Page 6 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

Mia

Once I’min the elevator I lean my head against the cool steel of the wall. What the hell just happened? How in the world did I just get an interview with the Weston Bridges?

I had no idea how hot he is. It was hard to concentrate. He’s like some billboard model or something, his dark hair perfectly combed with the slightest bit of curl, and his suit that just fit him flawlessly. For some reason, every move he made grabbed my attention. Just leaning on the desk made me feel like I wanted him to take me and kiss me, which is so not like me, especially in a professional setting.

The elevator dings and I walk out onto the hot streets of the city. People stream by me, not noticing me, and I just want to yell at them that I had a meeting with Weston Bridges…and we have another meeting tonight!

I know this guy’s reputation. Player, totally arrogant, richer than God, and completely full of himself. I’m sure he just loved that so-called interview he did with me. And what happened to the trusty human resources person who was supposed to interview me? That’s what I was prepared for—not the absolute head of the entire corporation. And worse, he seemed to be having fun with me, egging me along, telling me how naïve I am about sex.

And maybe I am, a little bit at least. But I’ve been more concerned about doing well in school and getting away from my mama and small hometown than worrying about dating or guys in general. None of the boys in high school interested me, and I was too focused in college to date anyone.

And just that easily I became a twenty-one year old virgin.

I imagine what would happen if Weston Bridges found out I’m a virgin and my heart starts beating rapid-fire. He would probably fire me on the spot for incompetence.

But just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I can’t write about it. Some of the best sports commentators never played ball.

As I walk up the three flights to my apartment, the air getting thicker and hotter the higher I go, I realize I have the afternoon to get myself in shape for tonight, mentally and fashion-wise.

What I want to do right now, though, is take off my shoes and stand in front of the a/c window unit for about an hour.

What Mr. Bridges doesn’t seem to realize is that I do know a little about sex. Maybe not sex as in intercourse, but my mama taught me how to “gussy up” as she’d say. I know how to look like I’ve spent a lifetime reading sex articles—and practicing their tips.

To her, looking good was much more important than being good. So tonight, I’ll have to use her tricks and tips to look the part of sexy journalist while having no idea where we’re going or what we’ll be doing. I’m assuming he’ll take me to some fancy dinner and tell me all about his vision for the magazine.

Or maybe I’m being delusional.

Frankly, I have no idea what he wants from me, but I feel pretty great knowing he saw something in me that made him want to spend more time with me. Maybe he was giving me some flack about my resume but he clearly saw something that showed potential. Otherwise I’d be staying home alone tonight, counting out change so that I can have some breakfast tomorrow morning.

* * *

Later in theevening I go carefully through what few clothes I have and choose a short skirt and a different, sexier pair of heels than I wore today. They’re red and strappy and from my mother. “All girls should have a great pair of red heels,” she’d said. “Black just won’t do it.”

Part of me wants to look sexy for Weston Bridges. The pictures I’ve seen online certainly don’t do him justice. And the fact that he’s so young and has already achieved so much is also pretty sexy. I wonder what he sees in me that made him want to take me out for a test tonight?

I pair the skirt and red heels with a fitted tank top since it’s so damn hot out, even once the sun has set. When I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, I think it’s definitely sexy—maybe too much? But I am my mother’s daughter, so I adjust the tank a bit, pulling it lower to show more of my cleavage. Weston Bridges has had the best cleavage in the world, if his playboy stories are to be believed, and so showing more of mine probably won’t impress him too much. But maybe.

When the sun has almost set, the apartment door shuts and my roommate enters, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud.

“Hey, Brody,” I say, peeking out from the bathroom. “You’re home late.”

“Hey, girl,” he says. His hair is mussed and his eyes are glassy. “Listen to me closely—there is one thing you should know about life: there is a happy hour, and you should it enjoy it. Preferably for more than an hour.” I realize he’s slurring his words slightly. I chuckle. He’s clearly had a drink or three.

We’ve known each other almost since the moment I arrived in town. I answered his ad for a roommate not realizing he was a guy, but we hit it off so well that I realized it didn’t bother me. Brody is like a brother, a protective good guy who likes to look after me.

Brody works in the mailroom at the corporate headquarters for some big financial institution. He says he’ll work his way from the bottom up, old school–style. Like me he doesn't know anyone and has no inside contacts to his industry, so we’re both getting in any way we can.

“God, my hands are so freaking dry from handling envelopes and boxes all day. Did you know that cardboard has a real smell to it? It’s like—whoa,” he says, stopping to look at me. “Where are you going?”

I tug down my skirt and say, “I had that job interview this morning.”

“Dressed like that?”

“No, of course not,” I say.

“Oh, good,” he says, going to the refrigerator. He takes out the water pitcher and fills up a glass. “Fuck, it’s still so hot out there. Monument Press, right?” he asks me, then takes a big gulp of water.

“Prerogative Media.”

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