Page 5 of Mason

It’s true I missed the gender equity statistics, but I know all about Mason’s personal reputation. He and his partners are notorious womanizers. Mason’s virtual rolodex is probably crammed with names and contact information of his many, many conquests. Models, musicians, actresses. An unexpected pang of jealousy squeezes around my heart at the thought of those other women commanding his interest so much more easily than myself.

Mason’s scowl deepens. “Take it or leave it,” he says, with a nonchalance that’s laced in venom. “It’s not what you came for, but it’s a job. A damn good job.” He turns again to the window. “And if you prove yourself in the position, there may be opportunities for you to transition over to trading within the year.”

My stomach fills with hopeful butterflies that are quickly silenced when he adds, “Providing you have what it takes.”

My head starts to spin.

The job—no matter how demeaning—is better than bankruptcy, and that’s what I’m facing if I don’t get my shit together. But what about all that schooling I’ll be letting go to waste? I imagine the pride draining from my mother’s face as I tell her about the offer, and it’s enough to activate the voice of reason.

I swallow hard. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass.”

The words stick a little in my throat, but once they’re out, I shake off the last of my reservations and stand firm. Working for Daylight Holdings would be an impressive checkmark on my list of goals and dreams—but not as personal assistant to Mason Wood. I’m not willing to stoop to being a glorified secretary, even if it is for the most gorgeous, fearsome trader in the world.

Besides, there’s still a chance I’ll land a job at that other firm, and if not there, somewhere else. New York isn’t the only city. Hell, the U.S. isn’t the only country. Taking the position Mason offers would be a giant step backward—and I’m only interested in going forward. Preferably in leaps and bounds. I’m talented. At least, that’s what my shiny new degree is supposed to prove.

Mason sits in his chair and leans back, hands steepled over his toned stomach. And fuck me if I’m not imagining the muscle definition I’d find if I slipped my fingers under that tight cotton shirt. God, I’m pathetic.

“I admit, that isn’t the answer I expected, Miss Landers,” he says. “But perhaps it’s for the best.” He reaches around and puts both hands behind his neck, flexing his pecs in the process. “Your rigidity and caution even in this circumstance further demonstrate that you don’t have the right temperament to be a trader.” His lips purse. “As I indicated earlier, you’d be eaten alive.”

The words sting. I blink back tears, grateful when Mason turns his attention to the paperwork on his desk. I stand, I brush off my skirt, gather my purse, and clear my throat, carefully forming my words. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wood,” I say, forcing a confidence I don’t feel. The truth is, his assessment is on point, and suddenly I can’t get out of there fast enough. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge me with a nod.

Asshole.

Chapter 4

Ben & Jerry’s doesn’t make a vat of ice cream big enough for me to drown my sorrows in, so I opt for a pint of Chocolate Fudge Brownie and grab a bottle of cheap wine before heading back to my studio apartment in the grungy Meat Packing District.

I insert my key and hip check the door open far enough to slide inside. Two weeks ago, I left the landlord a nice but firm note about my broken door, but I’m just one in a long list of tenants waiting for some kind of repair in a building that is two inspections shy of being condemned.

I’m barely in the door when my house phone starts to ring. I drop my bags and trip over the lifted edge of the stained carpet to get to it in time. I breathe heavy into the receiver. “Hello?”

The line crackles. “Miss Landers? This is Zoey from Venture Capital.”

My pulse skips. “Yes?”

“Mr. Dalton wanted me to thank you for your interest, but I’m afraid we’ve decided to go with another candidate.”

My heart sinks. “Oh, I see.”

Zoey’s voice lifts. “I know it’s not the answer you’d hoped for, but Mr. Dalton wanted you to know that he was impressed with your resume and is confident you’ll find employment at another firm.”

“Thank you,” I say, with as much enthusiasm as a prisoner on death row finding out their pardon from the governor didn’t come through.

My eyes brim with tears. Damn it. I was so sure I’d nailed that interview. Venture Capital isn’t Daylight Holdings, but it’s one of the top five hedge funds in the state. The other four turned me down. Correction. Three flat out rejected me, one offered me a position—as Mason Wood’s fucking personal assistant.

I pull a dirty wine glass out of the sink and rinse out last night’s Merlot, replacing it with a sweeter Cabernet-Sauvignon, and dig a spoon out of the cutlery drawer, inspecting for ants. Last week, I caught a cockroach lounging in my bathtub and screamed like I was being chased by Freddy Krueger.

With my wine and ice cream at hand, I flop down on the sofa bed I scrounged from Craigslist my first day in the city. My ass hits one of the springs and I flinch.

Was I stupid to turn down a position at Daylight Holdings?

Ummm….I think that has to be a confirmed “hell, yes” at this point.

My eyes flit between the paint peeling off the drywall to the water-stained popcorn ceiling. A framed picture of me and Mom on the bookshelf is my most prized possession. Everything else is replaceable, just junk.

In fact, I hate everything about this apartment—except that it’s mine.