The tone of his voice is so overtly sexual, an unfamiliar feeling begins to unravel from deep within my core, and it takes all my effort not to gasp aloud. I cross my legs, embarrassed by the unexpected tingle between my thighs. Positive that Mason can see exactly how his words have affected me, I try to avert my gaze. I can’t. I’m drowning under the icy depths of his stare. A chill reverberates along my skin.

I clear my throat. “Give me a shot.”

Daylight Holdings isn’t my only option—in fact, I’m still waiting to hear back on another interview. Solid company, well-respected CEO. A good job—but not the very cream of the crop.

This is the top of the mountain.

This is everything I aspire to.

Working for Mason Wood and becoming the best of the very best.

He watches me for a very long time, seeming to assess me anew. “Fine,” he says, suddenly, and rather casually.

Momentarily confused, I blink. “Fine?”

Mason pushes up off his desk and goes over to the window, hands in his pockets. He stares at the sprawling Financial District below while I unabashedly stare at his ass. It’s a damn fine ass, and for a moment, a brief distraction from the tornado of emotions wreaking havoc on my nerves.

“I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself, Miss Landers,” he says. “But—”

My stomach clenches.

“—not as a day trader. You’ll have to earn that. You’ll start as my personal assistant.”

I can feel the dread unfurling within my chest, and my cheeks flush with anger. To think he can snub his nose at my resume and offer me some kind of low level pity position? Fuck that. I’d rather work at McDonalds. “I’m over qualified for that job.”

Which is something he’d know if he bothered to actually interview me.

Mason turns around and leans up against the windowsill. Early morning sunlight cuts through the glass and forms a distorted halo around his hair. He may look like an Adonis, but his devilish grin is pure evil.

“My personal assistant makes more than most junior traders in this town,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together. “I assumed you’d be happy with any position in this company—within reason, of course.”

Restless energy thrums through me. I’m sweating bullets. “I didn’t apply for that job. I didn’t go to school—“

“Certainly, in all your research, you’ve learned that Daylight Holdings is not only the best hedge fund company in the state, but is also one of the top ten places in the world to work. And our benefits are beyond compare,” he purrs.

My pulse spikes. He’s not wrong. Still, the offer feels like a slight. I think back to the pretty receptionist operating the front desk, and try to remember if I’ve seen other women in the building. Is it possible my gender is more the issue here, rather than the qualifications he hasn’t bothered to ask about?

My spine stiffens. “Since you haven’t even glanced at my resume, I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a bit of misogyny going on.”

Mason’s eyes harden. “I’d advise you to retract that statement. If you’d truly done your homework as thoroughly as you suggest, you’d know that Daylight Holdings employs more female traders than any other hedge fund across the globe.”

There’s an ominous undertone to his voice that makes my skin break out into goose bumps. Maybe I should back down, but my hackles are on full alert. “Must be nice to have a personal harem around.”

It’s true I missed the gender equity statistics, but I know all about Mason’s personal reputation. He and his partners are notorious womanizers. Mason’s virtual rolodex is probably crammed with names and contact information of his many, many conquests. Models, musicians, actresses. An unexpected pang of jealousy squeezes around my heart at the thought of those other women commanding his interest so much more easily than myself.

Mason’s scowl deepens. “Take it or leave it,” he says, with a nonchalance that’s laced in venom. “It’s not what you came for, but it’s a job. A damn good job.” He turns again to the window. “And if you prove yourself in the position, there may be opportunities for you to transition over to trading within the year.”

My stomach fills with hopeful butterflies that are quickly silenced when he adds, “Providing you have what it takes.”

My head starts to spin.

The job—no matter how demeaning—is better than bankruptcy, and that’s what I’m facing if I don’t get my shit together. But what about all that schooling I’ll be letting go to waste? I imagine the pride draining from my mother’s face as I tell her about the offer, and it’s enough to activate the voice of reason.

I swallow hard. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

The words stick a little in my throat, but once they’re out, I shake off the last of my reservations and stand firm. Working for Daylight Holdings would be an impressive checkmark on my list of goals and dreams—but not as personal assistant to Mason Wood. I’m not willing to stoop to being a glorified secretary, even if it is for the most gorgeous, fearsome trader in the world.

Besides, there’s still a chance I’ll land a job at that other firm, and if not there, somewhere else. New York isn’t the only city. Hell, the U.S. isn’t the only country. Taking the position Mason offers would be a giant step backward—and I’m only interested in going forward. Preferably in leaps and bounds. I’m talented. At least, that’s what my shiny new degree is supposed to prove.

Mason sits in his chair and leans back, hands steepled over his toned stomach. And fuck me if I’m not imagining the muscle definition I’d find if I slipped my fingers under that tight cotton shirt. God, I’m pathetic.

“I admit, that isn’t the answer I expected, Miss Landers,” he says. “But perhaps it’s for the best.” He reaches around and puts both hands behind his neck, flexing his pecs in the process. “Your rigidity and caution even in this circumstance further demonstrate that you don’t have the right temperament to be a trader.” His lips purse. “As I indicated earlier, you’d be eaten alive.”

The words sting. I blink back tears, grateful when Mason turns his attention to the paperwork on his desk. I stand, I brush off my skirt, gather my purse, and clear my throat, carefully forming my words. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wood,” I say, forcing a confidence I don’t feel. The truth is, his assessment is on point, and suddenly I can’t get out of there fast enough. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge me with a nod.

Asshole.