True, when Emmett proves us a little wrong and Wynn comes to brunch looking flushed and excited, it’s a bit of a downer. But all we need as a reminder that we’re right is another tale from a guy like Paul, and our goals are reinforced. Our careers, our moms, and our friends are what matters.

Now I’m not so sure.

Now I think about Saint’s anatomy all day. Maybe I chose the wrong career. I should’ve been a chemist. A doctor. Because I keep wondering why he has this pull on me. I keep wanting to go crazy, have my way with him, and watch him dump me and then write about it.

“Rachel’s clammed up, I think a plan is forming,” Gina says worriedly.

I groan and shake my head.

“Don’t sleep with him, Rachel, not him,” Gina murmurs.

I look at her and nod.

The thing about having such close friends like Wynn and Gina is that we are determined to fix each other’s lives. So now Gina and Wynn are determined to fix mine. And if they can’t, it seems they’re ready to fix me up with a guy.

“Okay, so not him. I know who. He’s Emmett’s cousin and he’s the complete package,” Wynn insists. “The reason you’re attracted to Saint right now—”

“Is because he’s Saint,” Gina groans.

“Well, true,” Wynn agrees. “But you’ve been focused on work too long. Every extreme is bad news, even in dieting, even in sex or abstinence.”

“Guys, stop. I don’t want to date, okay? I want to feel secure in my career first before I let some guy take me out for a spin. . . . Look, don’t worry,” I assure them. “It’s all work for me from now until I get this piece done,” I vow.

I imagine his flesh against mine, him sliding inside me, his mouth on me, his moan of ecstasy, and I wish things were different for me, that I could actually have him. But this, this story, is all I can really have. Isn’t it?

He’s not a man to give anyone more, and I’m not the kind of woman to change all of her life for the wild dream of love. But what if for one night, one night, I let myself spend it with him?

18

SPINNING

Later that night I’m feverish, gathering more data at 12 a.m. It suddenly seems imperative that I get the exposé done as soon as possible because, despite what I assured my friends, I’m afraid I’ve developed somewhat of a crush.

Mooning over his pictures on the internet.

What the hell is up with that?

I stumble across another YouTube video of his father. Saint isn’t in the video, but his father is ranting about his own son on television. “He’s had business luck, he has a shrewd mind and his mother’s inheritance, but my son has no idea of the responsibility it takes to run a billion-dollar company.”

“Well, he’s proved you wrong, hasn’t he?” I mumble to the man.

He’s a handsome man, maybe fifty-five years old. He looks nothing like Malcolm, except that he’s large and virile. Malcolm got that from his father, but he got his mother’s beauty and her dazzling smile.

When I research her and her death, I find out several things. Catherine H. Ulysses, one of Malcolm’s assistants, the one I’m sure is in love with him, seemed to be at the funeral, standing close to a young Malcolm, which confirms that she’s known him for a while. And second, I find out something surprising about his mother. Saint’s mother, Juliette, was apparently big on animals, and every year made huge donations to activist groups. The day Saint saved Rosie, it was the anniversary of his mother’s death—I track back in time and find out that every year since she died Saint has saved, or adopted, one animal. Every year he visits her gravesite afterward (his cars have been spotted in the cemetery parking lot yearly).

My heart tugs. I saw him that day, and maybe he was hurting the same way I do when it’s the anniversary of Dad’s death. I remember we dropped Saint off at M4 and his car was waiting, and I never expected that he’d be heading to the cemetery, but it makes me wish I’d known before. It makes me wish I knew what makes this man tick. I could’ve been with him tonight. I could’ve let him take me out to some fancy event and then . . . then what, Rachel? Then do the most reckless thing you’ve ever done by sleeping with him, even with your most precious story on the line?

Utterly conflicted, I keep clicking links, especially the ones about him and his parents.

Gina’s chowing on cereal in her effort to get rid of the cocktail buzz she’s still harboring when we get a knock on the door, and all I hear, after she goes to answer it, are the words “. . . apartment 3C . . . dead . . .”