“Zoey Atkinson,” I said to the guy in the booth, “here to see Angelica Hunt. I’m a correspondent from JuicyNews.”

He typed my name into a computer and shook his head.

“Just a moment, ma’am,” he said, “I don’t have you on the appointment schedule, so I have to call up to the house.”

I waited impatiently in my dirty, beat-up car. The gate ahead of me had probably seen a lot of cars, but I bet they were all nicer than mine. My great-uncle Martin bought this drab brown Honda Civic for me when I was in high school. It was hideous, ancient, and the color of shit, but it still ran despite two back-end collisions. Marty was in a nursing home now, but the Civic was still on the road and firmly in my possession. I’d probably pass the damn thing onto my own heirs one day.

“Ok ma’am,” the security guy said to me a second later, “Tara said they’re expecting you. Sorry for the mix-up. Just drive up the main road. You, uh, can’t miss the house.”

The big, elaborately embellished iron gate opened in front of me, and I crawled up the cobblestone drive. I was followed by a sleek, uber-modern sedan that had pulled through the gate right after me. Whoever was driving the thing was clearly frustrated with my slow approach, but I didn’t get to visit the super-rich very often.

The grounds surrounding the house were lush and park-like, with actual shrubbery animals. I saw a hedge-unicorn, a hedge-bunny, and a hedge-dragon. It looked like Edward Scissorhands had gone to town out there. Awesome, I thought to myself, that is definitely going in the article. The car behind me honked, and I moved along reluctantly.

The house itself was worthy of its own dang article. It was styled to look like a French chateau, all tall and symmetrical with white stone and a highly pitched grey roof. It looked like somewhere Cinderella and her prince would call home.

I parked my ugly-ass car next to several much nicer ones in front of the house and climbed the steps to the elaborate front entrance. Behind me, the owner of the nice car was following, and I resisted the temptation to turn and invite him or her to yell at me for driving so slowly. I rang the doorbell as whoever it was tapped me politely on the shoulder.

I swallowed hard, put on my game face, and turned.

I recognized him instantly. It was Nathan Breyer: disgraced astronaut, innovative entrepreneur, scion of Durant Industries, and all-around scoundrel. He had also been the previous target of my reporting when I’d been a real journalist.

The Durant dynasty was a feature of the American consciousness, possessing a combination of massive wealth and influence along with five ridiculously sexy male heirs. Nathan Breyer, one of the two scions who did not share the Durant surname, was standing in front of me. I tried not to gape like an idiot.

He was perfect. Physically, at least. Taller than me (an achievement), with a body that said he was still in the amazing shape from his military days and that infamous sex tape. He was broad-shouldered and deep-chested. His facial features were square and masculine, and his eyes were a dreamy, sparkly blue-green color that contrasted starkly with his short, dark hair.

“Are you having car trouble?” He questioned me, not exactly rude, but sharp. He was clearly irritated that I’d detained him.

I couldn’t help my giggle. There was nothing I could do. This situation was so ridiculous. He frowned at my laughter.

“I’m sorry,” I replied, shaking my head, “I wasn’t having car trouble. I’d just never seen a hedge sculpted into a unicorn before. I definitely didn’t expect to get honked at by a famous astronaut for gawking at it.”

His frown deepened at my answer, but then gave up and smirked. He must be used to being recognized.

“You know,” he said, “I’d never actually noticed them before, and I’ve been here a million times.”

“Maybe that’s because you drive past them too fast,” I quipped, and caught him crack a smile. “I’m Zoey,” I said, extending my hand. Who knew when I’d meet another sexy astronaut?

“Nathan,” he replied, shaking my hand, “but you knew that. Are you here for the board meeting? Do you work for Clark and Jeffries?”

“Hmm?” I answered, shaking my head, “No, I’m here to interview Angelica Hunt.”

Before I could figure out about the board meeting, or what Clark and Jeffries was, the door opened. Both Nathan and I turned to face a drab young woman wearing an unflattering pink sweatshirt and leggings. Her ginger hair was tied up into a weird topknot, and she was wearing the wrong shade of foundation. This sad fashion victim was definitely not Angelica Hunt.

“Miss Atkinson?” She asked, and I nodded, “I’m Tara, Angelica’s assistant. Please come with me,” Tara saw Nathan over my shoulder and smiled broadly, adding, “Good evening, Mr. Breyer. The other members of the board are out on the patio.”

I started following Tara forward into the palatial, marble entryway. Before I could make it over the threshold, Nathan put a large hand on my shoulder, stopping me from moving. The jolt of connection zinged through me, and I looked up into his wide, clear eyes. I stared back at him for a long moment, breathless and transfixed.

“Zoey Atkinson? From the Philadelphia Monitor?” He asked me after a long second, staring at me like I’d just ripped off a mask and revealed myself to be Hannibal Lector. His voice was back to being sharp and inquisitive, almost disbelieving.

Yikes. He knew me? I’d written some not so nice things about him a few years back. They were all true things and I’d only been doing my job, but they were not so nice.

I nodded, suddenly wary. I didn’t want to be yelled at.

“No longer from the Philadelphia Monitor,” I admitted when all he did was continue to stare intensely, and his hand stayed on my shoulder to pin me firmly in place, “but I used to write for them.”

“I read your piece about me,” he said suddenly, and I stared back up at him silently. What was I supposed to say to that? Finally, I nodded.

“I’m not going to apologize,” I said eventually, a defensive feeling growing in me to defend my work, “I covered the stories that I was told to cover by the Editor. Your antics were national news.”

Nathan’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t reply.

The moment continued to stretch. I didn’t understand what was happening, but I couldn’t seem to rip my gaze away from his. I suddenly didn’t want him to shift his focus from me, or to stop touching me. I wanted more. A lot more. I wanted him.

“Miss Atkinson?” Tara asked, watching my conversation with Nathan interestedly. Seeming to wake up and come to his senses, Nathan removed his hand from my shoulder and looked me up and down as if seeing me properly for the first time. He shook himself like he was trying to shake off confusion.

“Excuse me,” I said to Nathan, smiling politely and following Tara. I wanted to stick around to see why Nathan was there, but Angelica was my meal ticket today. Girl’s gotta’ eat.