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 secret, somehow, too precious for me to share, my hope too raw and too tiny to survive the questioning of anyone else.

I don’t want to hear if what I’m doing is dangerous. Wrong. Or right. I’m doing it because I have to—I need to—because he asked me to, and this is the only way I can be close to him for now. Yes, I could accept his job offer and be closer for longer—but I’d define myself as his employee for possibly forever. That’s not what I want to be to him.

I stare at my laptop once I get home. Only seconds after I boot it up, a familiar dread starts creeping into me, as it does when I sit to write now.

But I think of Interface. Malcolm. How relentless he is, how ruthless, how innovative, and he’s right.

My pride won’t let me write something I don’t like. I want to dazzle him. I want him to read it and, even if he hates me, I want him to feel awe or admiration for my words. I want to talk to him through the simple act of writing his speech and if he trusted me with this little thing—I don’t want to fail him.

Before I start writing, I call my mother to say hi, check up on her. Then I tell Gina, “I’m going to write!” so she doesn’t just burst into my bedroom. Then I turn off my cell phone, close my browser, and look at my Word file as I put in the first word: Interface . . .

SPEECH

After a night spent writing draft after draft after draft, I’m at Edge early on Friday, quickly sipping an orange juice as I boot up my computer, then diving straight in to edit the best of what I wrote.

Using the brief guidelines Catherine gave me, I also applied what I’ve learned about Interface and double-checked my facts, then I marked those facts in bold so he pays extra care to double-check those.

My body’s in knots by the time everyone arrives at the office around nine, and I open an email, search his name, and attach the file.

To: Malcolm Saint

From: Rachel Livingston

Subject: Your speech

Here it is. I promised you it would be bad, but please know that I can’t bear for it to be—I hope, actually, that it’s good.

Good luck.

I would have loved to be there.

Rachel

I don’t expect a reply, but I get one nonetheless.

To: Rachel Livingston

From: Malcolm Saint

Subject: Re: Your speech

Your name’s up front, you’re welcome to come.

I’m halfway through reading his email and the butterflies are already flapping against the walls of my stomach.

He just invited me to his speech.

I exhale and try to calm myself, but god, it’s so hard to. I’ve got to turn in my article for the Sharpest Edge column and, suddenly riding on the momentum of Saint’s speech, I finally churn out the piece on what to wear on the first date. I think of the ways his eyes change and I write down things I’ve secretly believed since I met him. That men like women to look feminine, so wearing a soft color, or a soft fabric, or a soft wave to our hair, really makes a nice contrast to all that hardness of a man. Soft lipstick might work better for long-term interest rather than bold colors, which speak mostly about sex.

Once I finish the article, I go toward Helen’s office with my printout, when Valentine swings his chair around to stop me.

“Yo! Captain!” he calls, saluting me like an army general.

He’s really got his salutes mixed up, among other things: he’s wearing a yellow vest today with a purple shirt beneath.

“Helen’s having a ball with you. She’s basically selling the idea to young girls that you know what it takes to snag the hottest bachelor in town.”

I frown at that, because it’s definitely what Helen is doing and so far off the mark, it’s absolute bullshit. “That must be why she keeps looking at me like I’m the goose that lays golden eggs,” I say, just to make light of it.

But maybe . . . no, probably . . . it’s why she’s been so forgiving about my “writing issue.”

Val smirks. “Well, you’re the goose with the eggs Saint could have fertilized.”

I’m too hyped about Sin’s message and enjoying my writing high too much to let Valentine’s jibe have any effect.

I merely roll my eyes and ask, “Are you going to McCormick?”

“Nope, she wants me to revise all this bullshit.” He signals to his screen, then winks. “But the truth is, she needs to bully me to feel alive.”

“I’m glad you seem to enjoy it.” I head to Helen’s office with my printout even though I’ve already emailed the piece.

I set it on her desk, and when she directs her attention to me, I say flat out, “Saint’s speaking at McCormick Place about Interface, and he got me a place in the reporting pool. You mind if I go, even if it’s just to observe?”

Helen looks at me levelly. “I expected you’d ask me after yellow-vest did. Yes,” she agrees. “But not as a dormouse. Ask a question! Let people know we’re covering.”

Seeing my hesitation, she quickly adds, “Getting out there and acting normal is the only chance you’ve got of things actually going back to normal.” A pause; a frown. “What? You’re not sure now?”

No, I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything these days.

Your name’s up front.

“Come on, go! Hurry out there and make some inquiries that make us sound smart!” Helen says. “Someone who will make up for Val’s clothing.”

Bracing myself for the worst but hoping for the best, I nod and head back to my seat. Helen’s right, I need to go on as normal.

I care about him more than what anyone can say about me. I won’t pass on a chance to see him.