“Sure. That would seem a normal course of business.”

“And I’ve acquired a prominent men’s magazine in the United Kingdom. Gentleman’s Style. Have you heard of it?”

“Of course. It’s better than Esquire. And GQ.”

“It is indeed. And I’m going to be expanding it in the United States.”

That’s quite interesting yet surprising, given the state of print periodicals. “But magazines are a dying breed,” I say, since page counts are down, ads are down, and so on.

“Of course. But brands aren’t. And the brand name has value. Imagine a Gentleman’s Style series of books. Handy little gift books sold in the front of stores on tips for men. Or perhaps a revamped website with the type of articles that search engines love. Five Tips on Better Communication. The Top Ten Ways to Impress a Boss.”

It sounds fantastic. “I can imagine that perfectly.”

She leans closer, clearly enchanted with her new property. “And podcasts, since they’re the future. Can you picture a quick-hit podcast on top tips of the day? I can.”

“I think I can too.”

She taps her finger against her lip. “Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“You’re going in the direction of creating a US presence for a popular and well-respected British brand,” I say, since I’m pretty sure I have that right.

She sighs as if she just can’t believe one wouldn’t grasp the concept. “Jason Reynolds, I need a voice, someone with a point of view. I need a front man. I need you.”

I blink and sit bolt upright, rubbing my ear. She didn’t just say that, did she? “Pardon me?”

She laughs, a deep, throaty sound. “You heard me right. I want you to be the front man. I want you to be the voice—and the face if you’d like—of Gentleman’s Style in the United States. And don’t worry, you can keep up your work on Ryder Lockhart’s show.”

“Oh, he already let me go.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what he told me when I called him today.”

“You called him today?” I feel like I’m trapped on another planet, trying to decipher distant radio signals.

“Of course. He’s a business associate. I wouldn’t poach his talent without talking to him first.”

“It’s not really poaching at this point.”

She raises one eyebrow. “Be that as it may, are you interested in my offer?” She puts forth a number that nearly dislocates my jaw. I’m tempted to ask if it’s a joke, but I’m also certain I’ve advised readers and listeners never to ask that when offered a financial figure more than you ever dreamed of.

“I’m incredibly interested,” I reply.

“Then it’s yours. I’ll have a deal memo sent over tonight.”

“Tonight? Aren’t you heading out on your honeymoon?”

“Of course I am, but I don’t send out the contracts. I have people. And someday, you’ll have people. Mark my words—I can always spot talent. As an author friend of mine once said when she discovered the perfect narrator for her books: You’re a gold mine.”

“Smart author.”

“Very smart, and a smart narrator to keep saying yes to her.”

“You’ve got my yes.”

“One of my favorite words.”

When I say goodbye to the newlyweds, I do feel like I’ve discovered a gold mine, but it’s not only in the job.

It’s in the woman I take home with me.

49

“A gold mine? You don’t say?” Truly tugs on my bow tie, unknotting it in the elevator to her apartment.

“Evidently. Did you have any idea you were fucking a gold mine?” I slide a hand under her dress as the lift shoots us up to her floor.

“I had no idea. But this changes everything. My boyfriend is made of gold. And apparently makes gold.”

I laugh at her designation. “Boyfriend? Is that what I am?”

“You’re definitely no longer just a friend. And I’m pretty sure we don’t say lover anymore unless we’re at a seventies party.”

The elevator stops at her floor, and we exit. “I can’t take you to a work event and introduce you as my lover? Or if I did, I’d need a Tom Selleck mustache or to be dressed for disco?”

“Something like that,” she says, laughing as we head into her place.

The second the door clicks shut, I pull her against me, sliding my hands into her hair. “Hey, you naughty minx. Thanks for coming with me tonight.”

“Thank you for stalking me before the wedding.”

“How did you know I was stalking you?”

She smiles, like a naughty little thing. “I saw all your missed calls.”

“Why didn’t you pick up, you evil torturess?”

“Because it seemed like the kind of thing I’d rather hear in person. I was right. When the person you love realizes he wants you more than work, it’s kind of an awesome thing. I know, because that’s how I feel for you.”

Her words thrill and electrify me. They remind me that taking this kind of chance, without a safety net, was worth it. She was worth the jump.

I grab her wrist and lead her back to her bedroom, where I strip her out of her clothes and lavish attention on her fantastic body all night long.

In the morning, I wake up to the smell of pancakes. The scent draws me out of bed and into her kitchen, where she’s crooning into a spatula about her creation.

“You do know that song turns me on?”

She spins around, her eyes hooded, her voice smoky. “They’re hot off the griddle. Come and get ’em.”

“I will. But like I said, it turns me on. I want you first.”