BRYCE

I rub a thumb along my temple and look out the window of the black SUV. The way the modern architecture mixes in with the original buildings from when San Francisco first came to life used to amaze me. Now, I look at it as no more than my worst nightmare caving in on me day by day.

The fog is heavy in this part of town, creating an eerie scene over the city. That heaviness is like the weight on my shoulders I carry every day at Sexton Media.

As the oldest son of the late newspaper and magazine magnate, Marina Sexton, I have the responsibility of keeping her memory alive by running the print division, which includes the critically acclaimed San Francisco Standard, Los Angeles Chronicle, Chicago Sentinel, and thirteen local papers around the country. It should be the job of my father, but he’s too busy bagging his new wife and former beauty queen, Missy.

I loosen my top button as I lift my phone to call my brother, Austin. His phone rings and then goes directly to voicemail. I hit redial. I know the prick’s tricks; he’ll dodge my call for as long as possible.

When I get his voicemail again, I don’t hang up. “Call me back, or don’t even bother coming into the office tomorrow.” I toss the phone on the seat next to me, grunting in frustration.

I just left a meeting regarding our acquisition of the Seattle Gazette, and he didn’t even have the decency to show up.

Sometimes, I wonder about that fucking guy. It’s been eight years since we were granted our mother’s shares in the company. Eight years since he started skirting away from his responsibilities—finishing college at one of the top party schools and then enlisting in the Marines to play action hero. Now, he has to start taking the reins. Playing babysitter to his party-boy, fast-car-driving, whiskey-slugging antics is getting old.

Our baby brother, Tanner, on the other hand, is the most responsible of the three of us. He’s wrapping up his last semester at Columbia University. Once he graduates, he’ll be in the office, next to me, running our advertising division. The kid is a brilliant artist, and he gets the Snapchats and WhatsApps or whatever it is the kids are into these days.

While Austin tries to evade work as much as possible, Tanner lives and breathes the industry, choosing to study marketing and advertising with a minor in psychology, so he can create a new plan of promotional attack. I copy both brothers on all the financials because I know he’s prepping for the day when he can take his power position. Austin probably sends it directly to Trash.

I wish I knew how to get into Austin’s head. I just don’t get him. Everyone acts like I want to spend ninety hours a week chained to my desk. They think I enjoy sleepless nights, worrying about how my mother’s legacy will remain despite the failings of my father. People believe I have a heart of stone and don’t desire happiness, a family … love.

Maybe they’re right.

“Sir,” Brantley says. I look up at the back of his black driver’s cap. “I know you are the master of your schedule, but you have the gala at the museum tonight. I trust you don’t want to be late.”

“Christ,” I spit and look down at my Rolex. I have an hour to drop these documents off and change into my tuxedo. I wanted to start working on the contract so my team of attorneys can iron out the details first thing in the morning. That will have to wait.

Brantley pulls the SUV up to the steel-and-glass skyscraper that houses our company, and I’m out the door before he has a chance to open his.

I meet the tired eyes of my trusted driver and friend. “Wait outside. I’ll be quick.”

The last thing I want to do tonight is attend a gala at the Museum of Modern Art where my stepmother is receiving an award she doesn’t deserve, but rocking the family boat right now is out of the question.

The security guard nods as I pass through the lobby and straight to the elevator.

The ride to the twenty-second floor is always the longest part of my day. The portion of time that stands still for thirty-three seconds.

In thirty-three seconds, I can lose out on a major advertiser, miss the next headline, be swept out of a deal, or be unavailable for an important call.

In thirty-three seconds, I can be on the phone with the press secretary of the United States, send out several emails, and sign off on contracts that decide the fate of the fifteen hundred employees who work under our umbrella.

In thirty-three seconds, my entire family can fuck up something I have worked tirelessly for.

The door opens, and I’m headed down the hallway. The beauty about having my office on the floor of the newsroom is there are always people here working the story through the night. Editors are pressed on deadlines, fact-checkers cite their sources, and copy editors are dotting the i’s. The buzz in the air is giving me a little lift as I pass down the long hallway to my corner office overlooking the San Francisco Bay.

My assistant, Christine’s, computer is on, but her desk is vacant with her chair draped in an Anaheim Ducks jersey. Hockey isn’t my thing but I put up with her paraphernalia because a good assistant is hard to find. She’s my third assistant is eighteen months, and I’m not about to lose her over the Scott Niedermayer bobblehead that’s perched on her filing cabinet.

Well, I might not lose her over a figurine, but when I open my office door, I find I might just have a different situation on my hands.

Sitting on the glass-top desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the Bay Bridge, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a matching set of panties, is Christine … my assistant.

“Hello, Mr. Sexton,” she drawls as she uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again in a motion to show off the crotchless nature of her panties.

“Christine—”

“You might want to close the door,” she says.

Despite my better judgment, I do so. The last thing I want anyone in the office to see is my assistant sprawled, half-naked, on my desk. I can just picture the headline: Media King Dalliances After Dark.

“What are you doing?” My tone is deep and serious.

She slides off the desk and walks toward me. Her eyes undress me with each sultry step. “Olive skin and the body of a Greek god. I love the way you look in this suit. What I’d like to see more than you in this suit is you out of it.”

I can’t help the way my eyes travel to the milky curve of her breasts. Her chest bounces as she walks, her nipples threatening to spill out of the lace.

I hold my hands up to stop her approach. “Whatever trouble you have in mind, I’m not into it.”

She saunters closer. Her body brushes up against me, and my cock twitches at the friction. She must feel it because she licks her bottom lip.

“Mr. Sexton, it certainly feels like you’re into it.” She runs a hand up and down my shaft from the outside of my suit, leaving me to momentarily close my eyes and moan. “God, you’re bigger than I dreamed.”

I am a man of great resolve. I know sleeping with my assistant is wrong, but—goddamn it—it feels amazing when she touches me like that. I haven’t been with a woman in months, and it’s taking every ounce of my being to stop her.

“I’m your boss.” I place my hand on hers and remove it from my pants while sidestepping around her and walking straight toward my desk, feverishly looking for her clothes. I scan the desk, the filing cabinet, the bar, credenza, even behind the damn Guiana chestnut tree, but don’t see them anywhere in my office. “Where are your clothes?”

I spin around in time to see her remove her bra and dangle it from her forefinger. Her short blonde hair leaves her décolletage exposed. Her breasts are so full and lush. No matter how hard I try to look away, my mouth salivates.

She runs a finger down her neck and across her chest to slowly circle a nipple. “Powerful, provocative, and a man who knows how to get what he wants. I didn’t take the great and masterful Bryce Sexton to be coy. I thought you were more of a dominant.”

She drops the bra on the floor and stalks over with a shove, pushing me down into my desk chair.

I can’t say this is the first time I’ve been in this predicament. My last assistant quit after we had a one-night stand following the office Christmas party.

While the event was consensual, we weren’t on consenting terms about what was going to happen the next day. She wanted a relationship. I didn’t.

I look up into Christine’s blue eyes and say what I should have said the last time, “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, but I can’t sleep with my employee.”

She falls to her knees. “Oh, I don’t plan on sleeping with you. I plan on fucking you. With my mouth.”

No matter how this plays out … I’m screwed.