He’s got a huge hand. The kind you see on basketball players or pianists.

“The media. The fans. Even investors,” I specify.

He seems to mull it over in silence and never actually answers.

“You grew up under public scrutiny. I can’t imagine anyone would enjoy it. Do you ever get tired of it?”

His hand spreads over his knee, wider. He taps his thumb against his leg in a restless way, but still his eyes do not leave me. Not for a second. Not even as he reaches for his water again. “It’s always been like that for me.”

That stare of his is really messing up my concentration. “All your acts of rebellion,” I begin, trying to be professional and keep my eyes on his as well. “You were trying to make a point that you wouldn’t be controlled? Did you expect this would endear you more to the public?”

A moment. Two.

That small smile on his lips again.

Those eyes still on mine.

“I’m not endearing to people, Miss Livingston. I’d say people respond to me on four levels and four levels only: they want to pray to me, be me, do me, or kill me.”

Surprised by his bluntness, I let out a small laugh; then I blush because of the way his eyes darken when he hears me laugh. “Forgive me the personal questions. I’m interested in Interface and in the mind behind it—though the piece will focus on Interface.”

The car is slowing down as it approaches a driveway. Quickly peering out, I see we’re pulling into the drop-off lane of a very high-end business center, and it strikes me we might have reached our destination. Noooo. So soon? I turn back to him, but he doesn’t seem to share my anxiety. He’s the embodiment of relaxation right now, leaning back in his seat, still continuing to watch me.

“I think we’re here, and I wanted to ask you so many more impertinent things,” I tease.

He smiles at me, a genuine smile that makes him look younger, more approachable. “I’ll tell you what.” He shifts forward in his seat, a mischievous expression on his face. “Tell me something about you, and I’ll tell you one more thing about me.”

I jump at the offer, not even hesitating. “I’m an only daughter.”

“I’m an only son.”

We stare at each other again, the same way we did at his office.

Suddenly I want a thousand and one answers like that one. Personal. Precise. “Can I offer another one of mine in exchange for one of yours?” I ask.

“Ah. I’ve got a bargainer on my hands.” He leans back in his seat, his chuckle rich and savoring.

“Is that a yes?” I laugh too.

“See, the thing about bargains is, you have to have something the other wants.”

I stare at him, unsure whether he’s teasing me or not.

His eyes are dark, but his lips are smiling.

His eyes—I can never seem to stare enough. The pulsing energy of his being seems to roil in their depths. He’s a dark individual. Dark as his hair. Dark as sin. Dark as whatever whirls around him. Something magnetic. Unstoppable. Irresistible. He sits there evaluating me, and I don’t even know what to do, how to respond, what it is he’s trying to get from me. He’s a powerful businessman who gets what he wants and is used to things being done his way. He’s also a player who always gets who he wants. He wanted to know something about me, and I stupidly jumped in and offered more. But he wanted to know one thing about me, not two.

“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.