“I’ll think about it, Rachel,” he says when I don’t reply, as if to soften the blow, his eyes dark and unexpectedly liquid as he looks at me.
God! I could just hit myself.
“I always seem to mess up my interviews with you.” I don’t even know why I’m whispering, but he’s such an attentive man, it seems like speaking any louder would deafen someone as sharp as he is.
I duck my head to hide the blush on my face. When I risk another glance, he’s surveying me in silence.
Trying not to stare at that distracting face of his more than necessary, I glance out the window and exhale, rubbing my palms over my slacks as the car finally parks before the building entrance.
There’s a new tension in the air after my idiotic fuckup. As his driver gets out and seems to summon Saint’s PR team, Saint taps his hand on his knee, surfs his phone, and dials one number, speaking low into the receiver. “Hey, call the troops for Friday night. Let’s chill out at the Ice Box. Send out e-invites to the usual list.” He glances out the window for his driver’s signal, and though I want to ask more about Interface, I can tell that I’ve already lost him.
I’m absolutely dismayed when he gets out of the car and lets me know his driver will be happy to drop me off wherever I need him to.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Saint,” is all I manage. I think he says something back to me that sounds like “Take care,” but his team fetches him and he’s gone so fast, if it weren’t for the empty water bottle by the place where he sat, you’d hardly believe he was just here.
On my ride home, I finally notice other things about my surroundings—now that he’s gone. The quiet, beautiful car interior reminds me this isn’t my life, or me. My eyes keep drifting to the now-empty water bottle where he sat. Why I’m so obsessed with an empty water bottle all of a sudden, I don’t know. I force my eyes away and try to write some impressions on my phone, opening an email to myself.
Insatiable and demanding in business/extremely ambitious
Really . . . blunt (this guy does not sugarcoat anything)
*dropped the F-bomb (I like that his answers were not rehearsed and he just winged it); reason Chicago is so obsessed with him? He is NOT a fake, that’s for sure
I try to think of something else, but I can’t even land the thoughts and questions in my head. Patience, I remind myself. No story was told in one day. No secret revealed in one hour. Nothing lasting built on a single moment.
That night, I look for my Northwestern T-shirt as I get ready for bed, and I spot his shirt in my closet. I stare at it for so long I lose track of time. I reach out and run my finger over it. I feel how strong the collar is, run the back of my knuckles down the sleeve. It’s huge and classy and clearly a very expensive shirt, and it somehow seems to take up much more space than it actually does. I stare at every button, the perfectly folded cuffs—touching it makes me smile and it makes me frown and it makes the knot come back full force to my stomach.
And then, suddenly, I know how I’ll get him to see me again.
5
SHIRT
Mr. Saint, this is Rachel Livingston with Edge. I’d love to return your shirt, if possible. And if you’ll find it in your heart to give me one more shot to discuss Interface, I couldn’t be more appreciative. Looking forward to hearing from you.
Ms. Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint has a charity appearance this afternoon. If you can make it to the building lobby by 5 p.m. he’ll see you then.
P.S. He says keep the shirt.
“He’s seeing me again. Oh god. He’s seeing me again, and I can’t afford for it to go wrong this time! I need to ask clear questions. Get on his good side so he can see me again, maybe. Gina, it’s imperative I wear the right clothes. Help me choose.”
“What are we going for?”
“We’re going for . . .”
I stare at a white skirt and white top—feminine and pure.
“I say go for something stronger that says, ‘Here I am, and I’m serious about doing this thing.’ ” Gina gestures to a gray skirt, a tight, short gray jacket, and red pumps.
“But I wanted to look pure and vulnerable,” I groan.
“Come on—this will get the job done.”
“Okay,” I agree. “This, and some pretty underwear for confidence.”
I tell Helen I’ve got an interview so that I can leave work early on Thursday.
“Are you wearing that?” She points at the outfit Gina and I chose.
I nod.
She scowls. “It’s a bit too . . . secretarial. Can we go for something a little more sexual? We want his sexual interest piqued!”
God! I could just hit myself.
“I always seem to mess up my interviews with you.” I don’t even know why I’m whispering, but he’s such an attentive man, it seems like speaking any louder would deafen someone as sharp as he is.
I duck my head to hide the blush on my face. When I risk another glance, he’s surveying me in silence.
Trying not to stare at that distracting face of his more than necessary, I glance out the window and exhale, rubbing my palms over my slacks as the car finally parks before the building entrance.
There’s a new tension in the air after my idiotic fuckup. As his driver gets out and seems to summon Saint’s PR team, Saint taps his hand on his knee, surfs his phone, and dials one number, speaking low into the receiver. “Hey, call the troops for Friday night. Let’s chill out at the Ice Box. Send out e-invites to the usual list.” He glances out the window for his driver’s signal, and though I want to ask more about Interface, I can tell that I’ve already lost him.
I’m absolutely dismayed when he gets out of the car and lets me know his driver will be happy to drop me off wherever I need him to.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Saint,” is all I manage. I think he says something back to me that sounds like “Take care,” but his team fetches him and he’s gone so fast, if it weren’t for the empty water bottle by the place where he sat, you’d hardly believe he was just here.
On my ride home, I finally notice other things about my surroundings—now that he’s gone. The quiet, beautiful car interior reminds me this isn’t my life, or me. My eyes keep drifting to the now-empty water bottle where he sat. Why I’m so obsessed with an empty water bottle all of a sudden, I don’t know. I force my eyes away and try to write some impressions on my phone, opening an email to myself.
Insatiable and demanding in business/extremely ambitious
Really . . . blunt (this guy does not sugarcoat anything)
*dropped the F-bomb (I like that his answers were not rehearsed and he just winged it); reason Chicago is so obsessed with him? He is NOT a fake, that’s for sure
I try to think of something else, but I can’t even land the thoughts and questions in my head. Patience, I remind myself. No story was told in one day. No secret revealed in one hour. Nothing lasting built on a single moment.
That night, I look for my Northwestern T-shirt as I get ready for bed, and I spot his shirt in my closet. I stare at it for so long I lose track of time. I reach out and run my finger over it. I feel how strong the collar is, run the back of my knuckles down the sleeve. It’s huge and classy and clearly a very expensive shirt, and it somehow seems to take up much more space than it actually does. I stare at every button, the perfectly folded cuffs—touching it makes me smile and it makes me frown and it makes the knot come back full force to my stomach.
And then, suddenly, I know how I’ll get him to see me again.
5
SHIRT
Mr. Saint, this is Rachel Livingston with Edge. I’d love to return your shirt, if possible. And if you’ll find it in your heart to give me one more shot to discuss Interface, I couldn’t be more appreciative. Looking forward to hearing from you.
Ms. Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint has a charity appearance this afternoon. If you can make it to the building lobby by 5 p.m. he’ll see you then.
P.S. He says keep the shirt.
“He’s seeing me again. Oh god. He’s seeing me again, and I can’t afford for it to go wrong this time! I need to ask clear questions. Get on his good side so he can see me again, maybe. Gina, it’s imperative I wear the right clothes. Help me choose.”
“What are we going for?”
“We’re going for . . .”
I stare at a white skirt and white top—feminine and pure.
“I say go for something stronger that says, ‘Here I am, and I’m serious about doing this thing.’ ” Gina gestures to a gray skirt, a tight, short gray jacket, and red pumps.
“But I wanted to look pure and vulnerable,” I groan.
“Come on—this will get the job done.”
“Okay,” I agree. “This, and some pretty underwear for confidence.”
I tell Helen I’ve got an interview so that I can leave work early on Thursday.
“Are you wearing that?” She points at the outfit Gina and I chose.
I nod.
She scowls. “It’s a bit too . . . secretarial. Can we go for something a little more sexual? We want his sexual interest piqued!”
