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.

“Well, I’m being honest, Rachel!”

I toss back the rest of my cocktail. My mind flashes to his hand, reaching for my leg under the table . . .

Twinkling green eyes, teasing me until I can’t bear it . . .

I love my friends; we’ve been together forever. They call my mom “Mom” and know everything about me, but now as Wynn asks me to relate the “job issue” and Gina tells her all about it, I keep draining my cocktail in silence, sadder than I’m letting on. My friends know everything about me, but at the same time, they don’t know it all.

They don’t know that as I sit here I remember all the ways he used to tease me about how I play it safe. He used to tease me to come out of my box, that he’d catch me. But would he catch me now?

“It doesn’t matter why he took four weeks,” I cut in when Wynn and Gina keep arguing over why he took so long to contact me. “I just want him to talk to me. I want to know if I hurt him so I can make it better. I want a chance to explain, apologize.”

“You doubt you hurt him?” Wynn asks, aghast. “Emmett told me there’s no way he’d give you the time of day right now if you weren’t under his skin.”

“Interesting,” Gina says. Then, looking at me, “You’re not the only one haunted by Saint, do you think that you’re haunting him too?”

“I don’t want us to be ghosts for each other. I want us to go back to the way we were when he . . . trusted me.”

Wynn whistles admiringly. “You can get that man in bed, maybe he’ll reluctantly love you, but you won’t get his trust if his life depended on it now.”

I wince at the thought of that. “True, trust is important to him; if I can’t prove to him I’m trustworthy I’m doomed to be one of his four-night girls.”

“Did you get the impression he’d give you another chance?” Wynn asks.

I stay quiet.

“Rachel?”

“No, Wynn. He doesn’t want me anymore. But I need to apologize. I just . . .” I shake my head. “I just don’t know what to do.” I look at Wynn when my refill comes, frowning as I realize something. “So you and Emmett have been talking about it?”

“Um. Well, yes,” she says uncomfortably. “Everybody’s touched on it, you know? It was public.”

I press on, “Did Emmett have any advice for me?”

Wynn shrugs. “He doesn’t think a man like Saint would give you another chance. But then, he did offer you a job, so . . .”

“What does Emmett the chef know about a guy who literally owns Chicago?” Gina tells Wynn, rolling her eyes. “Plus Emmett’s a guy. He’s telling you this so that you, Wynn, don’t turn out to be a reporter and reveal that he wears pink undies and shit.”

“Gina.” Wynn scowls.

Gina grins, then turns to me. “Tahoe says—”

“Tahoe?” Wynn and I say in unified shock.

“Tahoe ROTH?” Wynn asks. “The oil tycoon and Saint’s bestie?”

“He’s not Saint’s only bestie, Callan Carmichael is too,” Gina specifies, then she cuts me an apologetic look. “I’m sorry, Rache. I’m not supposed to talk to you about this. But he’s concerned and so am I. And . . . well, from what Tahoe told me, Saint’s pretty messed up. Colder than usual. Really withdrawn.”

I sit here listening, aching.

“He loves Saint as much as I love you,” Gina says, and when Wynn opens her mouth to ask about the obvious elephant in the room—her plus Tahoe—Gina holds up a hand to stop her. “I don’t care for Tahoe, but he hasn’t enjoyed your breakup any more than I enjoy watching you mope. He called me to ask what was up, ’cause of course Saint’s not talking and he says he hasn’t seen Saint like this since his mother died.”