I wake up the next morning feeling awful. My head is a fog of memories, good, bad and truly awful.

When I went to bed, all I could see was Weston. I replayed the night over and over in my head, wanting to relive so many parts of it. I had to remind myself that being with him was a fluke, entering and exiting my life all in one day. When I’m old and gray I can tell my grandkids that I once met the tycoon Weston Bridges. Maybe I’ll even mention having a drink with him, but I’ll certainly leave the rest out.

“Morning,” I say as I go to the kitchen to get coffee. Brody is already up and dressed, reading for another day in the mailroom. He’s made a fresh pot, which I reach for eagerly.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks.

“Muddy,” I say. “Like my head is in a fog or something.” I don’t tell him I feel asleep to the memories of Weston touching me.

“I was thinking,” he says. “We should do something tonight when I get off work. Happy hour or something. Or karaoke!”

“Um, I cannot sing,” I say.

“Singing is hardly the point. But we can do anything you want!”

“Thanks,” I say, giving him a weary smile as I pour some much-needed coffee into a mug I’m pretty sure was stolen from the diner on the corner. “I think I’m going to take today to reassess. I have to find a job and now it’s getting crucial. My bank account is looking thinner than a straw of hay.”

Brody laughs. “I take it to mean you’re low on cash.”

“Something like that,” I say. I don’t admit just how dire it is.

“So tonight will be on me,” he says. “My treat.”

“You don’t have to do all this,” I say.

“I know I don’t,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

“I promise I’m okay,” I say. “At least I will be as soon as I consume this cup of coffee. I need to scour the Internet for a job—at this point I’ll take anything, but I still want to find a job in publishing. The trick now is, finding one that isn’t under the Prerogative Media umbrella.”

“Good luck with that,” Brody says. “But if you change your mind, text me.”

“I will.” Just then, a phone rings. We both look at each other.

“Not mine,” Brody says, holding up his phone in his hand.

“Mine,” I say, and race to my room to find it. There’s no name on the caller ID but it’s from a two-one-two area code so it’s here in New York. I answer quickly, before they hang up. “Hello?”

“Mia Cassidy?”

“Yes, this is she.”

“I’m calling from Prerogative Publishing,” the woman says. “You had an interview here yesterday?”

“Yes,” I say, heart pounding, wondering what this could possibly be about. Maybe it’s the HR department filing a complaint against me because I went to a sex club with the company owner.

“We’d like you to come back to the office today,” she says. “Can you be here by ten?”

“Yes,” I say, glancing at the clock. “Yeah, of course. I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful. See you then.”

The line goes dead, and I’m standing there, phone to ear, in total disbelief.

Finally I walk back into the living room.

“Who was that?” Brody asks.

“Prerogative,” I say. “They want me to go back. Today, at ten. What do you think it means?” I can’t keep the smile from my face just thinking about walking in those halls. God, my dream is to go to work every day at a place I love, doing something that I think I might be good at. Working for Prerogative is still the ultimate dream job.

“Was that him?” Brody asks.

“No,” I say. “Some woman.” We don’t need to clarify who him is. It’s pretty clear, especially by the look on Brody’s face. He’s not pleased.

“So what are you going to do?”

“What do you mean? I’m going to get dressed and go.” What else would I do?

“Just, you know, be careful, Mia,” Brody says. “That guy is up to no good.”

I roll my eyes. “Thank you, Brody. But I’ll be fine.”

More than fine if I can actually get this job.

As Brody leaves I jump in the shower and clean myself up. I dig out another outfit (I really need to go shopping…if only I had the money). I do my hair and makeup to perfection. I want to look as good and professional as possible. My stomach is in knots wondering what’s going to happen, why they’re calling me back (it has to be good news, right?), and who I will be meeting with. Maybe the HR person I thought I was going to meet with yesterday will give me a proper interview. Maybe we won’t even talk about Weston. Maybe everything that happened last night will just fade into some sexy little memory.

I hope not, though. As crazy as it is, I want to see Weston again more than I want the job at his company…

When I walk into the offices of Prerogative, I feel bright and hopeful.

“Hi, Jen,” I say to the receptionist, proud of myself for remembering her name. “Not as frantic in here as yesterday, is it?”

Jen looks at me, her face revealing nothing except that she is not interested in my banter. “How can I help you?”

“Um, Mia Cassidy,” I say. “I have a ten o’clock.”

Jen looks at her monitor. “Oh. Right. Mia.”

Three words. Three sentences. Zero interest.

“That’s me,” I say.

She picks up the phone. “I have Mia Cassidy for—yes, sure. Thank you.”

She hangs up the phone and finally looks at me. “You can go back. You remember the way.” It’s not a question.

“To Weston—Mr. Bridges’ office?” I ask, feeling slightly confused.

“Yes,” she says, rolling her eyes at me. “Mr. Bridges’ office.”

I can feel myself blush for calling him by his first name. Does she know we went out last night? Does she know why he wants me back here?

Even if I didn’t remember the way back to his office I still wouldn’t tell Jen. As it is, I think I remember and start my way back, winding through the halls and past bunches of cubicles, everyone working hard and bustling. I pass by, and picture myself sitting in one of those cubicles, surrounded by files of great stories and leads.

Weston’s assistant leads me into his corner office.

“Mr. Bridges?” she says, calling his attention. He doesn’t look up from his computer. “Ms. Cassidy is here for you.”

“Come in, Mia,” he says without looking at me. “You can close the door,” he adds to the assistant, who does so without a word.

I walk slowly toward his desk, unsure of what is about to happen. Seeing him again makes the butterflies in my stomach dance. The hard lines of his jaw, his lips, so recently on my own, make my heart beat faster. As he finishes typing out something, I remember his fingers on my body, touching me like no one ever has before.

“Sit,” he says, nodding to the chair I’d sat in just twenty-four hours earlier. He finishes whatever he was working on and finally looks at me. “I want to give you another chance.”

I’m not sure if I heard him right. Another chance?

“Mr. Bridges, I—”

“I told you not to call me that,” he says. “At least for now, you can call me Weston.”

I don’t know what “for now” means in this case but I proceed anyway. “Weston, I…”

“It’s okay,” he says. “Tell me. Say what you’re thinking. You can tell me.”

I pause, gathering myself, his eyes still heavy on me like a weight, like pressure. “I want to try again too,” I say, pronouncing each word carefully, still afraid that we’re somehow not talking about the same thing.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“But,” I add, “remember: I don’t know anything about…you know.”

A smile creeps up on his face and I realize that, when he does smile, he looks more his age. More youthful.

“Is ‘you know’ a euphemism for something, Mia?” he asks, clearly teasing me.

I can’t help but nervously laugh at myself, at how prude I am. “I guess,” I say.

“So say it,” he says, challenging me. “If you’re going to do this job, write these stories, you need to say it. You don’t know anything about…what?”

I hold his gaze for a moment, my heart pounding like mad. I want this man like I’ve never even thought of wanting a man before. But it scares me, how little I know, and how much he surely does know. The task that seems impossible is me writing a story about sex or BDSM or something, and Weston not already knowing every single detail of what I report on firsthand. There’s no way I could ever inform him of anything new when it comes to sex.

“Mia,” he says, prompting me.

“I don’t know anything,” I say, “about…sex.”

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I can teach you. Would you like that, Mia?”

The thought has been brewing but now I’m really wondering—are we talking about reporting on sex, or having sex? I’m sure if I touched the skin on my face, I’d get burned. That’s how flushed I am.

I feel my head nodding yes to his question, because that’s the answer no matter the question. “Yes,” I say. “I would like that.” More than I think I realize in the moment.

“And you’re sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“I’m glad,” he says, so formal, so professional. “Then that’s what we’ll do. Of course, we’ll need some parameters. Agreed?”

“Okay,” I say, having no idea what kind of parameters are needed for such an agreement.

“We’ll take everything step by step,” he says. “But you must do as I say. Mia, it’s important that you agree to whatever I say.”

I bite on my lower lip, trying to hide the nervous smile from my face, the heat I’m feeling, the desire I’m feeling. This man knocks me off my feet even when I’m sitting down.

“Mr. Bridges, are you hitting on me?” I ask.

“The first rule,” he says, “is that you can’t question me. This is a very important rule, Mia. Can you agree to this?”

I’d agree to serving myself up on his desk right now. I’m pretty sure I’d do whatever he asked, no matter how embarrassed or shy I felt. Weston Bridges makes me want to explore the potentials of my body…and his as well.

“I agree,” I say. “When do we start?”

“That was a question, Mia.”

“Oh. Right…but sometimes I need to ask.”

“You do as I say, always. It’s much more simple,” he says in a commanding voice.

My nipples stiffen as my belly tightens and I’m suddenly flooded with wetness between my legs.

He keeps his eyes on me, making me squirm. He looks at me like he’s assessing me, like he’s deciding what’s the first thing he wants to do with me.

He rises from his desk and walks toward the door. He reaches for the door handle, but instead of turning it to open, he clicks a latch, locking the door.

He turns and says, “We start now.”

And then he comes towards me.