Chapter 1 – Pleasing the Boss

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Brystin POV

Where are you? Are you trying to mess this up?

I quickly read the message without moving too much because Shiloh is currently applying my eye shadow.

“Elvis?” Shiloh asks with her usual disapproval. She has never liked Elvis and doesn’t hide it. She attributes it to her Middle Eastern background, saying that being outspoken runs in her family.

There’s no use, but I defend him anyway. “He’s just being professional.”

“If my boss ever spoke to me like that, I’d give him a piece of my mind. Look up.”

Looking up means I can’t reply to the text. I’m almost there, and I’d rather keep Elvis waiting than have smudged eyeliner. Thankfully, our Lyft driver isn’t driving recklessly. However, we’ve had several stops and starts as we slowly move along 52nd Street. “How are you even doing makeup in a car?”

“Very carefully,” she replies. Her words match the precision of her hand as she applies eyeliner. Once she finishes, she leans back, holding the eye pencil in the air like a cigarette or a magic wand, admiring her work. “I’m really good at this.”

I chuckle nervously. “You’re talented, but aren’t you a bit full of yourself?”

“Yes, I am.” She pauses. “Oh, that wasn’t an invitation. My mind wanders when I hear certain words.” She picks up another pencil from the makeup kit. “Pucker up, dear.”

I can’t make a cheeky comment because she’s now working on my lips. My phone buzzes again, probably another text from Elvis.

“Touch your phone and die,” Shiloh tells me. Just then, the driver slams on the brakes, and the pencil swerves. I can tell from Shiloh’s wide brown eyes that the jolt caused a lining error. She glares at the back of the driver’s head then takes a breath. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” She uses her finger to blot at the skin above my mouth.

She pulls back to look at me again, her genie-style ponytail bobbing like she’s about to grant a wish. “Actually, you look fantastic. I must be a god.”

“Shiloh!”

“It helps that you’re absolutely gorgeous, even without makeup, but you know that. You don’t need to hear it. I do. I’m fragile.”

She has one hell of an ego for being fragile, but I suppose those two traits often go hand-in-hand. I squeeze her hand. “You don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

“I’d love for you to tell me, but we’re here, and you’re late.” Shiloh reaches over me and opens my door before the car has stopped completely. “Fly, little bird!”

Sure that I have my phone and my purse, I’m giddy as I step out of the car, bolstered as I always am from my oldest friend’s company.

“You’re a knockout,” Shiloh calls after me. “Everyone will be dying to get into your Simone Pérèles. Just remember to hire me as your face designer when you make it to the big time.”

Of course the sidewalk in front of the Seymour Center is busy as usual, and I’d be embarrassed about all the heads turning in my direction if I had the time.

But I don’t. So I keep my chin up and ignore the looks and comments from strangers.

As I push my way toward the doors, I wonder briefly if this is how it will feel to be a celebrity. Because I will be one. Positive mindset, as Elvis always says.

Inside, I skip the main elevators and hurry down the hallway toward the wing devoted to the media division of the Seymour empire. This bank of elevators is only for employees, which technically I’m not, but since I’m an anchor at one of the Seymour’s local news networks, I’m on the list tonight.

“Brystin Shaw,” I say to the security guard when he asks for my name.

While he enters it into his iPad for confirmation, I look around to get my bearings. There’s a trio wrapped in conversation a few feet away, dressed in cocktail attire, suggesting they might also be headed up to the ceremony. There’s also a man in a tux, his head down as he types something into his phone. I seem to be the only one trying to get on the elevator, which means I’m really late. Everyone else is probably already upstairs and seated.

Elvis’s so going to kill me.

I catch my reflection in one of the steel panels. At least, I look good. A dark lip, smoky eye, my blonde hair pulled up with a few wisps curling at my shoulders. Shiloh really is a magician.

“News 9 in Jersey?” The guard draws my attention back to him.

“That’s me.”

“Got you. Head on up to sixty-three.”

I scurry past him and into the waiting elevator and hit the button for the sixty-third floor. The doors begin to shut, and I let out a sigh of relief.

But then an arm shoots through the opening, and the doors part once again. It’s the man in the tuxedo. As is typical for many women when put in a small space with a man they don’t know, I scoot toward the back corner, lower my head, and try not to make eye contact.

He doesn’t even acknowledge me, which is helpful.

When the doors are shut, and we’re on our way, though, I sneak a peek in his direction.

And the breath is knocked from my lungs.

Holy shit, holy shit.

My phone still in my hand, I unlock the screensaver and pull up Shiloh’s name in the text app.

Holy shit! It’s him! In the elevator!

I follow the message up with a covert snapshot of the man who is none other than Hadrian Seymour, the CEO of Seymour News Corp. The man I’m supposed to be charming the pants off tonight in hopes that he’ll notice me and one day give me my own show.

I study the photo I took while I wait for the messages to go through—stupid weak elevator signal. As the youngest CEO of SNC, Hadrian has more than his fair share of media attention. And because I aspire to work for him—like in this very building, not for one of his lowly network stations that no one ever watches anymore—I have done plenty of internet stalking. I already knew he was wicked attractive, but damn. Even at the weird profile angle my camera caught, his jawline is a work of art. I can’t imagine looking at him straight on. My ovaries won’t be able to take it.

I zoom in on his face and realize his mouth is upturned into a smirk. Did he know I was taking his picture?

Before I can get too panicked about it, the elevator halts abruptly.

I look up at the indicator to see where we’ve stopped. Instead of saying a number, the panel is blinking a bright red ER.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I imagine the letters stand for error, but I feel like it should mean emergency, because this is truly a disaster. Elvis is going to go ballistic.

Though, if he knew who I’m stuck with, he might feel differently.

Speaking of Hadrian, if he’s concerned, he doesn’t show it. He pulls his phone out from his inside jacket pocket and types something. “Dinner is worth missing.” He doesn’t look up from his phone. When he’s finished his message, he puts his phone back. Either he has better cell service than I do, or he’s not concerned whether or not the message goes through.

I hadn’t planned on eating anyway. No way am I messing up Shiloh’s makeup job. “I’m more concerned about missing the actual ceremony.”

Hadrian turns to face me, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his back against the steel wall. “I don’t imagine it will start without me.”

No other explanation. As if I’m supposed to know who he is, which I do, but still. It’s awfully presumptuous.

Or that’s what it’s like to be a celebrity.

“At the very most,” he continues, “you’ll miss the local awards.”

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