The waiting room was painted in fresh but cold, dark grays and blacks. Just around the corner, I glimpsed silver staircase railings. I'd taken the elevator up, but light flooded into the waiting room from the windows above the stairs, at the front of the building. Natural light was rare for New York City, so it must have been that certain half-hour in the day when the sun was at just the right angle.

When I glanced back to the secretary, leaning back behind his desk and pushing his hair back and forth, my eyes fell to the stark white translucent acrylic that curved around the front of the desk.

It felt like the whole place had just been built a month ago, but this was Prestige Modeling Agency. It had been around for years. Its CEO, Gideon Hale, was a legend. He'd built the place from the ground up with four buddies, starting out in an old industrial building in Brooklyn.

And, shit, now he ran one of the top -- if anyone asked me, I'd say the top -- male modeling agency in NYC.

And I was about to get an interview here. Me, of all people. A kid with three hundred bucks and a couple of boxes of clothes to his name, and an exceptional talent for styling the same few pieces.

I trailed my fingers along the cool metal chair, tapping them to try to calm myself down. When that didn't work, I recited the job ad in my head.

Wanted: coolheaded self-starter with exec assistant experience.

I fit probably none of those requirements, but fuck it, I was desperate. I'd doctored my resume a little... adjusted the job titles and descriptions, if you like.

I wasn't even that guilty about it. As far as I was concerned, survival came first. If that required me to lie a little, fine. I'd do whatever it took to get a job. Especially here, surrounded with the best-looking guys in the industry.

And, you know, money.

But at least half my interest was in being surrounded by gorgeous, usually gay, men. And so far, I hadn't been disappointed.

In my first-round interview -- just handing over my resume, consenting to a criminal record search, the usual shit -- the HR guy, Sean or Shea or something like that, had been stunningly gorgeous.

Now I was waiting for the second interview. I supposed that was a good sign.

The secretary glanced over his desk at me, but when I caught his eye, he looked away again.

I shifted, crossing my ankle over my knee and spreading my arms along the back of the chairs to either side of me.

Come get me.

This guy was a total bottom, though, and I really wanted to be fucked today. Christ, I had to go get laid at a club tonight or something.

"Leo? Or Leonel? Do you mind being called Leo?" It was the HR guy again. I pushed myself to my feet and put on my best charming smile for the blond, who beamed and swayed. The guy turned to gesture with one finger, getting me to follow him to his office.

I snuck a glance at the nameplate on the way back.

Right, Shay. I took a moment to settle myself in the chair opposite his desk. The door closed, so whisper-soft I barely heard it click.

"So, Leonel, I've had a look at your resume and skills list." Shay came around the desk and sat in his comfortable leather chair.

"Mhmm?" I answered, brushing my fingers through the close-cropped hair at the back of my head.

Shay rolled closer to the desk and flicked through papers. "You seem like a great fit for the job. I'd like to get you to meet the man you'll be working for, if all goes well in this interview. All right?"

"I'm free..." I checked my watch, which was a complete bluff. I was unemployed. I was free all day, every damn day.

But it didn't do to come off as desperate.

I brushed a hand across my hair again as if thinking, then nodded. "I should have time, no problem."

Shay's face relaxed into a smile. He looked relieved, which was a fantastic sign. They didn't want to lose me. Amazing what picking the right job title on my resume could do. "Great. Thanks."

I inclined my head. "You had questions for me?"

"Well, I noticed your address."

Not my address. My richest model friend's house. He lived up in Tribeca, the neighborhood where I would and should be.

Instead, I was stuck in crappy Long Island City, sharing a house with four other guys and our landlady.

But not for long. If I could just land this job and keep it for long enough to become valuable to the company -- or the guy I worked for, in any way I could...

And I'd been honest about a few things on my resume. I was proficient in oral presentations. Just not the type professionals usually gave.

"Yes. I have reliable transportation, if that's what you're asking." I raised my eyebrow, waiting to see if Shay pressed the point.

"Great." He made a note of that and moved on. "What made you apply for this position, exactly?"

Rent being due next week?

I resisted the obvious answer and sat up straighter. "What do you mean? A position at Prestige? Or as an assistant?"

"Well, clearly your experience qualifies you for an assistant position."

I smiled, eager to move the conversation past that point. "At Prestige? Well, who doesn't know this place? Anyone with half a brain knows this place. Well, anyone interested in fashion, obviously."

"Of course." Shay leaned back. "So you're familiar with the company?"

"Relatively. I haven't scanned the Wikipedia article or anything, but I know your niche and specialties."

That much was true. I knew which agencies had the hottest models. When I partied with them, I made a point of finding out who represented them. Prestige always came out on top.

Shay beamed. "Perfect."

I pursed my lips. "So, executive assistant? We went over the job description in the first interview, but you never said who for."

"Ah." Shay leaned over when the phone rang, holding up a finger.

I didn't appreciate being interrupted. I leaned back slightly and pursed my lips.

"Yes, if you could, thanks. Ten minutes?" Shay appraised me for a moment, then looked down at his phone again. "Maybe fifteen? Yes. Thank you very much."

I was intrigued. That was someone important.

When Shay hung up, he looked back at me. "Would you like to meet the man you'd be working for? I've asked him to join us for a few minutes, while I conclude the interview. I'd like to get a sense for how you could work together."

"Of course," I told him, still leaning back in my chair. I glanced idly around the office.

"What would you say makes you most suitable for this position, as an executive assistant, rather than a general intern or admin assistant?"

I arched an eyebrow again. Really? "My resume made that pretty clear, I think. Experience, aptitude, and an interest in fashion, not just the... hum-drum."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Expense reports. General office maintenance. The executives shouldn't be bothered with that stuff," I said, still cool as a cucumber.

I was starting to crack inside, though, restraining my irritation only barely. Either I was qualified or I wasn't. What did Shay want me to do? Beg for the job?

Not a fucking chance.

"But the duties listed on the job description--"

"Won't be a problem," I interrupted. "Any intern can present expense reports. It takes someone with experience to tell whether a guest is in the industry or not from a single glance at his outfit."

That, I could do.

"What can you tell from a visitor for your boss, at a glance?" Shay asked. "Why is that important?"

I snorted. "Hugo Boss? True Religion? Superdry? God forbid, H&M? They all say vastly different things about the guy wearing them."

God, HR was so annoying. And this guy was in an okay suit, but it clearly wasn't something he'd picked for himself. There was some imaging guy behind the scenes making sure all the employees looked the part.

"The average secretary wouldn't have to know that. Someone gatekeeping a department head or VP or president or even the CEO should." I gestured one level higher with my fingers for each level I named.

"I agree."

That was a deep, rustling voice behind me. I only barely managed not to jolt.

I turned slightly in my chair, letting the other guy approach me instead of rising to see who it was.

The muscled forearms with shirt sleeves rolled up over them, rock-hard chest under a crisp silk shirt and textured tie, and the perfectly-coordinated pocket square: those were the first things I noticed.

That, and the bulge at his crotch, telling me that this was someone to look at twice.

Then, I saw his face.

Gideon Hale. The CEO himself, one hand in his pocket, an amused smirk on his face.

Holy shit.

I took my time sitting up, then rising to my feet to offer my hand for a shake.

"Leonel James."

"So I've heard."