by Olivia Chase
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…”
Mason’s lips twitch. I look away long enough to draw in a steadying breath.
He rests his palms on the edge of his desk, and lowers his gaze to stare at me with implacable resolve.
His entire expression seems to say, you’re wasting my time.
You will never work for me.
Instead of intimidating me, it only fuels my resolve. I am not leaving this office without a fight.
“If you’d bothered to read my resume, you’d note that I always succeed when I should fail,” I tell him. My references will back that up, if Mason could just see past his stubbornness and give me a chance. I exhale fast. “I won’t bail when the going gets tough.” My voice quiets. “I thrive on challenge. It’s what fires me up. Give me the opportunity to show you that I won’t take the easy way out.”
His thin, well-shaped lips curve. “In other words, you like it rough?”
Chapter 3
The tone of his voice is so overtly sexual, an unfamiliar feeling begins to unravel from deep within my core, and it takes all my effort not to gasp aloud. I cross my legs, embarrassed by the unexpected tingle between my thighs. Positive that Mason can see exactly how his words have affected me, I try to avert my gaze. I can’t. I’m drowning under the icy depths of his stare. A chill reverberates along my skin.
I clear my throat. “Give me a shot.”
Daylight Holdings isn’t my only option—in fact, I’m still waiting to hear back on another interview. Solid company, well-respected CEO. A good job—but not the very cream of the crop.
This is the top of the mountain.
This is everything I aspire to.
Working for Mason Wood and becoming the best of the very best.
He watches me for a very long time, seeming to assess me anew. “Fine,” he says, suddenly, and rather casually.
Momentarily confused, I blink. “Fine?”
Mason pushes up off his desk and goes over to the window, hands in his pockets. He stares at the sprawling Financial District below while I unabashedly stare at his ass. It’s a damn fine ass, and for a moment, a brief distraction from the tornado of emotions wreaking havoc on my nerves.
“I’ll give you a chance to prove yourself, Miss Landers,” he says. “But—”
My stomach clenches.
“—not as a day trader. You’ll have to earn that. You’ll start as my personal assistant.”
I can feel the dread unfurling within my chest, and my cheeks flush with anger. To think he can snub his nose at my resume and offer me some kind of low level pity position? Fuck that. I’d rather work at McDonalds. “I’m over qualified for that job.”
Which is something he’d know if he bothered to actually interview me.
Mason turns around and leans up against the windowsill. Early morning sunlight cuts through the glass and forms a distorted halo around his hair. He may look like an Adonis, but his devilish grin is pure evil.
“My personal assistant makes more than most junior traders in this town,” he says. His eyebrows pinch together. “I assumed you’d be happy with any position in this company—within reason, of course.”
Restless energy thrums through me. I’m sweating bullets. “I didn’t apply for that job. I didn’t go to school—“
“Certainly, in all your research, you’ve learned that Daylight Holdings is not only the best hedge fund company in the state, but is also one of the top ten places in the world to work. And our benefits are beyond compare,” he purrs.
My pulse spi
kes. He’s not wrong. Still, the offer feels like a slight. I think back to the pretty receptionist operating the front desk, and try to remember if I’ve seen other women in the building. Is it possible my gender is more the issue here, rather than the qualifications he hasn’t bothered to ask about?
My spine stiffens. “Since you haven’t even glanced at my resume, I can’t help but wonder if there isn’t a bit of misogyny going on.”
Mason’s eyes harden. “I’d advise you to retract that statement. If you’d truly done your homework as thoroughly as you suggest, you’d know that Daylight Holdings employs more female traders than any other hedge fund across the globe.”
There’s an ominous undertone to his voice that makes my skin break out into goose bumps. Maybe I should back down, but my hackles are on full alert. “Must be nice to have a personal harem around.”
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.
A couple months’ worth of the rent paid for up front with money I scrimped and saved throughout college, pocketing whatever loose change didn’t go into textbooks or coffee. New York isn’t cheap, even in the less glamorous parts of the city.
I shovel a spoonful of ice cream into my mouth and let it melt on my tongue, allowing the chocolate to slide down my throat and soothe the burn of rejection. I chase it with a long sip of wine, and then another bite of fudge.
My mind inadvertently wanders back to Mason Wood, to his strong, chiseled jaw. I have an itch to run my fingers through the coarse texture of his beard, and trace the outline of his lips. A fluttering sensation crawls up my sternum. A guy like Mason Wood would never pay even an ounce of attention to me.
I’m an average looking girl with too many curves and not nearly enough experience or confidence to even qualify for a notch on his bedpost. I slug back a long pull of wine.
I throw my feet up on the coffee table and flex my toes. The jagged run in my nylons starts at my chipped toe nails and travels all the way up to my knee. Your get what you pay for, Liv. Current fashion status: dollar store chic. That same dollar store is also where I picked up my bigger utensils—spatula, soup ladle, tongs—tissue-thin toilet paper, and boxes of Mac and Cheese long past their expiry date.
Living the dream.
The trill of my phone pulls me out of self-pity.
I consider ignoring it, but I foolishly cling to the hope that Mr. Dalton has changed his mind, or that Mason Wood climbed off hi
s high horse long enough to read my damn resume. But the voice on the other end of the line belongs to my half-sister, Renee, and despite my misery, my mood instantly improves.
“Liv, I got in!”
She is breathless, weightless, an eighteen-year-old high school graduate with barely a care in the world. The weight on my shoulders lifts, if only for a moment. “NYC?”
Renee snickers. “Obviously.” Her squeal reverberates through the line, and a ghost of a smile curls my lip up. I imagine her standing in her pink bedroom, jewel-crested phone clutched in her fist, and a wide smile plastered across her porcelain face. A smile that is identical to my father’s—and nothing like Mom’s. “I’m coming to New York. Can you believe it?” she squeals.
Her enthusiasm is infectious. “You sure The Big Apple can handle you?” I laugh.
Beneath the joke lays a thin thread of truth. Because while I am quiet and studious like my mother, Renee is a firecracker on the Fourth of July. I’m drawn to her in spite of—or perhaps because of—our differences, even though I have more than enough reason not to like her.
Renee is the only positive thing that came out of my father’s affair eighteen years ago. And while my resentment for him and his now-wife hangs off me like a lingering ghost, I feel nothing but unabashed love for my half-sister. “Tell me you got the scholarship.”
Her voice raises a pitch. “They loved my design, Liv. Loved it.”
I’m not surprised. Renee has been stitching clothes together since Dad bought her a sewing machine for her thirteenth birthday. What started as a hobby became a passion, and though most of her clothes are a bit more risqué than I’d wear, I can appreciate the aesthetics. “Will you live in the dorms?”
“That’s still up in the air,” she says, quietly.
