Page 3 of Mason

My spine stiffens. “As my resume indicates—”

“I don’t need your resume,” Mason interrupts. “I already know you’re not a fit for Daylight Holdings. You lack…” His tongue flicks over his bottom lip, serpent-like. “Killer instinct.”

Heat flushes to my cheeks. What a crock of shit. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but at least the other companies had the decency to review my resume before sucker punching me with cold rejection. “You haven’t even heard my qualifications or asked me about previous experience.”

Limited, at best, but he doesn’t know that.

“We’ve established you’re clumsy,” he says.

“It was an accident,” I say, voice leaden with frustration. An accident he won’t allow me to explain or apologize for. “Perhaps your job advertisement should be re-written to reflect your impossible standards.”

A low blow, perhaps. But I know his cool demeanor has nothing to do with my lack of grace—it’s that among the documents of research about his business acumen and the company’s success, I also printed off an article recounting the very public, very tragic incident from his past.

More than a decade ago, Mason and his business partners—then close friends at a small high school in rural Maine—became the lone survivors of a random shooting that resulted in the grisly massacre of their entire student class, as well as a respected and much admired teacher.

The partners have remained quiet about the details of that dark period in their lives, but the story surfaces whenever Daylight Holdings surpasses a new corporate record or makes the news somehow. It’s almost as though those three young boys channeled their grief into building one of the most successful businesses in the world.

But even I know that no amount of zeroes in your bank account can ease the sharp pain of heartache.

I bite into my lower lip, assessing just how to approach this. “I’m really sorry if that article brought up feelings—” Mason’s head whips around so fast it could rival that chick from The Exorcist. I swallow hard and keep going. “I wanted to be as prepared as possible for the interview, and I printed off anything that seemed relevant…”

His eyes harden.

“I didn’t intend for you to see it,” I say, lamely.

Mason runs his tongue along the top of his teeth. His jaw twitches. “My decision not to hire you has nothing to do with the article,” he says, gruffly. “It’s the fact that you needed to bring that research with you at all.”

He stands, towering over me, and walks around his desk, eyes searing through my clothes; a hungry predator sizing up his prey. My stomach summersaults.

“You think you’re demonstrating preparedness?” he says, circling me. The question is rhetorical so I don’t bother answering. My blood pounds in the ensuing silence. “It shows that you don’t trust yourself.”

I struggle to sit upright when all I want to do is shrink under his admonishment. His assessment isn’t all wrong.

“And in this business,” he says, scowling. “You’ll be eaten alive.”

A lump of nervousness swells in my throat.

“If you were truly prepared, and had wanted to make a good impression on me, you would have memorized your research, instead of bringing it along for back up.”

My breath releases slowly, like a leaking tire. I want to look away but the truth is, he’s struck a chord. I’ve studied the materials, and can recite facts and statistics without prompt, but at the last minute, I decided to take the paperwork with me. Just in case. A precautionary measure that backfired miserably. “It’s true, I’ve always been considered an over planner.”

The confession does nothing to soften Mason’s expression. “You’re too careful,” he says.

I nod.

“And careful isn’t what we need here, Miss Landers.” He leans up against his desk and folds his arms across his broad chest. The gesture makes his biceps flex, darkening the veins that highlight his muscle tone. “I expect my team to be prepared to do things that are outside the boundaries of convention. Our employees are decisive, bold. They don’t need someone to tell them they’re doing a good job. They believe it.”

My mouth goes dry. “That isn’t why I had my notes.”

“Oh?” he says, sounding somehow bored.

Fuck, I despise the weakness in my voice, the desperation that’s just further proving his point. “I have memorized everything,” I say, careful not to expose how my investigation comes precariously close to obsessive. “I probably know more about Daylight Holdings than half the employees here.” His jaw tenses, and still I push forward. “I brought my materials for comfort, to have something tangible to hold on to, to refer to. How does that make me a liability?”

Mason brushes his hand across his rugged jaw, and my eyes are drawn to his lips. I imagine them up against mine, and a quiver of desire trickles down my spine. There’s something so compelling about the way his mouth moves, even when his words prick at my self-doubt like freshly sharpened needles.

“Successful traders have to be incredibly reliant and trustworthy,” he says. “A real trader would never have come in for an interview carrying all of that garbage around like a fucking security blanket.”

My pulse ratchets up. “With all due respect, Mr. Wood, I think you’ve too easily dismissed my potential value to your company.” I’ve obviously blown my shot, but the only thing more unpredictable than a woman with limited resources is one with nothing to lose. I steel myself for confrontation. “I get it, I’m young and inexperienced, but what if that was an asset instead of a liability? I’ve been underestimated my whole life…”