When neither of us says anything, Wynn adds, “I’ll tell you what, they’re on me.”

“The guys or the drinks?” asks Gina.

The moment Wynn angrily drops a bill down on the table and leaves, Gina turns to me. “I think she told Emmett she loves him and he didn’t say it back yet.”

I think of how humiliating it must be to tell a guy you went ahead and fell in love with him and not have him say it back as I swirl my cocktail.

The rest of the night Gina and I discuss everything except the one masculine, relentless thing in my brain.

My T-shirt feels extra thin as I go to bed that night, and somehow my skin feels extra sensitive beneath it. So when I wake up in the middle of the night again, sweating and whimpering, I’m not even surprised by who it is I’m dreaming of.

My blood is lava in my veins, desire rushing through my body to the point that every inch of me is trembling under the covers. I wish it were just channeled desire; desire to know more about the subject, deep things, silly things, things nobody else will know, even things I might not include in my piece just because I need to satiate this need to know. But it’s also desire of another kind—uncontrollable, unreasoned, unplanned, and unwanted. Desire from the very pit of my being and not from my intellect but from something more primal and old inside me, something that hasn’t ever really responded to anything or anyone before.

“Oh, Rachel,” I groan when I find my hand wandering between my thighs. “Don’t, Rachel,” I say, stopping my hand on the inside of my thigh. For a moment I think I’m going to win, until I remember how he kissed me, remember how neither of us wanted to stop, and, because this is the only way I can let myself have him, I slip my hand deeper between my thighs and tell Saint how deeply and how deep I want him.

13

INTERFACE INAUGURAL

Come with me to the Interface inaugural tonight

M.S.

You mean as press?

Rachel

We can discuss when you arrive—Otis will pick you up at 8 p.m.

M.S.

I’d love to go as press. Thank you for the news opportunity.

Rachel

“Silver is the bomb on you,” Gina says approvingly as I twirl around to get her verdict. She keeps nodding and nodding, obviously pleased. “Stunning, Rachel. He doesn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m not sure about this dress of Wynn’s, it’s so sexy.” I take in the long, silky curves of my body in the full-length closet mirror. “If he doesn’t stand a chance, neither do I.” I laugh, then fall sober and feel my cheeks go hot.

I remember the way we both couldn’t stop kissing the last time we were together, and wonder what he’ll do when he sees me in this. The material is sleek, shiny, and cool. Fit for a mermaid, and the fabric clings to my every curve like a man’s lips would, and his hands could.

“What do you mean?” counters Gina. “He’s a playboy. Hello? You don’t like that sort of guy. You and I are the smart girls, remember?”

Following the urge to inspect my feet, I then search for my clutch, tucking it under my arm. “I gotta go.”

“Rachel!” Gina calls. “Just think of the story. You’re flesh and bone, but try to leave the flesh and bone, the heart and the woman, home. Take your brain with you, that’s all.”

I bite my lip and nod, wishing I felt more confident. I need a Malcolm Saint vaccine, for immunity, and I need it now. “What are you doing tonight?” I ask Gina.

“I’m going with Wynn and Emmett to watch some movie premiere.”

“Okay, have fun.”

The night is cool and a little rainy as I slip into the Rolls-Royce, the driver shielding me with an umbrella, and my heart flutters when the scent of the car’s leather interior, which I associate with Saint, reaches my nostrils again. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach, my chest, everywhere. I wish I could leave the flutters home.

As the Rolls pulls into traffic, I mentally caution myself against overthinking tonight. I’m obviously going to pretend we didn’t kiss. Definitely that I didn’t ask him to. Then I realize I’ve never really had the courage to speak to his driver, so this time I clear my throat and start with, “How’s your day, sir?”

“Good, Miss Livingston.”

“It occurs to me we haven’t been formally introduced.”

“Otis.”

“Nice to meet you, Otis. How long have you been working with Mr. Saint?” I ask, trying to get back into investigative mode.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I’m not free to say.”