I settle into a plush white chair appointed to me by the blonde receptionist who sits straight and perfect behind her desk, doing some elaborate task I couldn’t begin to guess. Still rattled by my brief encounter with Mason, I study her profile, looking for some flaw that will make me stop judging myself. There’s nothing, which makes me feel even more like a catty little bitch.

But come on! Has she plucked that look right from the pages of ForbesWoman?

The girl is so immaculate, she might as well be air brushed. I’m practically a slob next to her, which is probably the reason she regarded me with such cool disdain before pointing me to a small seating area with about as much personality as a gnat. Behind a glass wall to my left, a dozen or more cubicles bustle with silent commotion. I imagine phones ringing, competing with the white noise of animated chatter about stock markets, mergers, and trade opportunities. My pulse thrums with anticipation. I need this job. Any job. Two months out of college and I’m still on the hunt.

Unacceptable. I graduated top of my class.

And after that pathetic stunt in the elevator, this looks like the beginning of another underwhelming result in my increasingly frantic job search.

Why, why, why did I bring along that article about his personal fucking tragedy?

Sure, I didn’t think he’d be reading my stash of research and articles, but still…it was a needless oversight and I am paying dearly for it.

I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt and begin to worry about the freshness of my blouse. I flare my nostrils, trying to detect the musky odor of sweat, but instead I smell only the sweet mix of lavender and vanilla bean. Not quite fresh as a daisy, but it will have to do.

My gaze flits back to the receptionist. Her ear is pressed to her shoulder, telephone tucked under her chin, while she taps at the keyboard of her tablet. Her eyes are almost as big as her breasts—and that’s saying a lot. I glance down at my own chest, which although voluptuous, does not have the teeny tiny waist too go along with it that the gorgeous receptionist possesses. Quickly dismissing thoughts of inadequacy with a subtle headshake. Christ. This isn’t a casting call for a porn flick.

I set the folder of research on my lap and grab one of the investment magazines from the side table. Mason Wood stares at me from the cover, flanked by his childhood friends and business partners, Lucas Hammer and Holden Quinn. No question all three could pose for GQ, but there’s something primal about Mason that makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Mr. Wood will see you now,” the receptionist says, pulling my attention. Her gaze lands on the magazine and a knowing smirk crosses her ruby-glossed lips. “You’re smart to be nervous.”

I set the magazine on the table. “Oh, I’m not.” But my lie is betrayed by the sweat stain on the glossy paper, transferred from my clammy palms. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless.

That anxiety intensifies as I stand at the threshold of Mason Wood’s office—a stark cool expanse of white, silver, and shades of gray. No color, no character. Correction. Upon further inspection, I spot the items that have been placed on several shelves with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. A polished silver bust from the Terminator movies, the infamous mask from V is for Vendetta, gold shillings that appear plucked from the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.

“It’s all real,” Mason says, without bothering to look up. He takes a sip of coffee and gestures at a gray high-back chair in front of his glass desk. Behind him, skyscrapers rise up in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stretch into a cloud-covered sky. “Everyone asks.”

Restless, I take a seat at the appointed chair and cross my legs, cringing at the unnaturally loud rasp of one stocking against another. Nervousness shakes through me. The last time I felt such trepidation was almost eighteen years ago, standing in the lobby of my childhood home, watching as my father lugged the last of his belongings into the moving van idling out front. A sense of numbness had washed over me as my mother explained that Dad was leaving us—had left us—for another woman, a whole other family.

My skin prickles with a similar kind of unease now.

Mason lifts his gaze and fuck if I don’t lose myself in those baby blues.

“I collect rare and expensive movie props,” he says. A small smirk forms in the corner of his heart-shaped mouth. “Though, I suppose you already know that.”

Damn the elephant in the room. I clear my throat. “About that—”

“I’m not interested in explanations,” he says, effectively cutting off my sentence with the sharpness of an axe.

I recoil at his tone, momentarily unable to respond. True, I didn’t necessarily make a solid first impression, but surely a smart businessman like Mason Wood wouldn’t make a rash assessment based on an unexpected two-minute interaction in the elevator? I exhale a deep breath. “Then what are you interested in, Mr. Wood?”

His eyebrow lifts. “Seems to me that’s also something you’d already know.”

My spine stiffens. “As my resume indicates—”

“I don’t need your resume,” Mason interrupts. “I already know you’re not a fit for Daylight Holdings. You lack…” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, serpent-like. “Killer instinct.”

Heat flushes to my cheeks. What a crock of shit. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but at least the other companies had the decency to review my resume before sucker punching me with cold rejection. “You haven’t even heard my qualifications or asked me about previous experience.”

Limited, at best, but he doesn’t know that.

“We’ve established you’re clumsy,” he says.

“It was an accident,” I say, voice leaden with frustration. An accident he won’t allow me to explain or apologize for. “Perhaps your job advertisement should be re-written to reflect your impossible standards.”

A low blow, perhaps. But I know his cool demeanor has nothing to do with my lack of grace—it’s that among the documents of research about his business acumen and the company’s success, I also printed off an article recounting the very public, very tragic incident from his past.

More than a decade ago, Mason and his business partners—then close friends at a small high school in rural Maine—became the lone survivors of a random shooting that resulted in the grisly massacre of their entire student class, as well as a respected and much admired teacher.

The partners have remained quiet about the details of that dark period in their lives, but the story surfaces whenever Daylight Holdings surpasses a new corporate record or makes the news somehow. It’s almost as though those three young boys channeled their grief into building one of the most successful businesses in the world.

But even I know that no amount of zeroes in your bank account can ease the sharp pain of heartache.

I bite into my lower lip, assessing just how to approach this. “I’m really sorry if that article brought up feelings—” Mason’s head whips around so fast it could rival that chick from The Exorcist. I swallow hard and keep going. “I wanted to be as prepared as possible for the interview, and I printed off anything that seemed relevant…”

His eyes harden.

“I didn’t intend for you to see it,” I say, lamely.

Mason runs his tongue along the top of his teeth. His jaw twitches. “My decision not to hire you has nothing to do with the article,” he says, gruffly. “It’s the fact that you needed to bring that research with you at all.”

He stands, towering over me, and walks around his desk, eyes searing through my clothes; a hungry predator sizing up his prey. My stomach summersaults.

“You think you’re demonstrating preparedness?” he says, circling me. The question is rhetorical so I don’t bother answering. My blood pounds in the ensuing silence. “It shows that you don’t trust yourself.”

I struggle to sit upright when all I want to do is shrink under his admonishment. His assessment isn’t all wrong.

“And in this business,” he says, scowling. “You’ll be eaten alive.”

A lump of nervousness swells in my throat.

“If you were truly prepared, and had wanted to make a good impression on me, you would have memorized your research, instead of bringing it along for back up.”

My breath releases slowly, like a leaking tire. I want to look away but the truth is, he’s struck a chord. I’ve studied the materials, and can recite facts and statistics without prompt, but at the last minute, I decided to take the paperwork with me. Just in case. A precautionary measure that backfired miserably. “It’s true, I’ve always been considered an over planner.”

The confession does nothing to soften Mason’s expression. “You’re too careful,” he says.

I nod.

“And careful isn’t what we need here, Miss Landers.” He leans up against his desk and folds his arms across his broad chest. The gesture makes his biceps flex, darkening the veins that highlight his muscle tone. “I expect my team to be prepared to do things that are outside the boundaries of convention. Our employees are decisive, bold. They don’t need someone to tell them they’re doing a good job. They believe it.”

My mouth goes dry. “That isn’t why I had my notes.”

“Oh?” he says, sounding somehow bored.

Fuck, I despise the weakness in my voice, the desperation that’s just further proving his point. “I have memorized everything,” I say, careful not to expose how my investigation comes precariously close to obsessive. “I probably know more about Daylight Holdings than half the employees here.” His jaw tenses, and still I push forward. “I brought my materials for comfort, to have something tangible to hold on to, to refer to. How does that make me a liability?”

Mason brushes his hand across his rugged jaw, and my eyes are drawn to his lips. I imagine them up against mine, and a quiver of desire trickles down my spine. There’s something so compelling about the way his mouth moves, even when his words prick at my self-doubt like freshly sharpened needles.

“Successful traders have to be incredibly reliant and trustworthy,” he says. “A real trader would never have come in for an interview carrying all of that garbage around like a fucking security blanket.”

My pulse ratchets up. “With all due respect, Mr. Wood, I think you’ve too easily dismissed my potential value to your company.” I’ve obviously blown my shot, but the only thing more unpredictable than a woman with limited resources is one with nothing to lose. I steel myself for confrontation. “I get it, I’m young and inexperienced, but what if that was an asset instead of a liability? I’ve been underestimated my whole life…”

Mason’s lips twitch. I look away long enough to draw in a steadying breath.

He rests his palms on the edge of his desk, and lowers his gaze to stare at me with implacable resolve.

His entire expression seems to say, you’re wasting my time.

You will never work for me.

Instead of intimidating me, it only fuels my resolve. I am not leaving this office without a fight.

“If you’d bothered to read my resume, you’d note that I always succeed when I should fail,” I tell him. My references will back that up, if Mason could just see past his stubbornness and give me a chance. I exhale fast. “I won’t bail when the going gets tough.” My voice quiets. “I thrive on challenge. It’s what fires me up. Give me the opportunity to show you that I won’t take the easy way out.”

His thin, well-shaped lips curve. “In other words, you like it rough?”