Chapter 1
LEXI
I step into the elevator. And I do my best to ignore how seriously unlikely it is that I’ll actually get the job I’m about to interview for. I have zero experience, since I only graduated about a month ago. My English degree from Stanford will (hopefully) help, and I graduated (sort of) near the top of my class. But this is Downtown, the “It” magazine of the decade. It isn’t just a magazine, but a scene, with its own fashion label, lifestyle website, pop culture news blog and even a film production company.
My roommate came across the ad for CEO’s assistant online only a few days ago. Given the glam factor, it almost seemed strange to stumble across it in a place like that. I would have expected Downtown to recruit from more exotic locations … like in Silicon Valley garages or on French Riviera yachts.
Anyway, I’d applied, and, by some miracle, I actually managed to get an interview. I knew every wannabe in California would be dying to get their résumés seen. Not because we have a lifelong dream to be a CEO’s assistant, not at all. But because an underling job like this one might lead to other opportunities within the company—and it’s a company every graduate on the planet would sell their teeth to work for. You knew that if you ended up working there, you’d not only rub shoulders with the rich and famous, but also maybe even become one of them. They were known for hiring young, hot, über-talented geniuses. Which kind of makes me wonder what I’m doing here, but I’ve decided to just go with it.
As much as I’d like to think I have half a chance, I also know it’s definitely a long shot. The email informed me that I’d be meeting with an interview panel. I can picture it now: ten ultra-trendy, over-confident hipsters and one … me.
I take a deep breath.
At least I look the part. As I check out my look in the reflection of the mirrored elevator walls, I can’t help but notice that my new makeover has definitely done wonders.
As soon as I arrived in L.A., my roommate Tess dragged me along on a two-day shopping spree and pampering frenzy. Tess runs a make-up and fashion blog that has around fifty thousand followers, so I figured I should probably take her advice. Now, I have a stylish new haircut. I’ve been massaged, waxed (and I mean everything), glossed and groomed to within an inch of my life.
New city, new priorities, according to Tess. You’re no longer a student, you’re a hot young urban professional living the dream in the City of Angels. I’d argued that I wasn’t a professional until I actually landed a job, but she laughed that detail off as a technicality. Looking like you do, it’s only a matter of time. Employers love hot, and you, my sweet Lexi, are the total package.
We’re about to find out if she’s right about any of the above.
I try to let Tess’s enthusiasm rub off on me as I stare at my reflection. My long blond hair falls in sleek waves. Highlights of platinum catch the light. Those colorists really know their stuff. My eyelashes have been lengthened by some carefully-applied mascara, also by Tess. A light green silk wrap dress with a short, flouncy skirt hugs my curves and emphasizes the green of my eyes. I wondered if the dress was too fitted and the skirt too short for a job interview, but Tess ordered me to get real. This is Downtown, honey. They work in bikinis half the time. Which is true, apparently. She showed me an article about it. Their offices are cutting-edge, modern, ultra-hip and even have pools, swim-up cocktail bars, loungers and tread mill work desks.
To-die-for heeled Miu Miu sandals with feather detailing complete my outfit. The shoes cost a fortune even at seventy percent off, but Tess said I really need to up my fashion game if I want to be taken seriously. I begrudgingly admitted she’s right. My wardrobe consists mostly of sweatshirts and jeans—the more comfortable the better, since I’ve spent the last four years studying 24/7, not to mention the years before that, which were much worse.
Tess also pointed out that my scary new credit card bill will spur my motivation to get earning as quickly as possible. I didn’t bother telling her I have that motivation anyway, cringing every time I think of my gargantuan student loan.
Anyway, look out, Downtown, here I come.
The elevator pings and the doors slide open. I enter the lobby. It’s all glass and chrome and is positively glimmering with bustle and excitement and glamor. A lone receptionist sits behind a tall desk with a massive print of the L.A. skyline mounted on the wall behind her. There’s an etched glass wall next to it that gives a tantalizing glimpse behind the scenes: busy people and racks of designer clothing, desks and film promotion posters. Sliding doors are open, offering views of the pools and palm trees. Music is playing. Everything about it screams YOU WANT TO WORK HERE.
The receptionist watches me approach.
“Lexi Blondeau?”
“Yes, hi. I’m scheduled to meet with the interview panel at four thirty.”
“Actually, Ms. Blondeau, something came up. You’ll be meeting with Mr. Black himself.”
Mr. Black.
According to Tess, Rafe Black is famous for his reclusiveness and also his ruthlessness when it comes to business. He’s also rumored to be … ridiculously hot. Either way, I’m relieved. A one-on-one meeting sounds a lot less intimidating than a full-blown inquisition.
“He’s expecting you,” says the receptionist. “Go right on down this hallway. And take the elevator up to the 17th Floor.”
The receptionist’s phone rings and she points down the white marble hallway before she answers it. I want to ask her what number Mr. Black’s office is, but she’s already distracted. His door will probably have his name on it, I figure.
Fine, is what I’m thinking. I can handle this. No problem. Most likely, he’ll be some aloof executive who will run through his list of questions, loftily mutter a we’ll-call-you-if-we’re-interested dismissal, then send me on my merry way. I already know it’s a phone call that’ll probably never come. I’ll wait a few days before reality sets in, while I meanwhile scour the internet for something slightly more realistic.
I walk down the hallway, and press the button for the elevator. It might be a private elevator. It’s not the same one that accesses the lobby of the building.
The elevator swooshes up in that ultra-slick, barely-noticeable way, which gives me vertigo. I reach the 17th floor in about three seconds flat. I teeter unsteadily into a hallway, which has floor to ceiling windows and a killer view of the hazy L.A. skyline, all the way out to the ocean. I take a few seconds to let my equilibrium settle more or less back into place.
So the 17th floor is the top floor. There are a couple of swanky leather chairs bathed in sunlight.
Everything is so luxurious.
I can’t help thinking this would be a perfect place to sit and read a good book while appreciating the view. But of course I’m here for one reason only. To kowtow to the mysterious Rafe Black.
There’s only one door. So Mr. Black is the only executive with an office on the 17th floor. Well, he is the CEO, after all. And the founder of Downtown. And now that I think about it, Tess might have mentioned that he owns at least part of the building. Or maybe the whole thing.
I knock on the door.
And I wait. I check my phone. 4:27.
It might be a full minute before the door opens.
He stands there, wide-legged, silhouetted by the sunlight streaming in from behind him. And—whoa—if I was expecting an ordinary, work-addled managerial type, I was sorely mistaken. Hot doesn’t even begin to cover it. In fact, it takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to … just how gorgeous Rafe Black actually is.
He’s tall, and big. His dark hair is thick and more unruly than you might expect from a CEO. He’s wearing an extremely well-cut suit but doesn’t seem entirely at ease in it, as though it constricts a barely-controlled wildness that’s a definite part of his vibe.
“Mr. Black?” My question comes out breathy and cautious.
His eyes are a deep shade of dark, smoldering blue and have a glint in them that’s kind of … electrifying. He assesses me, more than a little cockily. But there’s an edge to him, and I get the feeling I’ve somehow caught him off-guard. He’s more tan and rugged-looking than any businessman has a right to be. It wouldn’t shock me if he spent most of his time sailing the Southern seas or wrangling bucking broncos in the hot sun. I don’t know why I say that. He’s got this outdoorsy look, which sort of clashes with the ultra-modern lines of his office and his building. He’s too masculine to be called beautiful but it’s a word that comes to mind. And it’s the kind of over-the-top male beauty that’ll hit you … right there.
Yikes.
