If I thought I could keep my shit together when I saw him today, I was so very, very wrong. All my systems are faltering as I walk forward. His eyes are on me. Straight on me, and oh so green.

“Um, thank you.”

Survival instincts beg me not to touch his body as I pass through.

He secludes us inside and we head to his desk. He signals to the two chairs across from his desk. “Take your pick.”

I waver between both options, tense.

He sounds like such a . . . businessman.

I choose the chair on the right, closest to where his own is aimed; I watch as he removes his jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair. I feel a rather big kick in my heart at the sight of that torso—which I know is hard and cut and beautiful—shrouded in his crisp white shirt.

He takes his seat and leans back as the stock tickers continue shifting and Chicago surrounds us through the windows.

Saint’s office is huge, but the center of its axis is where he is. I tell myself that the man he was with me is still there, under the intimidating businessman and under those cool green eyes. But he looks so much like the ruthless, ambitious Malcolm Saint right now. How can a girl find her courage like this?

“Anything to drink, Mr. Saint? Miss Livingston?” Catherine asks, coming through the door.

He waits for me to answer. I shake my head, and he adds without looking at her, “I’m set. Hold all calls.”

She leaves, but the static between Saint and me remains.

And where do I even start to apologize?

“How are you?” he asks.

I start when he speaks. It’s only three words and such a normal question. But that he cares to ask makes the arteries in my heart tie around like a pretzel.

“I’m okay. I’m trying to distract myself with work and my friends.”

“Distract yourself from what?”

“Well,” I shrug. “You know.”

Silence.

“What about you? How are you?”

“Good. Staying busy too.”

“Busy getting the moon?” My lips quirk.

His lips quirk back. “Always.”

My smile quickly fades because I don’t like him across a desk. I don’t like him to look at me as if he’s seeing me for the first time, because he’s seen me so many others. The only guy who truly sees me when he stares.

“Are you still doing those campouts?” he asks me, leaning back in his chair.

“Of course. I take everything but the tent.”

He laughs softly. “You can pretend you didn’t like the tent, but it shielded you from the elements.”

I remember.

I remember that there was no rain or earth or wind, only him.

Suddenly, the now-familiar ache in my chest branches out from my heart, reaching all my extremities.

“You must hate me. Why do you want me here, really?”

“That you’re good isn’t enough?”

I blush. “I’m not that good.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Saint . . .” I peer up at him. “Why are you still protecting me from . . . the elements?” Or your enemies?

He leans forward, his expression confused again. “Because I need to. See, I really need to. And you need to let me, Rachel.”

“I can’t,” I choke out.

“Yes, you can.”

I want to tell him that I would say yes to anything, anything he asked, except this.

I cross my legs—inhaling, slowly—and try to look proper and calm when I finally speak. “I can’t take the job. It’s a dream job, with a dream salary, except that . . . I don’t want to work for you.”

“And I want you to work for me. Very much,” he says quietly.

God, this man. He’s a Bermuda Triangle of my life and I got lost there, never to be found. Why is he doing this to me?

“I don’t want the job,” I repeat, laughing lightly over his stubbornness. Then I add, a pleading whisper, “I want you, Malcolm. Just you. Like before.”

The calm in his eyes fades, replaced by something wild and stormy that makes me feel as if the entire room is shuddering.

“When we talked for the last time on the phone and I told you how I felt about you . . .” I start.

I’m knotted up inside as I force myself to look into those eyes, eyes that are carving into me with anger now.

“I wanted to tell you, but I never got the chance before you returned. You see, I have ambitions too. I wanted . . . well, want to give my mom a bit of financial security so she can focus on painting and won’t have to be stuck at a job she doesn’t love. She’s on Medicaid but it’s not that reliable. I guess . . . Saint, I just wanted to feel secure knowing I could take care of her. I wanted to save my magazine because it’s all I’ve known. I wanted a story but after I started, I just wanted to spend more time with you.”