by Paige North
Table of Contents
Dirty Filthy Billionaire (Part One)
Dirty Filthy Billionaire (Part One) by Paige North
Want To Be In The Know?
Mia
Weston
Dirty Filthy Billionaire (Part One)
Paige North
Favor Ford Publishing
Copyright © 2018 by Favor Ford Publishing
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Want To Be In The Know?
Dirty Filthy Billionaire (Part One) by Paige North
1. Mia
2. Weston
3. Mia
4. Weston
5. Mia
6. Weston
7. Mia
8. Weston
9. Mia
Want To Be In The Know?
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Dirty Filthy Billionaire (Part One) by Paige North
Mia
This is my dream job.
My dream job, located in everyone’s dream city: New York.
People say that kind of thing all the time, but for me it’s actually true. The only problem?
I don’t have the job yet and I know for a fact that there are literally hundreds of other young women, just like me in nearly every way, who would do just about anything to work for Blush Magazine.
I’ve been reading it since I was thirteen, obsessed with everything about it from the fashion to the great profile stories. I’d be lucky if they let me deliver the issues to the newsstand, but seeing as I have a shiny new college degree in journalism, I’m hoping I can, by some miracle, end up writing or editing.
I dab my forehead with a napkin I find buried in my bag.
It is hot. Freaking sweltering. This may sound dumb but no one told me how muggy New York City is. It’s not even ten in the morning and already my shirt is sticking to my back, and there’s a thin line of sweat on my forehead. Not great when I’m on my way to make a stellar first impression.
I’ve only been in New York a month and I have to admit that it’s a bit overwhelming. I’m from a small town and went to college in a medium town, and New York is on a whole other level.
Looking at my reflection in the dirty office window, I touch up my face with a little powder, add some lipstick, smooth down my hair and hope for the best. I hobble the last block to the building, check in with security, and take a deep breath as the elevator sucks me up to the sixty-fifth floor.
As I walk toward the glass doors of the magazine from the elevators I can see people rushing past, seemingly frantic. The quick pace of publishing, I assume.
“I'm Mia Cassidy,” I tell the pretty receptionist.
“Put him in Mark’s old office,” she calls to someone who just rounded the corner out of sight. “And ask him if he wants water or coffee! I’m sorry, who are you?” she finally says, looking at me.
“Mia Cassidy,” I say, shifting on my sore, blistered feet. “I have a ten o’clock appointment.”
“Oh, the interview girl, right,” she says, typing on her computer. “There you are. You picked a hell of a day to show up.”
I don’t know what she means, but her comment makes me feel like I’ve already screwed up just by being here at this time and day. “Is everything—“
But she has no time for my questions, she’s already onto the next task. “Go have a seat over there and someone will be out to get you.”
“Thanks,” I say, still feeling frazzled from my hot walk over.
I sit on a white leather sofa and take a deep breath. I just need a little break, a tiny bit of kindness to help calm me down. I wonder if such a person exists in Manhattan?
I kind of hope the person who is interviewing me is behind schedule. I could use the extra minutes to cool down and literally let the sweat dry from my back. Not to mention I need to calm my mind. I don’t want to go into the interview reeking of desperation. I need the money and want the job more than anything. But I shouldn’t let them know that.
“Jen, do you have those printouts?” a woman about my age asks the receptionist. She practically crashes into the desk she seems like she’s in such a rush.
“Yes, right here,” Jen says. “They’ve been here for almost three minutes—he’s going to flip.”
“Just hand them over,” she says, and Jen thrusts a stack of papers to her. She turns to scramble back to wherever when she was headed, but stumbles and all the papers fly out of her hands like a comedy sketch. Except these girls aren’t laughing.
“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” the girl says as she crouches down to gather all the papers. “He’s going to kill me. Then fire me. I’m dead.”
I go to help her, picking up the papers that flew farthest from her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she says. “But thank you so much.”
“No problem,” I say. “Is it always this chaotic here?”
“Only when our jobs are at stake,” she says.
“What do you mean?” I ask, wondering if this some Survivor-style office where you have to fight for your job every day.
“Are you here to interview or something?” she says, briefly looking me over as she stacks the papers in her hands.
“Yeah,” I say. “I just graduated with a degree in journalism and—”
“Do you read the news? Because shit is going down here. Last one hired, first one fired. I’m surprised they didn’t cancel your appointment.”
I sit back on my heels as my stomach drops. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”
She takes the papers from my hand and stands up. “Our parent company has been bought out effective immediately.”
“Someone bought out Prerogative Media?” I ask, feeling like my whole world is spinning now. Blush Magazine, as well as a whole host of other companies, fall under the umbrella of Prerogative Media, but if someone bought the parent company, then everyone at Blush is at risk.
The entire magazine could be shut down, in theory.
“Not just someone,” she replies darkly. “Weston Bridges. And if you don’t know who he is I suggested you stand up and walk out the door right now. And if you still have your interview,” she says, hardly even looking at me, “then good luck. You’re going to need it.”
“Rachel, hurry!” Jen snaps. “He’s waiting!”
Rachel, who now has all the pages she came out for, clicks quickly across the shiny floors and into the back. I slowly stand up and make my way back to the couch.
I wish I’d had a second to tell that Rachel girl that of course I know who Weston Bridges is. He’s a self-made billionaire who hasn’t even cracked the age of thirty yet.
He’s also a notorious playboy who happens to be super sexy too. I bet he’s a total asshole—and by the way everyone is racing around the office, I’m sure I’m right.
I just have to hope that I impress whatever HR person I’m interviewing with, and get in before there are any layoffs. People who buy companies love to lay off a quarter of the staff to help reboot the energy and start somewhat fresh. In a company this big, I’ll probably never even have to see him.
If I get the job, of course, which would be a miracle.
I feel like I’ve been sitting waiting to be called for hours. The sweat on my back has finally dried b
ut my shirt is still sticky and I really hope I don’t smell. I wonder if I have time to go to the bathroom and maybe dab myself with a cool paper towel when a young man calls my name.
“Yes, that’s me,” I say, standing up.
“He’s ready for you. You can follow me.”
I pick up my bag, stand on my sore feet, and put on my best, most confident face, despite the turmoil that is happening in my mind and body. I desperately need and want this job. I just hope that whoever this HR guy is, he’s forgiving for my lack or real-world journalism experience.
Weston
I have to admit that buying a company worth more than a billion dollars is a fucking aphrodisiac. I feel like I can do anything, take on anyone right now. The view from this corner office is outstanding—Freedom Tower, Hudson River, Statue of Liberty, New Jersey, and all the small little buildings beneath us. It feels good to be on top.
First thing I did this morning was I let some poor sap named Mark Something have the day off—and every day in the foreseeable future—and then I promptly moved into his stellar office. I may be two years shy of thirty, but I know dead weight when I see it, and that guy Mark was sitting in this chair like a fat hog doing nothing but collecting his six-figure paycheck (with the six-figure annual bonus…for doing his freaking job) and leaving early every Thursday for his house in the Hamptons.
I look at my watch. It’s been two hours since I told him he didn’t work here anymore. I wonder if his place in Sag Harbor is on the market yet. Maybe I could buy it.
“Mr. Bridges?” I hear Cameron, my new frightened assistant, ask from the doorway.
“What is it?” I ask, slightly annoyed. The view out the window is great, but the one on the computer is even better—all the new things I own. The magazine, the television stations, the book publishing division…it’s all mine now. Jesus, it’s sexy.
“Your ten o’clock is here,” Cameron says. She consults her notes. “Mia Cassidy.”
“Well what is she here for?” I hope Cameron has cab fare because if she’s this terrible of an assistant she might be following ol’ Mark out the door.
“She came through HR with that pile of other applicants. You tossed them all but told Helen you wanted to interview this one yourself?”
“Oh, right,” I say. I don’t want to make a bunch of new hires but I kept this resume because the girl is so green I figure we could get her for cheap. Everyone else who came through HR had too much experience and would want too much money. This Mia girl just graduated from some Podunk college and is surely desperate for work, so I thought I’d bring her in, interview her myself. Not something I would normally do but hey, it’s my party and I want to have a little fun today.
“Send her in,” I tell Cameron.
I’ve got my eyes glued to the computer, watching the stock prices of Prerogative rise and picture that money going in my pocket. It’s a good day to be me.
From the corner of my eye I see a figure walk in through the door and sit in one of the sleek leather chairs in front of my desk. I pull up this person’s resume on the computer and look through her (very limited) credentials.
Without looking up I say, “Mia Cassidy?”
“Yes, hi,” I hear her say. “That’s me. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”
I grumble. She won’t think so by the time she leaves this office.
“Looks like you have very limited experience in journalism,” I say, eyes glued to the computer.
“I was the editor of my school paper,” she says. “And I was the lead reporter for the story that exposed high levels of sodium in school lunches in the county.”
“Sodium, huh?” I say, and I feel like I have to check myself—I just might laugh out loud. “Well, it is the silent killer.”
“Actually, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I look up at her. “That’s hypertension.”
I’m staring at this woman and for a splash of a second, I forget myself—but only for a second. She—Mia is a real, live hottie. And…is that sweat on her forehead? There is something about a woman sweating that is hot as hell. Maybe it’s because I can picture her fucking when I look at that sweat beading on her forehead.
She’s got on some silk blouse that is open low on her chest, exposing her demure but beautiful cleavage. I don’t need a lot, just as long as it’s proportionate to the body, and this girl’s got it. She shifts in the chair, crossing her legs, which are smooth and tanned. Unfortunately I spot the cheap shoes on her feet. From across the desk I can see the wrinkled plastic of the shoe, meant to fool people into thinking it’s leather, and the scuffed heel. I may have grown up on a farm with a son of a bitch of a father, but he taught me one useful thing: If you’ve got a little money, spend it all on one good pair of shoes.
“Get yourself a good pair of boots,” he’d say, “and they’ll last you ten years.”
Clearly this Mia doesn’t even have little money. Or a little experience. Sodium levels? Oh, man. This is going to be so easy.
“Well, Mia,” I say, looking her right in her eyes, “we’re not here to write about hypertension. We’re here to write about sex.”
“I’m sorry, what?” she stammers.
“Blush is getting a new angle,” I tell her. “A sexier angle. Does that make you uncomfortable?”
“No,” she says, but her voice quivers on that one syllable. She tugs on her skirt, her eyes darting away from mine.
“If I were to assign you a story with a sex angle, what do you think you’d write about?”
Talk about blush—her face and chest immediately turn a deep pink, washing across her skin like ink in water. I have to casually move my hand across my mouth to keep from laughing.
“Well, um,” she begins, looking around the office as if a clue might appear. “Maybe I could do something on the dangerous number of young—”
“Stop,” I say. “Listen to me. The only way I want to hear the word danger in a story about sex is if it’s about spicing up a sex life. Doing naughty things agreed upon by the couple. Did I not just say that Blush is getting a sexier angle?”
“Ye-yes, sir,” she says. Sir. God, I love it. She’s squirming like crazy and probably can’t wait to leave. I give her three more minutes before she runs out of here.
“So?” I say, not letting her off the hook. “What else? Pitch me something else. Something sexy.”
I sit back in my chair and wait. Mia tugs on her dress again, shifting in the chair.
“Um, in college I did a lot of human interest stories? That focused on people?”
Oh, boy. I shake my head no. My eyes bore into her, waiting for something better.
“Maybe something on different types of condoms?” she says.
“Mia,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk. “Think sexier. Surely you can do that, right? No disrespect, but I’m looking at you and I know it’s in you.”
She furrows her brows and asks, “What is?”
I raise my palms up like it should be obvious. “You had experiences in college I assume?”
“I’m not sure you can assume much of anything about me, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I’m taken aback—in a good way.
I can’t help the small grin crossing my face. “Is that so?” I ask. “Well, then. I apologize. But I do still need to hear some stronger ideas.”
“Of course,” she says. “But I’d like to hear more about the angle you’re taking the magazine. Surely there’s more to it than sex.”
“In my experience,” I say, “everything always comes back to sex.”
“That’s just not even possible,” she says. She’s clearly getting more comfortable—or braver, at least. I’m happy to hear her bat it back with me. The flush on her cheeks has faded and she’s finally making clear eye contact with me. Just her eyes alone are gorgeous, the way they look into mine. She licks her lips, waiting for me hit her back and now I’m the one shifting in my seat, looking at those plump wet lips.
“One thing I never
want to hear another person say, Ms. Cassidy, is that something is impossible. We could do a makeup column, and that makeup column leads back to sex. Everything the magazine prints will have a sexy angle to it, even if it’s subtle.”
“Is that what you think women care about? I mean, only care about?” she asks.
“Sex? I think they care about it a fair amount. You don’t?”
She shrugs one shoulder. “I spent my college years being more concerned about grades and getting ahead, doing a good job.”
“And that’s what I want you to do here,” I say. “Get ahead. Do a good job.”
“But with sex,” she says.
“With a sex angle,” I clarify.
She’s quiet for a moment. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to tell her I’m just testing her, that of course I want her to write that story on hypertension. But I like keeping silent while she squirms. If she doesn’t leave, I’ll know she’s willing to do the work needed to take Blush to the next level. Not to mention it won’t be so bad having her around the office.
“I’ll be honest, Mia,” I say, acting like I’m placating her. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the magazine industry isn’t doing so well. It’s been in decline for years. Some would say it’s a dying industry, and to compete with online media we need to go sexier.”
“I understand,” she says.
“I’m not sure you do,” I say. “Your little hypertension story would only work if someone collapsed during sex. Do you get it now?”
Finally she says, “I mean, yeah. I can do that. I can keep the angles sexy.”
“Because if you’re uncomfortable with the direction I’m taking the magazine you need to say so now. It’s not going to get any easier.”
