Then let’s make another one. A bigger one.”