I’ve memorized every detail of Mason Wood’s face even though I’ve never met him in person.

But I’ve studied photographs in magazines, looked at YouTube videos, and I feel like I must know every inch of him by now.

The dimple in his left cheek when he smiles. That dirty blond lock of hair that curls over his forehead when it’s wet. His high cheekbones and rugged jaw peppered with close-cropped scruff. The cool depths of his ice blue eyes.

And into those famously sexy blue eyes, that’s where I plan to stare when I boldly tell him why I deserve a spot as a junior trader for his Fortune 500 company, Daylight Holdings.

I clutch the folder of my careful research about the firm to my chest, watching the floor numbers drop as the elevator makes its slow descent from the penthouse suite at the top of the office tower to the luxurious lobby where I stand, heart lodged in my throat. My palms go clammy. This is the most important interview of my life—I have to nail it.

The elevator opens with a soft ping. Inside, I’m surrounded by mirrors, which makes me second guess everything—the way my hair falls over my shoulder on the left side, whether my lip gloss is too shiny, too pink, or if I’ve paired the right heels with the tight pencil skirt that lands mid-calve and splits half-way up my thigh.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and swallow. Blow out a slow breath.

Pull it together, Olivia.

Business tycoon and hedge renowned fund manager, Mason Wood values organization and meticulous attention to detail. Someone who can think fast on their feet and not crack under pressure. Yeah, I’ve researched all his employee preferences, too.

In fact, I’ve studied every public detail of Mason Wood’s life, which is why I know the exact second he enters the elevator. The air shifts, electric with tension. There’s a pause, then a measured, near-silent tread on the checkered tile floor. A potent presence fills every corner of the cramped space. The door swooshes closed.

I glance up and my breath hitches.

Fuck me. No amount of research could have prepared me for this.

For him. Being here, in the elevator before my interview.

I never prepared for this.

He acknowledges me with a polite nod, and then turns to face the door.

Mason Wood is tall, lean, with broad shoulders that taper into a muscular back and a round, tight ass. Heat crawls up the side of my neck. Sweet Jesus. A girl could bounce quarters off those butt cheeks. Not that it would be appropriate.

In fact, none of my thoughts are.

Cool it, Liv.

Our eyes catch in the mirror and a shock reverberates up my spine. It’s like I’m diving into a cool blue ocean, and I drink it up. My lips part. A soft purr hums from the back of my throat. Holy fuck.

Humiliated, I drop my gaze and stare at the floor. My distorted silhouette reflects off the polished tile—I’m an anxious hot mess. I can almost feel my nerves crackling, and a cold sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. I reach back and rub the base of my neck, loosening the collar on a crisp blouse that I’m sure must be responsible for the tightening in my chest.

“What floor?” he says in that low, almost melodic tone I’ve heard only through the computer screen.

I jerk my head up at the low vibration of his voice and lick my lips. “Thirteen, please.”

He presses the button and then leans up against the side wall of the elevator, hands in the pockets of his pressed slacks. A black cotton shirt stretches across his broad chest, three buttons undone to reveal a soft thatch of hair the color of burnt wheat. His sleeves are short, capping mid-way across thick biceps, thinly corded with veins. I imagine his strong arms wrapped around me and my cheeks grow warm.

He clears his throat. “Are you interviewing for a position today?”

My mouth goes dry. “Yes, as a junior trader,” I somehow manage to say without stammering. A much savvier business woman might launch into a discussion of her qualifications here but the truth is, a nervous flutter has begun to creep along my throat, and it’s all I can do not to throw up. My reflection is so pale, I’m basically a ghost, and if I don’t switch gears and say something intelligent, I may as well be invisible.

“Mason Wood,” he says, offering his hand. I stare at his outstretched hand a beat before realizing it’s my turn to make a move. I’m too slow.

I swallow anxiously.

The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement. “And you are?”

I wipe my sweaty palm on the side of my skirt and attempt a smile. “Olivia Landers,” I smile, and just as I reach out to shake his hand, my wrist jostles the folder and its contents spill onto the floor.

My cheeks flush. “Fuck.” I crouch and begin gathering the items fanned out at his feet—copies of my resume, pictures of Mason from magazines and trade journals, articles about the company’s humble beginnings through to its current stature as one of the most reputable hedge funds not only in The Big Apple, but around the world.

The weight of his stare burns through my shirt and into my skin. Jesus. It’s as if my entire body has burst into flames, and no matter how fast I grab at my paperwork, an oppressive heat continues to penetrate the air. It’s stifling. Claustrophobic.

I stretch across the floor to retrieve the last newspaper clipping, but Mason’s foot shifts and pins it in place. The energy shifts. My pulse quickens. He bends to pick the clipping off the ground. I hold my breath while he stares at it, his pale eyes turning to ice.

“I can explain,” I say, voice trembling.

He doesn’t give me the chance. The elevator pings, the door opens. Mason stiffly hands me the article and exits, without so much as a backward glance.

Damn it. Thirty seconds in an elevator and I’ve already blown it.

Fuck my life.