Once I’m in the elevator I lean my head against the cool steel of the wall. What the hell just happened? How in the world did I just get an interview with the Weston Bridges?

I had no idea how hot he is. It was hard to concentrate. He’s like some billboard model or something, his dark hair perfectly combed with the slightest bit of curl, and his suit that just fit him flawlessly. For some reason, every move he made grabbed my attention. Just leaning on the desk made me feel like I wanted him to take me and kiss me, which is so not like me, especially in a professional setting.

The elevator dings and I walk out onto the hot streets of the city. People stream by me, not noticing me, and I just want to yell at them that I had a meeting with Weston Bridges…and we have another meeting tonight!

I know this guy’s reputation. Player, totally arrogant, richer than God, and completely full of himself. I’m sure he just loved that so-called interview he did with me. And what happened to the trusty human resources person who was supposed to interview me? That’s what I was prepared for—not the absolute head of the entire corporation. And worse, he seemed to be having fun with me, egging me along, telling me how naïve I am about sex.

And maybe I am, a little bit at least. But I’ve been more concerned about doing well in school and getting away from my mama and small hometown than worrying about dating or guys in general. None of the boys in high school interested me, and I was too focused in college to date anyone.

And just that easily I became a twenty-one year old virgin.

I imagine what would happen if Weston Bridges found out I’m a virgin and my heart starts beating rapid-fire. He would probably fire me on the spot for incompetence.

But just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I can’t write about it. Some of the best sports commentators never played ball.

As I walk up the three flights to my apartment, the air getting thicker and hotter the higher I go, I realize I have the afternoon to get myself in shape for tonight, mentally and fashion-wise.

What I want to do right now, though, is take off my shoes and stand in front of the a/c window unit for about an hour.

What Mr. Bridges doesn’t seem to realize is that I do know a little about sex. Maybe not sex as in intercourse, but my mama taught me how to “gussy up” as she’d say. I know how to look like I’ve spent a lifetime reading sex articles—and practicing their tips.

To her, looking good was much more important than being good. So tonight, I’ll have to use her tricks and tips to look the part of sexy journalist while having no idea where we’re going or what we’ll be doing. I’m assuming he’ll take me to some fancy dinner and tell me all about his vision for the magazine.

Or maybe I’m being delusional.

Frankly, I have no idea what he wants from me, but I feel pretty great knowing he saw something in me that made him want to spend more time with me. Maybe he was giving me some flack about my resume but he clearly saw something that showed potential. Otherwise I’d be staying home alone tonight, counting out change so that I can have some breakfast tomorrow morning.

* * *

Later in the evening I go carefully through what few clothes I have and choose a short skirt and a different, sexier pair of heels than I wore today. They’re red and strappy and from my mother. “All girls should have a great pair of red heels,” she’d said. “Black just won’t do it.”

Part of me wants to look sexy for Weston Bridges. The pictures I’ve seen online certainly don’t do him justice. And the fact that he’s so young and has already achieved so much is also pretty sexy. I wonder what he sees in me that made him want to take me out for a test tonight?

I pair the skirt and red heels with a fitted tank top since it’s so damn hot out, even once the sun has set. When I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, I think it’s definitely sexy—maybe too much? But I am my mother’s daughter, so I adjust the tank a bit, pulling it lower to show more of my cleavage. Weston Bridges has had the best cleavage in the world, if his playboy stories are to be believed, and so showing more of mine probably won’t impress him too much. But maybe.

When the sun has almost set, the apartment door shuts and my roommate enters, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud.

“Hey, Brody,” I say, peeking out from the bathroom. “You’re home late.”

“Hey, girl,” he says. His hair is mussed and his eyes are glassy. “Listen to me closely—there is one thing you should know about life: there is a happy hour, and you should it enjoy it. Preferably for more than an hour.” I realize he’s slurring his words slightly. I chuckle. He’s clearly had a drink or three.

We’ve known each other almost since the moment I arrived in town. I answered his ad for a roommate not realizing he was a guy, but we hit it off so well that I realized it didn’t bother me. Brody is like a brother, a protective good guy who likes to look after me.

Brody works in the mailroom at the corporate headquarters for some big financial institution. He says he’ll work his way from the bottom up, old school–style. Like me he doesn't know anyone and has no inside contacts to his industry, so we’re both getting in any way we can.

“God, my hands are so freaking dry from handling envelopes and boxes all day. Did you know that cardboard has a real smell to it? It’s like—whoa,” he says, stopping to look at me. “Where are you going?”

I tug down my skirt and say, “I had that job interview this morning.”

“Dressed like that?”

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Oh, good,” he says, going to the refrigerator. He takes out the water pitcher and fills up a glass. “Fuck, it’s still so hot out there. Monument Press, right?” he asks me, then takes a big gulp of water.

“Prerogative Media.”

“Right,” he says. Brody has a scrappy look to him. He’s from a small town like I am, so we got each other—and our sense of wonderment at the big city—right away. “How’d it go?”

“Well, it’s kind of still going on,” I say.

“Huh?”

“The guy who interviewed me wants to take me out tonight.”

Brody pauses and looks at me, one eyebrow raised in question. It makes me uncomfortable.

“It’s like, research,” I say. “Part of the interview.”

“What are you researching?”

“I’m not sure yet. He didn’t say.”

“Mia,” he says, shaking his head. He walks toward me and sets down his water glass on the scuffed coffee table. He told me he got it from the sidewalk down the street. “The guy who interviewed you is taking you out. Did you hear yourself?”

“Of course. And it’s fine,” I say, and I do believe it. Mr. Bridges is being thorough in his interview, and I appreciate that. I’m fine with being tested in my abilities as a writer and reporter. Brody is just protective, even when he really doesn’t need to be.

My phone pings a text. When I look at it, it’s from an unknown number. Downstairs, is all it says.

I go to the window and look down at the street. There’s a black limousine parked illegally in front of our building.

“Dang,” I say.

“What is it?”

“My ride,” I say. “In a limousine.”

“Seriously?” He stands next to me and looks out the window. “That’s pretty douchey.”

“It’s classy,” I say, and he makes a grunting noise of disapproval. “I’ll see you later, okay?” I grab my purse and keys.

“Hey, wait!” he says as I open the door.

“What?”

“Just, be careful. Okay?”

I roll my eyes. “I will. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.”

When I get to the limo I can’t see inside and no one steps out to let me in. I’m not a hundred percent sure this is Mr. Bridges’ car, so I kind of stand there waiting for something or someone. Finally the driver, a big burly guy, steps out.

“Good evening, Ms. Cassidy,” he says, nodding politely at me.

“Um, hi. Thanks,” I say as he opens the door. When I duck into the car, I see Mr. Bridges there, looking at his phone with a scowl on his face. But when he sees me shifting across the seat in my short skirt and cleavage-baring top, the scowl disappears.

“Good evening,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hi. Um, you too,” I say. The door shuts behind me. Mr. Bridges has changed from the sleek navy suit he wore this morning into a black jacket and pants and black button-down shirt. I don’t know what this means, but he looks gorgeous nonetheless. His collar is unbuttoned enough to show his chest, a small bit of tanned skin.

“Thank you for joining me,” he says.

“Yeah, sure. Of course, my pleasure.” I really have to slow down on the random talking. He’s sitting there looking as cool as can be. He’s not nervous. And why should he be? Unless buying a billion-dollar company is something that would stress a person out. Frankly I think I’m more stressed over the fifty bucks left in my account than he could possibly be running an empire.

“So, where are we going?” I ask. This already feels oddly like a date—the limo, the clothes, the hot guy—but I have to remind myself it’s a job interview and nothing more. Beside, a guy like Weston Bridges would never go for a small-town girl like me. Just wouldn’t happen.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, all coy. He shifts his body so that he’s facing me better. He makes no secret of looking at me from top to bottom, his eyes lingering for a moment on my red shoes. “You look lovely, Mia,” he says.

I swallow hard, the intensity from his gaze pinning me to the plush seats of the limo. “Thank you. So do you.”

A small grin plays on his lips. I bite my lower lip, and when I realize I'm doing it, I stop. This is an interview, and I have to be professional—even if the guy I’m trying to impress is totally checking me out, and I totally don’t mind. “Why haven’t you haven’t said where we’re going?”

“I think I’d rather watch your reaction than tell you.”

I don’t know what that means but I smile like it’s all just fine. Inside I’m really nervous and want to make a great impression, but it’s hard when you’re desperate for money and five times as hard when the person who will (or won’t) hire you looks like Weston Bridges.

When the limo stops and the driver opens the door for me, I’m standing in front of a swanky building with lots of well-dressed people coming and going.

“Are we having dinner?” I ask, assuming there’s a restaurant right here, although I don’t see the entrance.

“Not quite,” he says. “Follow me. It’s just down here.”

There’s a slim alley between two buildings that I hadn’t noticed. We walk down it, the noise from the busy streets fading away behind us.

We get to a door that has a red light above it. Weston looks back and me, and swings the door open.

“Welcome to Plaisir,” he says, guiding me inside.

“What is this place?”

“It’s a club, and the setting for your possible story.”

Inside, the lights are the same deep red as that outside light. Music plays from somewhere deep in the club, a slow thumping with drawn-out horns.

The walls are large leather panels, and a security guard standing by the door. He nods to Mr. Bridges but says nothing.

“What kind of club is this?”

“It’s a place where adults come to let loose,” he says. “Express themselves. Feel free.”

He puts his hand on my back, gently guiding me further inside. At the hostess stand is a woman with a gorgeous body, which is wrapped tightly in a black leather dress. I can’t see her face, though, because it’s covered by an elaborate eye mask, a sort of masquerade thing.

He still hasn’t answered my question.

“Yes, but what kind of club is this?”

The hostess hears me and gives me a curious look, like I’m dense or something.

Mr. Bridges leans into my ear and says, “It’s a BDSM club.”