“Hey. You, there. With the golden hair, gorgeous body, but absolutely gloomy face,” Valentine calls from his cubicle as I walk by.

“Thanks,” I say.

He motions me forward to his computer and I end up standing behind him and bending over to peer at his screen.

And there’s Sin.

A video, which shows the power in even his smallest gestures. I’m melting when I hear him answer a question in some sort of interview about his opinion on the state of the oil prices. Stupid, stupid melting bones.

After we both watch for a moment, Valentine says, “Your ex.”

He’s not my ex, I think sadly, wishing that even for a blink I’d have had the courage to wear that title.

“He really knows how to fill up a room. He’s keynote speaker this weekend at McCormick Place. I’m thinking of asking Helen to let me go. Unless you want to?” Val peers at me over his shoulder.

I shake my head, frustrated. Then shrug. Then nod. “I’d love to, but I couldn’t.”

Valentine’s eyes cloud over at that; I’m sure it’s because he remembers all the hate mail that came through the servers after Victoria’s article. “You need to get out more. Want to come clubbing with me and my current this weekend?”

“I’m going to camp out this weekend. But proceed living dangerously for me. I’ll find a way to bail you out of jail.”

He laughs as I go back to my corner and settle down in my chair. I’m determined to work past this glitch. I want this to be an excellent dating piece, one that can help every girl like me meet and attract the guy she wants.

Inhaling, I pop open my browser and search the dating forums. I mean to find out the most major concerns girls have when going out on a first date, for starters, but before I know it, I’m opening another tab. Then a press conference link. Then I plug in my earphones and hike up the volume and stare at Saint on the video.

He’s behind a podium erected outside. People are standing in the back—every chair is occupied. Most especially with businessmen. Though I spot a few fawning fangirls nearby too.

His hair moves a little with the wind. His voice comes through the speaker, low and deep. Even though he’s talking through a computer and not talking directly to me, my skin prickles in response. Stupid, stupid skin.

When the camera zooms in, I look into his eyes as he connects with the audience, and feel an ache. The look in his eyes as he talks to all those strangers, so much more personal than the wariness in his eyes when he looked at me yesterday.

But I think of how his eyes would burn so hot when he peeled his shirt off my body that I’d be in cinders by the time I lay naked and waiting for him to touch me . . .

And the way his eyes would glimmer with teasing, boyish hope as he looked at me when he asked and asked, patiently and ruthlessly, for me to be his girlfriend.

I hate that I will never, ever be his “little one” again.

I play the email roulette all day . . . and there’s nothing from him.

I end up with two sentences for my dating article. Valentine and Sandy are hitting a nearby sandwich place and as we cross the building’s lobby, Valentine says, “Come with, Rachel.”

“I think I’ll just . . .” I shake my head. “I’m going to try to get some work done at home.”

“Bullshit,” he says as we hit the sidewalk.

Sandy stops him. “Let her go home, Val.”

“I worry about this girl. She’s been kind of blue lately.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’m perfect,” I assure them as I flag a cab. “I’ll see you two tomorrow.”

FRIENDS

Valentine isn’t the only one “concerned.” So are my friends. And later that night, they insist on Girl Time.

Wynn was adamant we discuss this “job issue.” I assume Gina’s told her about the job offer on the table from Malcolm since nobody else knows about my other writing problem. Not even my friends. I just really dislike being the one knocked-out on the floor after life struck her out. I’m trying to get back to normal even though I don’t know what normal is anymore.

But at least one of the fixtures in my life is drinks with Wynn and Gina during the week. We sit at a high table near the windows. It’s comfortable.

Still, I’ve been refreshing my email like mad.

“I don’t know why you thought he’d want to talk to you about what happened so soon, it’s only been four weeks and what happened was kind of . . . well, it could take years,” Wynn says.

“Wow, Wynn,” I groan.