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was shocked when the name returned
about 2 million hits, and a series of images that showed a mouthwatering hunk
with a devil-may-care grin and wicked green eyes.
    Clicking on one of the first articles
that popped up in search, she read about the man whose name and phone number
were on the piece of paper she held.
    Brayden Forman had graduated from So Cal
Business School just two years ago, but he was already worth millions of
dollars, having co-founded Hookup, the dating app known for encouraging
one-night-stands and anonymous sexual encounters.
    Lanie made a face as she read about the
reputation of Brayden’s company.   She’d of course heard of Hookup—anyone with a pulse had heard the
name.   But she’d never considered
using the app, and just the thought of it left a bad taste in her mouth.
    As far as she knew, it was all based
around rating people on their physical appearance—their “hot or not”
factor—and then finding out who might be in close proximity for a
“hookup.”
    Yuck.
    The whole premise of the app was the
opposite of everything Lanie believed in.   She had no interest in a guy who just wanted to get a quick screw and
then forget he ever knew her name.
    But there was no denying that Brayden
Forman was hot, sexy and apparently brilliant.  
    Still, it seemed that hotness and
brilliance didn’t mean you were of upstanding character, because Brayden was
also constantly rumored to be shagging one model or another, living a playboy
lifestyle that fit his brand to a T.
    Lanie sighed.
    She closed the browser window on her
phone and decided to unpack and worry about the phone call later.

 
    ***

 
    A few hours later, she was wiping sweat
from her brow and having yet another glass of water.
    The apartment was hot, or maybe it was
just the exertion of opening boxes, unpacking, and continuing to move various
pieces of furniture around all by herself.
    But she’d gotten through a good chunk of
it now.
    Her gaze strayed back to the piece of
paper on the counter, half folded, with Brayden Forman’s phone number on
it.   She put the cool glass to her
cheek and stared.
    Just
do it.   Don’t think too much.   You need a job.   It’s either this or hitting the bricks
to get something at a sandwich shop, a temp agency, a nearby supermarket.
    The economy was down and jobs were
scarce, she couldn’t afford to be a snob right now.
    The old saying, beggars can’t be choosers
echoed in her mind.
    And then she was on her phone, dialing
the number and listening to the ringing on the other line.
    He picked up, and his voice was smooth
like honey, deep and melodious.   “This is Brayden.”
    She opened her mouth and hesitated for
just a second.
    “Hello?   Hello?” he said.   “I don’t have time for this shit.”
    And then the line went dead.
    Who
hangs up that quickly on someone? She thought.   Barely a second had
gone by and he already was ending the call.  
    That just figured, Lanie decided.   He was an impatient, arrogant
jerk—just like all of those Internet articles said he was.   Which made sense, given the fact that
he’d created an entire business model around being rude and judgmental of other
people based purely on physical appearance.
    She redialed his number.
    “Speak,” he said, as soon as he answered
again.
    “Hi,” she said.   “My name is—“
    “How did you get this number?” he asked,
his tone challenging.
    “I was given it—“
    “By whom?” he said.   “You better not be one of those stalker
types.”
    “Cullen Sharpe said you’d be expecting my
call,” she replied.
    There was a short pause.   “Oh,” he said.   “You must be the applicant.”
    “The what?”
    “The job applicant,” he said, his tone
becoming almost bemused now.   “You
really aren’t so great on the phone, are you?”
    “Well I don’t generally hang up on people
and insult them before I know who they are,” she said.   “So maybe you’re opinion on what
constitutes