“Are you now?” he says, without inflection.

I’m not sure if he’s really intrigued or has simply decided he doesn’t want to allow me to interview him after all. Thinking back to my questions, and how much I need to draw out the most information that I can, I open my mouth to try to get on his good side—maybe a little flattery?—but one of his assistants interrupts.

“Mr. Saint, China calling,” she says as she peers through the doors. “And the car’s ready.”

He eases out of his chair, and his muscles ripple under his shirt as he maneuvers his arms back into his crisp black jacket. He grabs the Chicago Cubs cap sitting on the side of his desk, and as he looks at it, a muscle jumps in the back of his jaw as if he’s suddenly irritated about something.

I don’t want to overstay my welcome so I force myself to stand.

He lifts his head to briefly spare me one last glance. “It was interesting. Rachel,” he adds.

A horrible sense of loss weighs down on me, growing heavily with each sound of his sure, steady footsteps heading toward the door. Oh god, that’s it?

“Mr. Saint, could you see me again . . . ? ” I begin.

He’s already at the threshold of the open doors. His assistant hands over a couple of yellow Post-its, and he bends his dark head as he quickly skims them. He has an extremely toned back, an inverted triangle from his broad shoulders down to his waist—covered perfectly by that black designer jacket. As another one of his assistants goes to summon one of the elevators, one of his employees catches up to him with a ball.

A baseball. Of course. Either he’s getting it signed by the players today or throwing that ball out at Wrigley Field.

I glance around at his assistants. Two are typing. One is waiting by the elevator. And the one who’s always hovering by his side is . . . hovering by his side. All their eyes are on him as he boards. It seems like nobody is breathing until he leaves, not even me.

When the elevator takes him away, his assistants return to their desks. Other than me, I’ve never met people more eager to get back to work.

I smile as I approach the one who let me into his office. Her name plaque reads CATHERINE H. ULYSSES. “He’s got an effect, hasn’t he?” I fished. Does he sleep with any of you girls? is what I really want to know.

She scowls a little. Protective? “Can I help you?”

“Yes, I’d like to see about the possibility of booking another appointment with Mr. Saint. We couldn’t cover the subject I’m interested in. I’d love at least an hour with him, even two, if it’s not too much to ask.”

She says she’ll keep me posted, and the four of them stare at the shirt I’m wearing and none of them looks happy. Sigh.

His assistants hate me, and he’s probably banning me from M4 for life.

I’m so disappointed when I ride the cab back to my apartment that I replay the scene over and over, trying to find something I can use. It takes an effort to push away my embarrassment first, digging underneath to the gist of the meeting.

I jot down—

Punctual

Respected by his staff = good boss?

Even when he sat there, there always seemed to be something happening in his head (what was he thinking? Mergers? )

His stare is . . . the deepest I’ve ever seen (indicates a man who can read people?)

He gave me his shirt

I look down at his shirt and study the buttons, the lapel. It’s an unexpected gesture, that he gave me his shirt. Unexpected. Yes, that’s him. Cool and composed, with a tight leash on his exhilarating hurricane energy, hiding something deep and interesting inside him.

I roll the sleeves to my elbows and jot that down. Sometimes my stories start with a list of words. I end up with this list of five things. So this is what I got out of the meeting? Five things with very little concrete evidence to back them up, and a strange knot in my tummy. And his incredibly nice-smelling shirt.

“What’s a man’s shirt doing here? This is sacred feminine space,” Gina protests when she gets in from work.

“He was embarrassed for me and gave me his shirt.”

I’m sitting in front of a blank computer screen, and I’m not that thrilled. Usually I love blank computer screens—they’re like my playground. But a playground with one lone subject and no information to play with leaves me grumpy. I’ve got a bag of yogurt pretzels from Whole Foods sitting right beside me, and even that won’t lift my mood.

“He covered you up rather than told you to remove your coverall? What kind of manwhore is he?”

“Gina! We were in his office. He has a good work ethic. He clearly doesn’t mix business with pleasure.”

Gina comes over to dive into my yogurt pretzels. “Saint lives for pleasure; he’s the tsar of pleasure. . . . What’s with the frown?”

I groan and set my laptop aside and plop down on the bed. “I need to give that shirt back, and the stain on the inside from your damn handprint won’t come off.”

“Why would you need to give it back?”

“Because! I’ve never . . . you know. Gotten gifts from a guy. It makes me feel uncomfortable.”

“You missed out on a dad giving you stuff. Or a brother. Or even a boyfriend. Still, you need to take stuff when you can get it because, trust someone who knows this shit, it doesn’t come that often.”

“I’m not keeping his shirt. What does that even say about me?” I shake my head and tsk.

She chows another pretzel and kicks off her shoes. “He’s a billionaire, he’s probably got a dozen more still with the tags on. Were you just planning on dropping by to hand it over? Are you like a permanent badge-holder of M4 corporate, or what?”

“No,” I admit, and I reach to my bureau for my phone and open my internet so she can see for herself the message I got.

Malcolm Saint

Miss Livingston, Dean again. Mr. Saint can see you Monday. If you don’t mind that we’re squeezing the interview in between some of his other obligations, he’s open to seeing you at 3 p.m.

“Rachel!” she says, jabbing my arm. “You go, girl!”

I grin quietly and stare at his shirt hanging on the back of my bedroom door again.

They say when you want something, you should visualize getting it and it will materialize. Well, this is the first time in my life I’ve wanted something bad enough, to prove myself so much, that it’s finally taking shape.

He gave me another interview. He’s got other obligations, but he will see me again. Even after that first mess of a meeting. It’s so beyond perfect I can’t stop a fresh wave of story-giddiness creeping up on me until finally 3 p.m. Monday rolls around.