Manwhore +1 by Katy Evans Read Free Book Online Page B

slowly over his lower lip, the only part of his body moving now.
    “Consider my job offer,” he says.
    I shake my head. “I don’t want you as my boss.”
    “I’m a fair boss, Rachel.”
    “I don’t want you as a boss.”
    I wait a moment. His gaze smolders with frustration.
    “You shouldn’t want me here,” I blurt out. “I am not a good journalist, Malcolm. If you want to know the truth, I lost the heart for it. I’m worthless to you. I’m not someone you will probably ever trust again.”
    He cocks his head with a slight frown, as if curious over this development. “Take a week to think this through. In fact, take two.” He watches me as I struggle for words.
    “I don’t want to hold you up—”
    “You’re not.”
    The way he studies my features causes a thousand tiny pinpricks of awareness inside of me. I know this stare. It’s a stare that makes my heart race because I can tell he’s trying to get a read on me.
    “What’s so wrong about working with me?” He narrows his eyes.
    I shake my head with a soft laugh. Would I even know where to begin?
    I think of his assistants, half in love with him or worse. I don’t want this to be me. I don’t want to be forty, in love with a man I can never have. At least when I had my career goals, ambitious as they were, I always imagined I’d be able to attain them someday. But him? He’s already as unreachable to me as all of the sixty-seven Jupiter moons.
    “Even if I dared leave Edge , which I won’t, but even if I did, I’d never accept a job I was unsure I could even do.”
    “You can do it,” he says, firm and calm.
    “I’m telling you, I can’t.” I laugh a little and lower my face.
    When he speaks, his voice is soberly low. “I’ll stop asking you to work for me when you prove to me you can’t write anymore.”
    “How am I supposed to do that? Write you something bad?” I scowl in confusion.
    He seems to ponder that for a moment. “Write one of my speeches. Write the one for tomorrow. You’re familiar with Interface, its business model, objectives, cultural footprint.”
    I narrow my eyes.
    “If it’s as bad as you say, I’ll back off,” he adds with the kind of lazy indulgence only people who hold all the cards emit.
    He sits behind his desk with a familiar little twinkle in his eye, so powerful and tanned and dark-haired and green-eyed and toe-curlingly masculine, challenging me to rise to his bait. The temptation is so strong, I have to fight it.
    “I can make it bad enough you’ll stop asking me to work for you.”
    “But you won’t.” His eyes gleam, and his lips form a smile that causes all kinds of visceral tugs inside me. “I know you won’t.”
    I sit here, struggling.
    I want to see him. I want to have an excuse to see him.
    “This wouldn’t mean I’m working for you. You won’t pay me for this. It’s just so you can see that writing is . . . hard. I’m not who you need at M4, Malcolm.”
    I’m feeling tingles in my stomach from the smile he wears. “I’ll be the judge of that.”
    “When do you need it by?”
    “Tomorrow morning.”
    “And the event is at noon?”
    He nods slowly, eyes glimmering in challenge. “Get it to me by ten.”
    “Mr. Saint, your two thirty is here,” a female voice says from the door.
    I come to my feet when Malcolm uncoils from his seat. He eases his arms into his crisp black jacket. “Ask Catherine for the guidelines the other speechwriters were working with.” He buttons up, and pauses. “I’ll expect to see your email.”
    “Malcolm,” I start, but then stop. After a moment, I whisper, surprising myself, “You will.”
    As I watch him head to the door, adrenaline courses through me, every part of me shaking except my determination.

    When I get back to Edge , I walk to my seat like a horse with blinders, avoiding everyone. I print out some stuff for the speech and then head home. I haven’t told Gina I met with him, or my mom, or Wynn, or Helen. He’s my