The dramatic crinkling of the newspaper, followed by the huff of my assistant at his desk, signaled he’d be sashaying into my office momentarily. A grin spread across my face, knowing that I must have been on page six again.

Looking up over my glasses, I waited as he entered the double doors, waving the paper above his head. “Elise!” he nearly screeched out.

“Jase, what’s wrong?” Really, it could have been anything. I had a new line launching soon, and I’d been out and about quite a bit over the last few weeks, rubbing noses with New York City’s elite. All part of the usual networking and marketing. It wasn’t especially my favorite thing to do. I’d much rather be home reading a book or something else equally relaxing, but running a company where social marketing made a tremendous difference left me little choice but to go out in the evenings and be seen.

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” he asked, tilting his head like a puppy dog hoping for a treat.

“Whatever do you mean, dear?” I smirked. I honestly had no clue what was in the paper, but it must have been a good one for him to feel left out of the loop.

“Tell me that you’ve seen this!” He shoved the paper under my nose and sat in the oversized chair on the other side of my giant mahogany desk. The sun was shining on him from the floor to ceiling windows behind me, and as he squinted at me, he began to give me a sly smile.

“Okay, let’s see.” I peeked up over my glasses at him before reading, one of the perks of being forty this year, suddenly unable to read anything up close without straining, and took a look at the headline.

Below that, was a picture of me with a martini in my hand, sitting very close to James Madison, the President and CEO of Walston Enterprises, which was an umbrella corporation one of our marketing partners was under. James was an old friend, and by old, I meant old in years. He was about sixty years old, and not even remotely attractive. He was wealthy as the day is long though, and he and I had partnered his shoe company with my fitness attire, featuring each other’s products in our catalogs for cross-branding exposure.

“Well?” Jase said impatiently.

“Well, what?” I replied, sliding the paper back across the desk.

“Is something going on there?”

After letting out a huge laugh, I replied, “With that old man? No. We both know I can do way better than an aging billionaire with an affinity for twenty-year-olds. I’d like to think you know I have better taste than that, Jase. I mean, come on.” I folded my arms and pursed my lips at him. As if I’d let him put his hands on my body. The thought made me shudder.

“Well, you are in a dry spell, Elise. I mean, honestly, he does have a gazillion dollars, so you could do worse, no?”

“I have a gazillion dollars of my own, thank you very much. And you’d have to pay me ten gazillion dollars to let that man in my bed. Even that isn’t enough.” I started to giggle.

The conversations Jase and I had were always ridiculous and funny, and he knew me so well. He started with me as an intern, and his work ethic and overall enthusiasm for life made him stand out. I hired him out of the mailroom, literally, and made him my personal assistant five years ago, never looking back. What he lacked in experience, he made up for in loyalty and commitment to a good job. He made sure I was where I needed to be, that I looked good, and that I was organized. I’d never been an attention to detail person, I was always a “big picture” person, and tended to leap quite earlier than I ever looked. While it had served me well most of the time, Jase saved me from being brash from time to time, which I appreciated. I honestly didn’t give a shit what people thought of me; I just wanted to work, design amazing fitness clothes for women of all sizes and fitness levels, and do my own thing. But Jase set up a lot of parties, meet and greets, and always knew the hot spots where I needed to show up, to see and be seen.

“Okay, well that’s fair. Have you met anyone you would let in your bed?” he grinned.

“Now you know for damn sure that you’d be the first to know. I’m not even sure the plumbing still works, it’s been that long. I’m about work. Who has time for anything more than what I’m already doing?”

Sighing dramatically, he folded his arms, holding the paper. “Elise. You’re a beautiful, successful woman. You run a multi-million dollar fitness clothing line, with a new branch coming. Your ass is fantastic. You really should be getting laid, at the very least. I’m not saying you have to bother getting married or any of those formal shenanigans—I know your stance on that one—but everyone needs the D. Deny it all you want. You need to get some.” And with that, he got up and went back to his desk just outside of my office door.

Always blunt, and usually right, I thought about what he said. I hadn’t been on a date in years. Where does a forty-year-old, successful, financially independent woman meet a man who isn’t intimidated by her, or trying to get something from her? She doesn’t. Even living in New York City, going to all the parties, I’ve never met anyone I wanted to see more of. And the men my age, wanted to date women fifteen years younger than them. Half of them were divorced because they’d been fucking their secretaries… assistants, whatever. Then, they married the little tarts, and started having babies with them, bringing about a whole new second family. Paying for their kids in college, and changing dirty diapers at the same time.

I’d long since given up the idea that I’d have my happily ever romance. The picket fence in the suburbs wasn’t the life for me. I never wanted to have children, which turned many men off in my thirties, and they never really understood my drive to keep working. Men tended to assume that I had a career simply to bide my time while waiting to find a husband, which I never understood. It was completely lost on most of them that I actually wanted to work; that I enjoyed my work. I chose my career a long time ago, and pretty much had everything I could ever dream of.