“Exactly. Learn his keys for success. That’s what our readers want to know. And I don’t want those top five points he shares at conferences.” He scoffs derisively. “Get me something fresh. Roll up your sleeves and find the real story behind his success.”

I mime rolling up my sleeves, even though I don’t have any. “Will do.”

Mr. Galloway rises, brushing his hands over his slacks. “My assistant will send you the name of Parker’s PR person, and you can start there to schedule with him. The company is open to the piece, and Parker knows about it, so scheduling won’t be a problem. You should be able to get some good interviews with him. You might need a few meetings.”

“Consider it done.” I stand, shoulder my bag, and shake his hand.

“I’ll need the piece in two weeks.”

“I’ll have it to you on time.”

We firm up the final details, like word count and pay. I suppress a squeal when he tells me the fee—much higher than I expected, much higher than is the industry norm too. It’ll give me breathing room and let me help my brother.

“I’ll have the piece to you in two weeks.”

“Brilliant.” Taking a seat at his desk, he taps his keyboard, presumably to move on to the next item on his list. “And if this works out, we might be able to start covering that sector on a regular basis. You’d be first in line for the beat.”

“That’s great,” I say, reining in a big fat grin.

As I leave, I resist the impulse to run down the magazine’s hallway, smacking the walls as I hoot and holler because, holy smokes, from the party, to the guy, to the gig, my luck is changing.

Once I’m in the elevator, I start my research, googling Flynn Parker, eager to talk to him for the first time. When his picture pops up, a whoa slips from my mouth. Damn, he is fine-looking. Even though I’ve never interviewed him, I’m well aware he’s been named a most eligible bachelor, given his fortune, but I wasn’t aware he was quite this handsome. Now I see another reason he’s earned that title—that face. For the flash of a second, there’s something eerily familiar in the set of his jaw, and his eyes remind me of someone. But then, I can’t get a good look at them since he’s wearing glasses.

Not that it matters—I’m sure I’d remember meeting someone this fine in the flesh.

But who cares if he’s hot? I’m not interested in his looks. I’m interested in his story. Besides, I’m a professional. I’m going to treat this professionally because this is a tremendous opportunity that could lead to an even bigger one. That’s why I won’t let myself think twice about how good-looking he is, even though there’s a soft rap on the door in the back of my brain, telling me I’ve met him. I cycle through parties and conferences, keynotes and events. Surely, I’m remembering seeing him in passing somewhere, or saying hello after a presentation he made. That has to be it.