This is my dream job.

My dream job, located in everyone’s dream city: New York.

People say that kind of thing all the time, but for me it’s actually true. The only problem?

I don’t have the job yet and I know for a fact that there are literally hundreds of other young women, just like me in nearly every way, who would do just about anything to work for Blush Magazine.

I’ve been reading it since I was thirteen, obsessed with everything about it from the fashion to the great profile stories. I’d be lucky if they let me deliver the issues to the newsstand, but seeing as I have a shiny new college degree in journalism, I’m hoping I can, by some miracle, end up writing or editing.

I dab my forehead with a napkin I find buried in my bag.

It is hot. Freaking sweltering. This may sound dumb but no one told me how muggy New York City is. It’s not even ten in the morning and already my shirt is sticking to my back, and there’s a thin line of sweat on my forehead. Not great when I’m on my way to make a stellar first impression.

I’ve only been in New York a month and I have to admit that it’s a bit overwhelming. I’m from a small town and went to college in a medium town, and New York is on a whole other level.

Looking at my reflection in the dirty office window, I touch up my face with a little powder, add some lipstick, smooth down my hair and hope for the best. I hobble the last block to the building, check in with security, and take a deep breath as the elevator sucks me up to the sixty-fifth floor.

As I walk toward the glass doors of the magazine from the elevators I can see people rushing past, seemingly frantic. The quick pace of publishing, I assume.

“I'm Mia Cassidy,” I tell the pretty receptionist.

“Put him in Mark’s old office,” she calls to someone who just rounded the corner out of sight. “And ask him if he wants water or coffee! I’m sorry, who are you?” she finally says, looking at me.

“Mia Cassidy,” I say, shifting on my sore, blistered feet. “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”

“Oh, the interview girl, right,” she says, typing on her computer. “There you are. You picked a hell of a day to show up.”

I don’t know what she means, but her comment makes me feel like I’ve already screwed up just by being here at this time and day. “Is everything—“

But she has no time for my questions, she’s already onto the next task. “Go have a seat over there and someone will be out to get you.”

“Thanks,” I say, still feeling frazzled from my hot walk over.

I sit on a white leather sofa and take a deep breath. I just need a little break, a tiny bit of kindness to help calm me down. I wonder if such a person exists in Manhattan?

I kind of hope the person who is interviewing me is behind schedule. I could use the extra minutes to cool down and literally let the sweat dry from my back. Not to mention I need to calm my mind. I don’t want to go into the interview reeking of desperation. I need the money and want the job more than anything. But I shouldn’t let them know that.

“Jen, do you have those printouts?” a woman about my age asks the receptionist. She practically crashes into the desk she seems like she’s in such a rush.

“Yes, right here,” Jen says. “They’ve been here for almost three minutes—he’s going to flip.”

“Just hand them over,” she says, and Jen thrusts a stack of papers to her. She turns to scramble back to wherever when she was headed, but stumbles and all the papers fly out of her hands like a comedy sketch. Except these girls aren’t laughing.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” the girl says as she crouches down to gather all the papers. “He’s going to kill me. Then fire me. I’m dead.”

I go to help her, picking up the papers that flew farthest from her.

“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “But thank you so much.”

“No problem,” I say. “Is it always this chaotic here?”

“Only when our jobs are at stake,” she says.

“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if this some Survivor-style office where you have to fight for your job every day.

“Are you here to interview or something?” she says, briefly looking me over as she stacks the papers in her hands.

“Yeah,” I say. “I just graduated with a degree in journalism and—”

“Do you read the news? Because shit is going down here. Last one hired, first one fired. I’m surprised they didn’t cancel your appointment.”

I sit back on my heels as my stomach drops. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

She takes the papers from my hand and stands up. “Our parent company has been bought out effective immediately.”

“Someone bought out Prerogative Media?” I ask, feeling like my whole world is spinning now. Blush Magazine, as well as a whole host of other companies, fall under the umbrella of Prerogative Media, but if someone bought the parent company, then everyone at Blush is at risk.

The entire magazine could be shut down, in theory.

“Not just someone,” she replies darkly. “Weston Bridges. And if you don’t know who he is I suggested you stand up and walk out the door right now. And if you still have your interview,” she says, hardly even looking at me, “then good luck. You’re going to need it.”

“Rachel, hurry!” Jen snaps. “He’s waiting!”

Rachel, who now has all the pages she came out for, clicks quickly across the shiny floors and into the back. I slowly stand up and make my way back to the couch.

I wish I’d had a second to tell that Rachel girl that of course I know who Weston Bridges is. He’s a self-made billionaire who hasn’t even cracked the age of thirty yet.

He’s also a notorious playboy who happens to be super sexy too. I bet he’s a total asshole—and by the way everyone is racing around the office, I’m sure I’m right.

I just have to hope that I impress whatever HR person I’m interviewing with, and get in before there are any layoffs. People who buy companies love to lay off a quarter of the staff to help reboot the energy and start somewhat fresh. In a company this big, I’ll probably never even have to see him.

If I get the job, of course, which would be a miracle.

I feel like I’ve been sitting waiting to be called for hours. The sweat on my back has finally dried but my shirt is still sticky and I really hope I don’t smell. I wonder if I have time to go to the bathroom and maybe dab myself with a cool paper towel when a young man calls my name.

“Yes, that’s me,” I say, standing up.

“He’s ready for you. You can follow me.”

I pick up my bag, stand on my sore feet, and put on my best, most confident face, despite the turmoil that is happening in my mind and body. I desperately need and want this job. I just hope that whoever this HR guy is, he’s forgiving for my lack or real-world journalism experience.