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at your curves but isn’t completely skintight.
    Then I continue forward with the next thing you want your outfit to say: I’m a woman, not a girl.
    Something with a little cleavage, a little waist, I type.
    If you like this guy, you want him to want you as much as you want him. So your outfit should hopefully say, Hey, I’m covered up a little more than I’d like, but wouldn’t you like to know what I’m wearing underneath?
    On that, I elaborate on the psychological studies proving the less revealed, the more a man wonders.
    I type out two pages and edit for the next hour, hardly noticing the newsroom is even noisier than usual today. By the time I’m ready to go home at noon, Valentine drops a copy of the Chicago Tribune on my desk.
    “Read it,” he says.
    It’s dated for today, but it looks so read already, the pages are soft as tissue.
    LINTON CORPORATION INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING A NEW EDGE
    Speculation abounds that the newly minted Linton Corporation has been actively considering the possible acquisition of a small local magazine, Edge . Linton Corporation’s director of acquisitions, Carl Braunsfeld, comments that Edge , mostly known for its fashion and culture pieces, has gotten quite a bit of press after renowned Chicago darling Malcolm Saint’s first ever-known girlfriend was caught investigating him for an exposé. The young director said, “We’re in the process of considering many investments, but there are no firm details on any particular directions we might go, yet . . .”
    Ohgod.
    I squeeze my eyes shut and loathe my stupid exposé with a passion now.
    “Is there truth to this?”
    “Helen knows nothing about it.” He shrugs. “Hell, I kinda wish it were. Or not.”
    I frown, thoughtful as I read the article again and wonder if Saint knows this Carl Braunsfeld. I memorize the name before Valentine carries it over to the colleague in the next cubicle, then I gather my stuff and head home to change.

    After all morning writing about First Dates, I’m buzzing as though I’m going on one now. And wouldn’t that be a dream? A fresh start with my guy?
    Look pretty, Livingston!
    I settle on a loose silk blouse with a V-neck, paired with a knee-length, high-waisted black skirt that hugs my waist rather nicely and emphasizes my slight, but pretty, top and bottom curves. I add a pair of tan pumps that blend with my legs and make them look longer, then a small, delicate necklace with an R that sits right where my pulse flutters. I add an ankle bracelet just to look sophisticated and female and young, then I add a layer of coral lipstick on my lips.
    I’ve looked far more seductive for Saint, true.
    But I’m going to M4 and I can’t be looking like a club kitten. What I have to say is serious and I need him to take me seriously today.
    Running my comb over my hair one more time, I make sure that my shirt is nicely tucked, my bra blending with my skin and not see-through, and once I am happy with the way I look, I grab my bag, make sure I have the contract pages inside, and head out.
    I ride the cab in silence. This thrill of exhilaration doesn’t lie. I’m excited to see him, nervous. Afraid.
    Months ago, the first time I set foot in his building, I arrived at M4 thinking it would be the story of my life. This isn’t just a story now; this is my life.
    M4 is as shiny and imposing as ever as I get out of the cab and stare at the building. I can’t even see the top from where I stand. I’ve never in my life felt so little. “Oh god,” I breathe as I smoothe my hands down my skirt.
    I check my phone for the time—and it’s 2:08, so I’m officially seven minutes early for my appointment.
    I start forward when I notice the gleaming silver BUG 3 just up ahead, and a man emerging from the driver’s seat.
    There’s a sudden stutter in my heart. My body temperature hikes. I watch the decadent powerhouse that is Saint toss the keys over the car top to the driver waiting on standby. As he pulls