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How is it that we’ve invented phones advanced enough to stream movies and order groceries with a single tap, but no one can figure out how to make the subway smell less like urine?

Will scientists colonize Mars in my lifetime?

Will subways on Mars still smell like pee?

If people eat asparagus on Mars and pee on the subway, will the subway smell like pee, or asparagus?

These are the mysteries I ponder as I stare across my mahogany desk, wondering if the guy I’m interviewing has any clue I’ve already voted him off the island.

“In conclusion,” Brian says, “by utilizing proven Six Sigma strategies, I was able to radically streamline our core business process, eradicating inefficiencies in our product development lifecycle and increasing revenues by nine percent.”

Nope. Not a clue.

“Impressive,” I say. “So you’re a Six Sigma guy?”

“There’s no problem it can’t solve, and as a broker for Seyfried and Holt, I assure you—problem-solving would become my middle name.”

“What’s your middle name now?” I ask. Dick move, perhaps, but I can’t help myself. Seventh interview of the day, and each candidate has been as cookie-cutter as the one before. Blair was supposed to clear these guys in round one, sending me the cream of the crop.

But apparently she’s looking for docile and predictable, a guy who will tow the company line and get the job done by the book.

Me? I prefer a little fire.

“Forgive me. Terrible sense of humor,” I say, dialing it down. It’s not this poor guy’s fault I’m being blown off for lunch. No. That honor belongs to one Eleanor Seyfried, who hasn’t bothered to return a single one of my texts.

Ellie Seyfried—now there’s a problem Six Sigma can’t solve.

“Tell me more about your client acquisition philosophy,” I add.

I try to pay attention to Brian’s answer. Honestly, I do.

But this thing with Ellie has me on edge, which is definitely not my standard operating procedure. Sure, she’s always thrown me off my game—even when Ian and I were in grad school and she was still an adorably awkward college kid. But back then, I only saw her for occasional Seyfried family parties. And yeah, maybe I had a little crush, and enjoyed making her laugh way too much, but I thought I’d left all that behind.

Until now.

Having her in the office all week has seriously messed with my head.

Both of them.

If Ellie had any idea the kind of thoughts she stirs up—the kind of dreams that send me bolting for a cold shower at three in the morning, desperate for something to alleviate the ache and scrub my thoughts clean—my ass would’ve been hauled down to HR before the opening bell chimed on the stock exchange. And then she’d have her story gift wrapped with a bow, courtesy of my definitely-not-workplace-appropriate hard-on problem.

Fucking ironic, is what it is.

“…but that’s all thanks to my high-level contacts in the energy and biotech industries.”

I drag my attention back to Brian, who’s supremely pleased with himself. Just like the last guy. And the woman before him.

The latest crop of MBA grads isn’t lacking in confidence, that’s for sure.

I let him natter on a bit longer, then wrap it up with a few noncommittal comments about next steps before I finally usher him out the door.

When my phone pings a minute later, I know I should probably be embarrassed at how fast I whip it out of my pocket, but I don’t have time for that.

Shit. It’s not Ellie.

It’s her fucking big brother, like an omen from the universe warning me to cool it.

Just locked in the Cruise meeting. Dinner tomorrow night.

Great, I text back. I’ll let Rictor know.

How are the interviews panning out? Anything promising? he asks.

No stand-outs. Setting up a few more next week.

Alright, keep me posted. Ellie giving you a hard time?

If he only knew. Nothing I can’t handle, I text, then toss the phone onto my desk.

I’m trying to decide what the hell to do for lunch now that Ellie’s off the menu, when in walks my assistant, Hannah. “Eric Webb here to see you?”

“Webb?” I flip through the candidate file on my desk. Nothing for Webb. “I thought we were done for today.”

“Apparently this guy is a friend of Ian’s. He says Ian called him from Portland, told him we’d squeeze him in?” She scrunches up her face, Hannah’s classic WTF look. “I’m guessing this is the first you’re hearing about it, too. And I’m also guessing you haven’t eaten anything since that disgusting kale smoothie this morning.”

“Yep. And nope.” Figures. Ian’s been so focused on the Portland office, it doesn’t surprise me he forgot to mention the additional interview.

“Want me to blow him off and order your lunch?” she asks.

“No, that’s not necessary. Send him in.” Can’t be worse than Brian “Six Sigma” Andover, and lunch can wait.

Gives me an excuse to wait a little longer for Ellie, too.

Pathetic, Holt. You need to get laid, and soon, before you make a fool of yourself.

The new guy steps through the door, attaché case in hand, his smile cool and guarded. He looks nervous—a touch gawky, too—wearing a suit that’s a size too big and a mustache straight out of a 1970s porno.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” I move the folder in front of me to the side. “Ian didn’t have a chance to send over your resume, Mr.—Webber, was it?”

“Webb.” His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and tries again. “Eric Webb.”

“Eric Webb.” I stand up to shake the guy’s hand, which is slim and surprisingly soft—definitely not into pumping iron, this one. “How do you know Ian?”

“At the risk of sounding cliche, he’s a friend of the family,” Webb says as we take our seats. “Our fathers went to Yale together. Frank was best man at my parents’ wedding.”

I nod, relaxing into my chair. Ian’s dad Frank is a hard ass, but he’s a good man, and definitely knows the business. If this guy is connected to Frank, he’s gotta be good people.

“So. Why should I hire you, Eric?” I give him the fastball, no time for chit-chat. Guy doesn’t miss a beat, though, fielding my questions with an ease his slightly unpolished appearance belies.

“You need me,” he says matter-of-factly, “to diversify your strategic value proposition. You’re getting great returns for your clients, generating lots of buzz on the street. But at the end of the day, you’re still following the same old playbook.”

I cross my arms and raise a brow. “Go on.”

“I specialize in attracting and retaining risk-tolerant, high-net-worth clients looking for unconventional strategies in a time of market volatility and global instability. I’ve got a nose for emerging tech—we’re talking right on the bleeding edge. Things most people have never even heard of outside of science fiction.”

Webb has me on the hook now. Ian and I are always looking for ways to diversify our offerings, and offer our clients something unique. We deal mostly with athletes and celebs—people with lots of cash to play with, always hot for the next big thing.

If Webb can deliver on that, I want him on my team.

I ask him a few questions about his experience, letting him wax poetic about his ideal portfolio mix. He’s got good instincts, the right blend of education and experience, and he absolutely knows his stuff.

But what I really need is a candidate who can think outside the MBA box and carry on a conversation about something other than ROI, APR, SEC, and the rest of the alphabet soup my analysts are swimming in.

I need someone who can charm clients and close deals.

I need someone creative, driven, and passionate.

I need someone who can take my mind off my best friend’s little sister.

“What are you passionate about, Mr. Webb?” I interrupt a story about one of his former clients, surprising us both.

He waits a beat. Two. It’s the first time he hasn’t had a ready answer.

“P-Passionate?” he stammers.

“Yeah, something that lights you up inside, gets your juices flowing.”

“Well, as I said, wealth management is—”

“Forget all that.” I dismiss his comment with a wave. “I want to hear about the real you. Personally. Where do you spend your free time?”

“Personally?” He readjusts his tie, clearing his throat. “Well, I… I like the library.”

Now we’re getting somewhere. “A big reader, huh?”

At this, the guy lights up, a grin breaking his otherwise all-business demeanor. “If having my library card number memorized makes me a big reader, then yes.” His mustache twitches with excitement, his eyes sparking with something almost familiar.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something about this guy…

It’s almost like we’ve met before. Maybe at one of Ian’s family gatherings? He said their fathers were friends. Could that be it?

“Tell me the last thing you read for fun,” I say, hoping to catch another glimpse of that spark.

“Dragon Spell.” He says it like a challenge, as if he’s daring me to laugh. When I don’t, he continues, “It’s about a wizard trying to resurrect a race of dragons, but he’s the only person who believes they exist.”

Webb goes on about the story, getting more amped up with every plot point. By the time he says, “…and then he discovers he’s descended from dragon shifters,” he’s practically out of his chair with excitement.

In that moment, I know exactly why I recognize the spark in his eyes.

Because they aren’t his eyes.

They aren’t his anything.

Colored contacts, fake mustache, wig, the too-big suit and shoes…

Christ, I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on it sooner, but now that I have, it takes every ounce of willpower I possess to keep my expression neutral.

Because the candidate sitting across from me gushing about dragons?

Is none other than Ellie Seyfried in drag.

Do they still call it drag if it’s a woman dressed as a man, rather than vice versa? I have no clue, but I know with absolute certainty that I’ve just been played.

Hard.

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