I had been regretting the book ever since my publicist brought it up. The last thing I wanted to do was have some random person following me around, writing down whatever I said and spinning it into some sort of a narrative – one that either made me look like a dick or a saint. Neither of which I was interested in being seen as.

And after three days of interviews with ghostwriters who showed up acting as if they already knew me, I was more than ready to have Mrs. Reynolds cancel the remaining meetings. Until I found Ms. Libby Hanson sitting outside my office.

The curvaceous redhead looked nothing like the twenty or so other ghostwriters I’d seen that week. She looked nothing like anyone else I’d ever met. It was hard to tell if it was the riotous curls or the charming freckles or the lush lips or her mouthwatering curves, but suddenly I was very, very interested in this woman following me around. Or vice versa.

But the last thing I had time for in my life was women. Or even just a single woman. So I set my jaw in a hard line and made my expression neutral. If I had learned anything in the years running a multi-million dollar company, it was how to maintain a poker face.

“Ms. Hanson, I presume.” I held out a hand.

She blinked and then surged to her feet, taking my hand in a strong, firm handshake.

“Please, call me Libby,” she told me, her expression open and unpretentious.

“I’d prefer we keep things more formal,” I told her. “Ms. Hanson.”

I could see the surprise cross her face.

“Of course,” she quickly recovered. “It’s nice to meet you Mr. Willis.”

I was used to seeing that expression. Some people found it obnoxious that I was a stickler for formalities like that, something that I had learned from my mentor. I had learned a lot of things from Rob, but the one I had taken the most to heart was creating a distance between one’s personal and professional lives. Everyone I worked with called me Mr. Willis, even if I was only a few years older than them – the case with most people in an office with employees in their late twenties, early thirties – or if I was over forty years younger than them – as was the case with my incredibly efficient and gifted secretary, Mrs. Reynolds.

Rob taught me that it was vital that I set the tone of the office. I learned a lot from him, and mirrored his work ethic in a lot of ways, or tried to. I knew that without his guidance, I wouldn’t have gotten half as far as I did. That I might have had the brains for technology, but he had given me the tools to ensure I did something with the technology I created.

“A team is worth shit without someone to lead it” was one of his more colorful sayings and one I took to heart.

Which is why it was important that I always made it clear that I was the boss. Sometimes that meant people didn’t like me. I knew that I had a reputation for being cold and distant, for having high standards and offering blunt assessments when I felt it was necessary. But my employees were some of the most talented people in the country, and I made sure to reward good work. It just so happened that those rewards came in the form of bonuses and vacations instead of hugs and handshakes. I offered promotions, not praise. And I had never wavered from that philosophy.

Which is why I couldn’t, for the life of me, understand why for a brief moment I had considered responding to her with “you can call me Jack.” Or why I had felt a jolt of lust when my hand had touched Libby’s. There was no doubt that she was an attractive woman – extremely attractive, in fact – but I didn’t let things like attraction or lust distract me for anything. There was a time and place for everything, and I never, ever, mixed business with pleasure. But something about Libby made me want to throw out all my rules. At least for an hour or two.

I gestured for her to head into my office.

She bent to grab her purse and I couldn’t help taking a peek at her…assets. And they were considerable. Even in her draped, flouncy dress, it was obvious that she had curves in all the right places. In those bright colors and flowy clothes, she would have stood out anywhere, but she definitely stood out in this office, where most people dressed the way I did – in black or blue suits.

There had been plenty of ink spilled about my unoriginal clothing choices. Plenty of ink spilled about my completely unimportant and uninteresting personal preferences. And I knew people assumed that it was because I wanted to give the air of professionalism, which I did, but it was also because the last thing I wanted to waste my brainpower on was picking out clothes in the morning. So I had two dozen identical suits in different muted shades and knew that no matter what suit or tie I pulled from my closet, it would match. It was just easier that way. And when nothing else in my life was easy, it was nice that my clothes weren’t something I had to worry about.

Clearly Ms. Hanson – Libby – didn’t feel the same way about the way she dressed. And I was grateful for that because she was like a breath of fresh air. Like a flower blooming out of a crack in concrete. Something I hadn’t even been aware I was missing.

“I’m so embarrassed,” she said as we walked into my office, pulling me out of my unusually self-reflective thoughts.

“Embarrassed?” I gestured for her to sit. I knew I made people uncomfortable or nervous – and, according to the tabloids, turned on – but embarrassed?

“I was hoping to make a good impression,” she said with a smile.

Oh, you did, I wanted to say, unable to stop my gaze from sweeping over her. But if she noticed, she made no indication, gesturing towards her bag.

“Instead you came out to find me talking to myself. About knitting.” She gave a little shrug, which did amazing things to her ample chest which was barely covered by a nearly sheer scarf. “I wish I could say that I don’t usually talk to myself about knitting, but that would be a lie.”

I bit back a smile. Even though I was immediately charmed, in business, and in life, I had learned it was best to keep your true thoughts under wraps. It hadn’t exactly been my ex-wife’s favorite trait of mine, but it had served me well when it came to my work.

Clearing my throat, I leaned back in my chair, trying not to stare at her chest. Or her mouth. Or anything, really. Focus, Willis, I told myself. The last thing you want is for some writer-wannabe to catch you undressing her with your eyes. That was exactly the type of thing I wanted to keep out of the press. So far I’d been successful in keeping my personal life out of the news, but agreeing to do this book felt like tempting fate.

But even if I decided against doing the book, Libby was here now. The least I could do was interview her.

“It says on your résumé that you’ve mostly written craft manuals,” I noted, looking over the CV that had been provided for me.

She nodded. “I would probably consider them more guides than manuals,” she corrected.

“Is there a difference?” I asked.

She gave another sexy little shrug. “Manuals just sounds so official,” she explained. “Like suggesting there’s just one way something can be created and completed.”

“And there isn’t just one way?”

We clearly had very different views regarding those kind of things. Not only did I believe that there was one right way to do things, but I always made sure that my way was the right way. It was the reason I was as successful as I was. Find the problem and fix it. Find what’s wrong and make it right.

She laughed, the sound like little bright bells. “Oh no,” she said. “Not when it comes to the things I write about, like knitting and painting and gardening and creative things like that. Though I’m sure it’s different in your line of work.”

Libby glanced around the office as if looking for something, and it was then that I realized that she had absolutely no idea what I did. Or who I was. Even though I knew I shouldn’t, I found it incredibly endearing. And completely different from all of the other unbearable interviews I’d sat through.

“Well, we do have different ways of approaching a problem here,” I told her. I kept my comments purposefully vague, wondering if she would own up to her lack of knowledge. Part of me hoped that she wouldn’t. “But in the end, we try to come up with the same result. Doesn’t do us much good if each product is different.”

“Of course,” Libby’s expression was bright. “It’s very different in the arts,” she waved her hands emphatically. “No one wants uniformity there.”

“Of course,” I placed my hands on my desk, watching her.

She blinked at me, and I could practically see the wheels in her head moving.

“You have no idea what I do, do you?” I asked her point blank. No point beating around the bush for much longer. And I was curious how she’d react. Most people would stutter and immediately deny their lack of knowledge.

I wasn’t surprised when Libby’s reaction was different. Everything about her was different.

She laughed, the sound a little nervous and little sheepish. “I don’t, I’m sorry,” she confessed. “I don’t like to come so unprepared, but I’m afraid no one was very forthcoming with details about the job. Just that someone needed a ghostwriter.”

“Only you didn’t know who that someone was,” I leaned back, watching her.

I couldn’t help it. There was something about her that captivated me. And I was the kind of man that paid attention when my gut told me to. I wouldn’t have gotten as far as I had if I hadn’t developed a pretty damn good set of instincts. And my instincts were saying that Libby Hanson deserved a closer look.

Two red spots had appeared on her cheeks. “I’m afraid to say I didn’t know who you were when I walked in. And I still don’t.”

Even my name hadn’t sparked any recognition. Either Libby had been living under a rock for the past few years or she just didn’t travel in the kind of circles that discussed the latest tech inventions. Or the latest millionaire gossip mill. It was incredibly refreshing. Everyone else I had interviewed for the ghostwriter job had nearly fallen over themselves, quoting other articles or pieces that had been written about me, trying to impress me. And that was if they were men. If they were women, they tended to start batting their eyelashes and making unsubtle attempts to display various body parts. Even though it had been happening for years – ever since my name and photo were on the cover of Forbes – I still couldn’t get used to women throwing themselves at me with such aggression. I’d always been lucky with the ladies, but the fame and the money made it out of control. I didn’t like fawning, I just found it annoying. And I really didn’t want to work with someone who was going to try to flatter and butter me up, even if it was for the sake of the book. A book that I had been loathe to write in the first place. I hated talking about myself. I wanted to talk about the work, about what I wanted to accomplish, not which supermodel I was rumored to be dating or all the money I was making. My personal life was just that – personal. And I intended to keep that side of me out of the press and out of this book.

Which is why I found Libby’s lack of information appealing, and I saw the opportunity to avoid the usual pitfalls I often found when being interviewed. She didn’t know me, didn’t know my reputation. She would be able to approach this book without any preconceived notions. Without any agenda. It could actually be about the work, and not about me.

For the first time the book didn’t seem like the worst idea ever.

“You’re hired,” I told her.