Page 2 of Mason

My cheeks flush. “Fuck.” I crouch and begin gathering the items fanned out at his feet—copies of my resume, pictures of Mason from magazines and trade journals, articles about the company’s humble beginnings through to its current stature as one of the most reputable hedge funds not only in The Big Apple, but around the world.

The weight of his stare burns through my shirt and into my skin. Jesus. It’s as if my entire body has burst into flames, and no matter how fast I grab at my paperwork, an oppressive heat continues to penetrate the air. It’s stifling. Claustrophobic.

I stretch across the floor to retrieve the last newspaper clipping, but Mason’s foot shifts and pins it in place. The energy shifts. My pulse quickens. He bends to pick the clipping off the ground. I hold my breath while he stares at it, his pale eyes turning to ice.

“I can explain,” I say, voice trembling.

He doesn’t give me the chance. The elevator pings, the door opens. Mason stiffly hands me the article and exits, without so much as a backward glance.

Damn it. Thirty seconds in an elevator and I’ve already blown it.

Fuck my life.

Chapter 2

I settle into a plush white chair appointed to me by the blonde receptionist who sits straight and perfect behind her desk, doing some elaborate task I couldn’t begin to guess. Still rattled by my brief encounter with Mason, I study her profile, looking for some flaw that will make me stop judging myself. There’s nothing, which makes me feel even more like a catty little bitch.

But come on! Has she plucked that look right from the pages of ForbesWoman?

The girl is so immaculate, she might as well be air brushed. I’m practically a slob next to her, which is probably the reason she regarded me with such cool disdain before pointing me to a small seating area with about as much personality as a gnat. Behind a glass wall to my left, a dozen or more cubicles bustle with silent commotion. I imagine phones ringing, competing with the white noise of animated chatter about stock markets, mergers, and trade opportunities. My pulse thrums with anticipation. I need this job. Any job. Two months out of college and I’m still on the hunt.

Unacceptable. I graduated top of my class.

And after that pathetic stunt in the elevator, this looks like the beginning of another underwhelming result in my increasingly frantic job search.

Why, why, why did I bring along that article about his personal fucking tragedy?

Sure, I didn’t think he’d be reading my stash of research and articles, but still…it was a needless oversight and I am paying dearly for it.

I smooth out a wrinkle from my skirt and begin to worry about the freshness of my blouse. I flare my nostrils, trying to detect the musky odor of sweat, but instead I smell only the sweet mix of lavender and vanilla bean. Not quite fresh as a daisy, but it will have to do.

My gaze flits back to the receptionist. Her ear is pressed to her shoulder, telephone tucked under her chin, while she taps at the keyboard of her tablet. Her eyes are almost as big as her breasts—and that’s saying a lot. I glance down at my own chest, which although voluptuous, does not have the teeny tiny waist too go along with it that the gorgeous receptionist possesses. Quickly dismissing thoughts of inadequacy with a subtle headshake. Christ. This isn’t a casting call for a porn flick.

I set the folder of research on my lap and grab one of the investment magazines from the side table. Mason Wood stares at me from the cover, flanked by his childhood friends and business partners, Lucas Hammer and Holden Quinn. No question all three could pose for GQ, but there’s something primal about Mason that makes my stomach twist into knots.

“Mr. Wood will see you now,” the receptionist says, pulling my attention. Her gaze lands on the magazine and a knowing smirk crosses her ruby-glossed lips. “You’re smart to be nervous.”

I set the magazine on the table. “Oh, I’m not.” But my lie is betrayed by the sweat stain on the glossy paper, transferred from my clammy palms. Truthfully, I’m scared shitless.

That anxiety intensifies as I stand at the threshold of Mason Wood’s office—a stark cool expanse of white, silver, and shades of gray. No color, no character. Correction. Upon further inspection, I spot the items that have been placed on several shelves with the kind of reverence reserved for sacred things. A polished silver bust from the Terminator movies, the infamous mask from V is for Vendetta, gold shillings that appear plucked from the set of Pirates of the Caribbean.

“It’s all real,” Mason says, without bothering to look up. He takes a sip of coffee and gestures at a gray high-back chair in front of his glass desk. Behind him, skyscrapers rise up in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and stretch into a cloud-covered sky. “Everyone asks.”

Restless, I take a seat at the appointed chair and cross my legs, cringing at the unnaturally loud rasp of one stocking against another. Nervousness shakes through me. The last time I felt such trepidation was almost eighteen years ago, standing in the lobby of my childhood home, watching as my father lugged the last of his belongings into the moving van idling out front. A sense of numbness had washed over me as my mother explained that Dad was leaving us—had left us—for another woman, a whole other family.

My skin prickles with a similar kind of unease now.

Mason lifts his gaze and fuck if I don’t lose myself in those baby blues.

“I collect rare and expensive movie props,” he says. A small smirk forms in the corner of his heart-shaped mouth. “Though, I suppose you already know that.”

Damn the elephant in the room. I clear my throat. “About that—”

“I’m not interested in explanations,” he says, effectively cutting off my sentence with the sharpness of an axe.

I recoil at his tone, momentarily unable to respond. True, I didn’t necessarily make a solid first impression, but surely a smart businessman like Mason Wood wouldn’t make a rash assessment based on an unexpected two-minute interaction in the elevator? I exhale a deep breath. “Then what are you interested in, Mr. Wood?”

His eyebrow lifts. “Seems to me that’s also something you’d already know.”