I have to admit that buying a company worth more than a billion dollars is a fucking aphrodisiac. I feel like I can do anything, take on anyone right now. The view from this corner office is outstanding—Freedom Tower, Hudson River, Statue of Liberty, New Jersey, and all the small little buildings beneath us. It feels good to be on top.

First thing I did this morning was I let some poor sap named Mark Something have the day off—and every day in the foreseeable future—and then I promptly moved into his stellar office. I may be two years shy of thirty, but I know dead weight when I see it, and that guy Mark was sitting in this chair like a fat hog doing nothing but collecting his six-figure paycheck (with the six-figure annual bonus…for doing his freaking job) and leaving early every Thursday for his house in the Hamptons.

I look at my watch. It’s been two hours since I told him he didn’t work here anymore. I wonder if his place in Sag Harbor is on the market yet. Maybe I could buy it.

“Mr. Bridges?” I hear Cameron, my new frightened assistant, ask from the doorway.

“What is it?” I ask, slightly annoyed. The view out the window is great, but the one on the computer is even better—all the new things I own. The magazine, the television stations, the book publishing division…it’s all mine now. Jesus, it’s sexy.

“Your ten o’clock is here,” Cameron says. She consults her notes. “Mia Cassidy.”

“Well what is she here for?” I hope Cameron has cab fare because if she’s this terrible of an assistant she might be following ol’ Mark out the door.

“She came through HR with that pile of other applicants. You tossed them all but told Helen you wanted to interview this one yourself?”

“Oh, right,” I say. I don’t want to make a bunch of new hires but I kept this resume because the girl is so green I figure we could get her for cheap. Everyone else who came through HR had too much experience and would want too much money. This Mia girl just graduated from some Podunk college and is surely desperate for work, so I thought I’d bring her in, interview her myself. Not something I would normally do but hey, it’s my party and I want to have a little fun today.

“Send her in,” I tell Cameron.

I’ve got my eyes glued to the computer, watching the stock prices of Prerogative rise and picture that money going in my pocket. It’s a good day to be me.

From the corner of my eye I see a figure walk in through the door and sit in one of the sleek leather chairs in front of my desk. I pull up this person’s resume on the computer and look through her (very limited) credentials.

Without looking up I say, “Mia Cassidy?”

“Yes, hi,” I hear her say. “That’s me. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

I grumble. She won’t think so by the time she leaves this office.

“Looks like you have very limited experience in journalism,” I say, eyes glued to the computer.

“I was the editor of my school paper,” she says. “And I was the lead reporter for the story that exposed high levels of sodium in school lunches in the county.”

“Sodium, huh?” I say, and I feel like I have to check myself—I just might laugh out loud. “Well, it is the silent killer.”

“Actually, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I look up at her. “That’s hypertension.”

I’m staring at this woman and for a splash of a second, I forget myself—but only for a second. She—Mia is a real, live hottie. And…is that sweat on her forehead? There is something about a woman sweating that is hot as hell. Maybe it’s because I can picture her fucking when I look at that sweat beading on her forehead.

She’s got on some silk blouse that is open low on her chest, exposing her demure but beautiful cleavage. I don’t need a lot, just as long as it’s proportionate to the body, and this girl’s got it. She shifts in the chair, crossing her legs, which are smooth and tanned. Unfortunately I spot the cheap shoes on her feet. From across the desk I can see the wrinkled plastic of the shoe, meant to fool people into thinking it’s leather, and the scuffed heel. I may have grown up on a farm with a son of a bitch of a father, but he taught me one useful thing: If you’ve got a little money, spend it all on one good pair of shoes.

“Get yourself a good pair of boots,” he’d say, “and they’ll last you ten years.”

Clearly this Mia doesn’t even have little money. Or a little experience. Sodium levels? Oh, man. This is going to be so easy.

“Well, Mia,” I say, looking her right in her eyes, “we’re not here to write about hypertension. We’re here to write about sex.”

“I’m sorry, what?” she stammers.

“Blush is getting a new angle,” I tell her. “A sexier angle. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

“No,” she says, but her voice quivers on that one syllable. She tugs on her skirt, her eyes darting away from mine.

“If I were to assign you a story with a sex angle, what do you think you’d write about?”

Talk about blush—her face and chest immediately turn a deep pink, washing across her skin like ink in water. I have to casually move my hand across my mouth to keep from laughing.

“Well, um,” she begins, looking around the office as if a clue might appear. “Maybe I could do something on the dangerous number of young—”

“Stop,” I say. “Listen to me. The only way I want to hear the word danger in a story about sex is if it’s about spicing up a sex life. Doing naughty things agreed upon by the couple. Did I not just say that Blush is getting a sexier angle?”

“Ye-yes, sir,” she says. Sir. God, I love it. She’s squirming like crazy and probably can’t wait to leave. I give her three more minutes before she runs out of here.

“So?” I say, not letting her off the hook. “What else? Pitch me something else. Something sexy.”

I sit back in my chair and wait. Mia tugs on her dress again, shifting in the chair.

“Um, in college I did a lot of human interest stories? That focused on people?”

Oh, boy. I shake my head no. My eyes bore into her, waiting for something better.

“Maybe something on different types of condoms?” she says.

“Mia,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk. “Think sexier. Surely you can do that, right? No disrespect, but I’m looking at you and I know it’s in you.”

She furrows her brows and asks, “What is?”

I raise my palms up like it should be obvious. “You had experiences in college I assume?”

“I’m not sure you can assume much of anything about me, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I’m taken aback—in a good way.

I can’t help the small grin crossing my face. “Is that so?” I ask. “Well, then. I apologize. But I do still need to hear some stronger ideas.”

“Of course,” she says. “But I’d like to hear more about the angle you’re taking the magazine. Surely there’s more to it than sex.”

“In my experience,” I say, “everything always comes back to sex.”

“That’s just not even possible,” she says. She’s clearly getting more comfortable—or braver, at least. I’m happy to hear her bat it back with me. The flush on her cheeks has faded and she’s finally making clear eye contact with me. Just her eyes alone are gorgeous, the way they look into mine. She licks her lips, waiting for me hit her back and now I’m the one shifting in my seat, looking at those plump wet lips.

“One thing I never want to hear another person say, Ms. Cassidy, is that something is impossible. We could do a makeup column, and that makeup column leads back to sex. Everything the magazine prints will have a sexy angle to it, even if it’s subtle.”

“Is that what you think women care about? I mean, only care about?” she asks.

“Sex? I think they care about it a fair amount. You don’t?”

She shrugs one shoulder. “I spent my college years being more concerned about grades and getting ahead, doing a good job.”

“And that’s what I want you to do here,” I say. “Get ahead. Do a good job.”

“But with sex,” she says.

“With a sex angle,” I clarify.

She’s quiet for a moment. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to tell her I’m just testing her, that of course I want her to write that story on hypertension. But I like keeping silent while she squirms. If she doesn’t leave, I’ll know she’s willing to do the work needed to take Blush to the next level. Not to mention it won’t be so bad having her around the office.

“I’ll be honest, Mia,” I say, acting like I’m placating her. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the magazine industry isn’t doing so well. It’s been in decline for years. Some would say it’s a dying industry, and to compete with online media we need to go sexier.”

“I understand,” she says.

“I’m not sure you do,” I say. “Your little hypertension story would only work if someone collapsed during sex. Do you get it now?”

Finally she says, “I mean, yeah. I can do that. I can keep the angles sexy.”

“Because if you’re uncomfortable with the direction I’m taking the magazine you need to say so now. It’s not going to get any easier.”

She rolls her lips in on each other. “No. It doesn’t bother me.”

“Great,” I say, suddenly getting an idea. And it’s a doozy. “Before I hire you I’d like to see you out in the field, see how you handle getting a story. Does that sound fair?”

“Sure,” she says.

“Wonderful,” I say. “Then I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’m sorry—what?”

“Tonight. We’re going to investigate a story. I can’t hire you based on these college stories,” I say, waving to my computer that has PDFs of her silly but well-written pieces. “I’ll pick you up at nine. And Mia? Wear something sexy.”

“Where are we going?”

“That I can’t tell you.”

“But why do I have to dress…sexy?” she says, as if the word is confusing to her.

“Because,” I tell her. “Sex sells. And I intend to make Blush the best-selling magazine on newsstands. I assume this address on your resume is current?”

“Yes,” she says. She’s got her chin defiantly up, but I can tell she’s nervous.

I stand up, and then she does as well, tugging on that damn skirt. I can finally take the whole of her in, seeing her at her full height with a full view of her curves, that skirt hugging down her hips and thighs. It’s not bad, the clothes, but I know she can do better—especially for where we’re going tonight.

I offer my hand to shake and say, “Mia, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

“You too, Mr. Bridges.”

I take her hand in mine, small and delicate, and give it a shake. I want to hold it a moment longer than is necessary but refrain.

“And I’ll see you at nine sharp, okay?”

I watch her every step as she leaves my office, the way her hips sway and her calf muscles flex in her (cheap) heels.

When I took over the company this morning, I didn’t think things would go as well as this. As much fun as I’m having at the office, now I just can’t wait for the day to end so that I can see Mia again.

I tell myself I’m just having fun, pushing this Mia girl to see whether she can fulfill some of the potential I sense in her. Maybe she could be a top-flight writer if she loosens up a bit…

But then another part of me knows that there’s more going on than I want to admit to myself.

Something about Mia draws me in, makes me want to focus on her to the exclusion of everything else. And the last thing I need right now is a distraction, not when I just made the biggest deal of my career.

I can’t afford to lose the plot.

And yet somehow, I think maybe Mia isn’t the only one about to have her life turned upside down.