“Hello, good morning. Sorry to interrupt, Ms.…?”

He was looking right at me. He wanted my name, I told myself. For some reason, I couldn’t seem to remember it. Something about his eyes tied my tongue, and all I could think was that those same eyes had just seen me half-dressed.

“Miss Marshall,” Imogen answered for me, with a special emphasis on the first word.

“What can I do for you, sir?” I was finally able to mumble.

“May I speak with you in the hallway for a moment?”

No, Mr. CEO, ruler of destinies, you may not see me in the hallway. It’s not like I want or need this job or anything, I thought with heavy sarcasm.

“Of course,” I said instead.

Following him out of the room felt like walking to an electric chair with my name on it. My mind was racing with every apology and explanation I could possibly give for my unprofessional behavior that day, all jumbled together in a nonsensical mess, turning my palms clammy and making my heart thunder in my ears.

I took one long, deep breath as the door closed behind us, and he turned those overcast summer sky eyes my way.

“Miss Marshall, my name is Jonathan Dane, and I’m the CEO of this company.”

“Yes, I know,” I said before I could stop myself. Nice to meet you, Mr. Dane, I corrected internally.

His lips quirked in an attractive little smile, adding a layer of inappropriate attraction to my already flustered mood.

“Of course. You seem to enjoy working with the children, Miss Marshall. Do you enjoy your job here?”

Here it comes. The firing.

“Immensely,” I said, a little more fiercely than I had intended. “And I want to formally apologize for…”

He held up a hand, and I held my tongue.

“You have apologized quite enough for one day, Miss Marshall. Save some of those for a real transgression. I pulled you out of the focus group to ask you if you would read for the marketing campaign which we hope to release next month. The theme is mother-to-mother, and the talking points are quality, fun, and affability. You would, of course, be compensated appropriately if the director and I agree that you are to be our new spokesmodel.”

His smile was practiced and his tone was persuasive, but in the sort of detached way which confident businessmen seem to develop, as though he couldn’t care less whether I accepted his offer or not, but it would be in my best interests to do so. Which, of course, it would. Who ever kept their job by telling their supervisor’s supervisor’s boss’s boss “no?”

“What exactly do you need me to do?”

“The screening room is right next door,” he told me, gesturing at the large purple door. “Auditions have already begun. There will be a few women ahead of you, so it will take a bit of time. The director will have you read from a script and interact with an auditioning child simultaneously.”

“Okay,” I said, biting my lip and immediately recovering—but not before his eyes had flicked down to look at my mouth, sending a wild shock of warmth from my neck to my toes.

“Excellent. After you,” he said, extending his arm with a little bow. I couldn’t tell if he was being a smartass, or if he was simply comfortable with classic manners.

I decided to believe the latter, for the moment, understanding that it was better to accept a sarcastic gesture with sincerity than it was to respond to a sincere gesture with sarcasm. He opened the door for me as well, leading me again to believe that he was merely polite—though walking through the arch of his arms and chest as he held the door, being that close to his skin and scent, brought to my mind a whole lot of impolite things I’d have liked to do to him.

I shoved the thoughts forcibly out of my mind. Never fantasize about the boss while at work, I told myself firmly. Those ideas were reserved for hot bubble baths with wine and soft music, alone in my apartment, when I could imagine away to my heart’s content.

Once inside the room, he held a finger to his lips and pointed me to the line of women. I stood at the end, twisting my fingers around, unsure of what to do with myself. He walked away toward the table where three people sat; I assumed the gray-haired, steel-eyed woman in the center was the director. He walked to her, whispered something in her ear, and she handed him a piece of paper without ever taking her eyes off of the hopeful actress who was auditioning.

“All play, all fun, AllGood,” the actress said in a bubbling, chipper tone.

“Thank you, Ms. Mills. Next, please.”

Ms. Mills stepped off of the marker looking crestfallen. Her perfect blond curls bounced above her shoulders, and her perfect pink-cardigan-covered breasts bounced below them.

I suddenly felt frumpy. I hadn’t bothered putting on more than just the barest makeup that day and my curls were doing whatever they pleased, as usual. The sweater I wore was a size too big (I’d sworn off soda and fast food six months before), and my black shoes showed the dried remains of coffee stains. I hadn’t noticed until just that moment, and it was too late to do anything about it now.

There were only two women left between me and the marker. It’s not like my job rests on doing this successfully, I reminded myself. This is an extra duty, a favor to the boss. I owe him one, I remembered.

“Here are your lines,” he said when he returned to my side with the paper. “Learn them as best you can before you get up there. An approximation is fine; this is just a trial.”

He smiled, which I’m certain he thought was reassuring, but it only made my heart beat a little bit faster. How did someone so wealthy get away with being so handsome as well? By having no personality, of course, I told myself. Or having a foul one. Mr. Dane had a reputation for the latter.

“Thank you.” I took the page and read it over in the low light. It seemed simple enough, and I had it memorized by the time I reached the end of the line. I put the paper down and stepped over to the blue ‘X’ on the floor, where a little girl of about four was waiting.

“Hi,” I said, extending my hand to shake hers. “My name is Kaley. What’s yours?”

“Gemma,” she said shyly, shaking my hand.

“Lovely to meet you, Gemma. Are you ready?”

She nodded, blushing.

“Whenever you’re ready, Ms. Marshall,” the severe director said sharply.

“Oh! All right. Gemma, would you like to play with the toys?” She was supposed to, according to the script, but the lights and row of intense-eyed grown-ups seemed to be overwhelming her.

“Yes, please,” Gemma said in a near-whisper.

“What would you like to play with?” There were toys scattered on either side of the blue marker, everything from building blocks to baby dolls.

Gemma chose the baby doll, which made me smile. I had played with nothing else until age seven, and they never stopped being my favorite toys. Some of us are just built to be mothers, I think. Gemma rocked the baby and began to feed it with the magic bottle. I crouched beside her on the blue cross, touching her shoulder gently, then touching the doll. I turned to the great, black, all-seeing eye of the camera, and said my lines.

“My mother taught me never to settle for second-best with the most important things in life. She lived by that philosophy herself, and never gave me anything but the best. My daughter is the most important thing in my life…”

I turned to Gemma and met her eyes with a smile, which she returned. My heart squeezed for a brief second as my overwhelming desire for a child rushed to the surface.

“…so I only give her the best. The best food, the best education, and the best toys. That’s why her favorite doll is an AllGood doll. All play, all fun, All Good.”

I met the little girl’s eyes once more. She was beginning to get overwhelmed by the people and the lights, so I made a face to bring her attention back to me. I wrinkled my nose and stuck out my tongue to make her laugh, and she relaxed immediately.

“Thank you, Ms. Marshall. If you could stay a moment, please,” the director said.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, mildly disappointed. I would rather have gone back to the focus group. There were only twenty minutes left, which meant that Imogen was running the Q&A session. That wasn’t a bad thing, but I enjoyed gathering feedback and interacting with the kids.

Gemma waved at me and returned to her mother, who scooped her up in a big bear hug and gave her a resounding kiss on her dark-haired head. The ache in my heart grew too big to ignore, and I indulged in a moment of utter green-eyed jealousy. A daughter of my own might look a lot like that little girl, depending on who her father was.

Mr. Dane’s silver eyes would…no.

I cut that thought off with a shake of my head. It was one thing to fantasize about getting him naked; it was another thing entirely to fantasize about him fathering my child. That was bordering on stalker territory, and I refused to engage with the daydream.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Dane said with a smile. “Ms. Abrahms, her assistant directors, and I have unanimously decided that you are the perfect fit for the job.”

“Oh! Really?” Incredulity wasn’t a good look, but I really needed him to repeat himself.

“Really,” he said. “You will be working with Ms. Abrahms first and foremost over the next week. We have several ads in mind, some video, some photos, so you will have plenty to do. I will inform your supervisor that you will be unavailable to work in his department this week—that is, if you accept the offer.”

“Um…” My head was spinning. I was going to be the AllGood spokesmodel? How had this happened so suddenly?

“As I said, you will be compensated accordingly,” Mr. Dane said quickly. “In addition to your usual salary, I will add a bonus for each day you work on the campaign. Ms. Abrahms, how long do you expect this campaign to take?”

“Ten working days,” Ms. Abrahms said. “Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, then,” Mr. Dane said, shooting her a look somewhere between irritation and surprise. The look was gone before he turned back toward me with a calculatedly charismatic smile. “Ten days, with a daily bonus. Let’s see…”

He scribbled something down on a notepad, frowned, crossed it out, then repeated the scribbling. Finally, he turned the page toward me. “This would be your bonus, which you would receive as a separate check the first working day after we wrap on the campaign. Is that amount acceptable for you?”

It was all I could do to keep my eyes from popping right out of my head. He was offering me three times my monthly salary for two weeks’ worth of work. I could get ahead of myself, finally—put something into savings, and lay the groundwork for the life I wanted to live. I looked from the paper to his face, expecting it to be a joke at my expense, but his expression was perfectly neutral.

“Um…” I said again, irritated that I couldn’t seem to find real words.

“No, no, you’re right,” Mr. Dane said, turning the paper back toward him. “I apologize. Your department is on the brink of half a dozen exciting breakthroughs, and I would be asking you to miss all of that. You should be compensated accordingly. Here is my final offer.”

My heart nearly stopped when he showed me the paper.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “Yes, I’ll do it.”

“Excellent!” He folded the paper up and slid it into his breast pocket as his eyes twinkled at me. “Then allow me to invite you upstairs. I have some time before my next meeting, and we should hammer out the details as soon as possible.”

“Upstairs?” I asked like an idiot.

“Floor 31.” The pride was clear in his voice, reminding me somehow of a little boy who was about to show off his fort. “My office.”

“Oh! Yes, thank you.”

I couldn’t help it. Floor 31 was sacred ground; no one went there unless they could get past the thirtieth floor secretaries and security with a personal invitation from Mr. Dane himself. The elevators didn’t even have a button for the floor that I could see.

The 31^st floor incited the wildest of rumors around the water cooler, in the locker rooms, even in the product development brainstorm pit. If I didn’t see it when I had the chance, I might as well have quit my job. As soon as word got out (which it would; it always did), I would be the shame of the lower floors.

So, feeling like a princess on her way to slay the dragon, I followed Mr. Dane to the elevator.