Page 7 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

“Right,” he says. Brody has a scrappy look to him. He’s from a small town like I am, so we got each other—and our sense of wonderment at the big city—right away. “How’d it go?”

“Well, it’s kind of still going on,” I say.

“Huh?”

“The guy who interviewed me wants to take me out tonight.”

Brody pauses and looks at me, one eyebrow raised in question. It makes me uncomfortable.

“It’s like, research,” I say. “Part of the interview.”

“What are you researching?”

“I’m not sure yet. He didn’t say.”

“Mia,” he says, shaking his head. He walks toward me and sets down his water glass on the scuffed coffee table. He told me he got it from the sidewalk down the street. “The guy who interviewed you is taking you out. Did you hear yourself?”

“Of course. And it’s fine,” I say, and I do believe it. Mr. Bridges is being thorough in his interview, and I appreciate that. I’m fine with being tested in my abilities as a writer and reporter. Brody is just protective, even when he really doesn’t need to be.

My phone pings a text. When I look at it, it’s from an unknown number. Downstairs, is all it says.

I go to the window and look down at the street. There’s a black limousine parked illegally in front of our building.

“Dang,” I say.

“What is it?”

“My ride,” I say. “In a limousine.”

“Seriously?” He stands next to me and looks out the window. “That’s pretty douchey.”

“It’s classy,” I say, and he makes a grunting noise of disapproval. “I’ll see you later, okay?” I grab my purse and keys.

“Hey, wait!” he says as I open the door.

“What?”

“Just, be careful. Okay?”

I roll my eyes. “I will. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.”

When I get to the limo I can’t see inside and no one steps out to let me in. I’m not a hundred percent sure this is Mr. Bridges’ car, so I kind of stand there waiting for something or someone. Finally the driver, a big burly guy, steps out.

“Good evening, Ms. Cassidy,” he says, nodding politely at me.

“Um, hi. Thanks,” I say as he opens the door. When I duck into the car, I see Mr. Bridges there, looking at his phone with a scowl on his face. But when he sees me shifting across the seat in my short skirt and cleavage-baring top, the scowl disappears.

“Good evening,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hi. Um, you too,” I say. The door shuts behind me. Mr. Bridges has changed from the sleek navy suit he wore this morning into a black jacket and pants and black button-down shirt. I don’t know what this means, but he looks gorgeous nonetheless. His collar is unbuttoned enough to show his chest, a small bit of tanned skin.

“Thank you for joining me,” he says.

“Yeah, sure. Of course, my pleasure.” I really have to slow down on the random talking. He’s sitting there looking as cool as can be. He’s not nervous. And why should he be? Unless buying a billion-dollar company is something that would stress a person out. Frankly I think I’m more stressed over the fifty bucks left in my account than he could possibly be running an empire.

“So, where are we going?” I ask. This already feels oddly like a date—the limo, the clothes, the hot guy—but I have to remind myself it’s a job interview and nothing more. Beside, a guy like Weston Bridges would never go for a small-town girl like me. Just wouldn’t happen.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” he says, all coy. He shifts his body so that he’s facing me better. He makes no secret of looking at me from top to bottom, his eyes lingering for a moment on my red shoes. “You look lovely, Mia,” he says.

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