CHAPTER 1
Ruby
Valentine’s Day at Sexy Nine Magazine feels exactly like you’d imagine: a high-gloss circus where everyone is either deliriously in love, bitterly single, or pretending not to care while wearing lingerie under their work clothes.
I’m in category three today, don’t judge me.
“Ruby, you’re on Bachelor Seven,” my editor calls across the bullpen, waving a folder in the air like she’s signaling a helicopter for rescue. “I need his interview wrapped before Friday, his assistant just confirmed.”
I groan loud enough to earn several sympathetic looks. “Bachelor Seven? The last-minute ghost who won’t even send a headshot? Fantastic. I can’t wait to interview a man who clearly thinks he’s above journalism.”
“You’ll be fine,” she says, slapping the folder into my hands. “Your Valentine’s Desire Issue feature depends on this spread. The ten Sexiest Men in the City, don’t screw it up.”
“Thank you for the pep talk,” I mutter as she walks away. “It was truly motivational.”
Behind me, Ava swivels her chair and props her boots on my desk like she pays my rent. Sexy Nine’s resident sex toy tester is wearing pink latex and zero shame.
“He didn’t send a photo?” she asks, leaning closer like I’m holding some state secrets. “A mystery man, I love that. Maybe he’s hideous. Maybe he’s gorgeous. Maybe he’s a sea captain.”
“I don’t think sea captains invest in city real estate,” I say, flipping the folder open.
The contents consist of one Post-it note.
Name: J.C. (full name withheld)
Age: 32
Occupation: Private investor
Notes: Prefers an in-person interview.
That’s it, there’s no location, no assistant signature, just arrogant energy radiating directly off the paper.
Dr. Lana, our in-house sex therapist, glides past with a mug that saysDo No Harm But Take No Shit.She pauses when she sees the folder. “Ah. Number seven.”
“Why does everyone say his number like it’s a warning label?”
“Because it is,” Lana replies. “He’s known for being… difficult.”
“Difficult as in picky? Difficult as in rude?Difficult as in you’ll want to lick whipped cream off him, but also strangle him?”
“Yes.”
Great.
I snap the folder shut. “Well, he’ll get thirty minutes. Then I’m done.”
Ava props her chin on her hand. “Thirty minutes is all you need. We’ve seen you charm men quicker.”
I toss a pen at her. She catches it, laughing. “I’m not charming anyone today. I’m going home, eating heart-shaped pizza, and pretending Valentine’s Day was outlawed."
“You say that,” she singsongs, “but fate loves messing with you.”
“Fate can bite me,” I say, grabbing my bag and the folder. “I need caffeine before I stab someone with a candy heart.”
The girls wave me off, and I head for the elevator, ignoring the giant pink decorations hanging from the ceiling. The whole building looks like Cupid exploded.
The hotel bar across the street is dim, warm, and blissfully quiet. It’s a perfect place to decompress, hydrate, and plan how I’m going to bully Bachelor Seven into giving me answers.
