“No. Unless you work here, those are confidential. But I can tell you traffic had a year-over-year growth of two hundred percent and advertising went up by one-hundred and fifty percent.”

“Okay.” Those numbers aren’t too bad. “What would my editorial budget be?”

“Ah.” Richard rolls his sleeves up, a habit, it seems, and rests his elbows on the desk. For a moment I’m distracted by prime forearms display. I never thought it was possible to have a thing for forearms, but Richard’s are proving me wrong. I miss the first part of his speech. “…it’s basically on a contribution base.”

Those last two words are enough to leave me horror-stricken and to force my eyes away from Richard’s arms. “Come again?”

Richard takes a deep breath; we both know this is a hard sell. “In a nutshell, each editor’s budget depends on how much advertising he or she can bring in.”

I swallow. “Mhm, but since I’m starting a brand new section, you must have something set aside for me to build on.”

“Unfortunately, no.” Richard shakes his handsome head.

“Hold on. You seriously mean you want me to start from scratch? How am I supposed to attract advertisers with no published articles?”

“That’s why I needed someone with the creative, editorial potential, but also with the marketing experience. I’m sure you made plenty of contacts while working at Évoque. There must be some fashion influencer or big beauty blogger you can get on board.”

I wrinkle my nose; this last part stinks even more. “Wait, are you offering me a position as Fashion Editor or Beauty Editor?”

Richard blinks. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

I sag in my chair, a tiny pain starting in my chest. “You expect me to run an entire women’s magazine on my own, and with no budget?”

Richard’s mouth twitches at the corners again. “You would have complete creative independence.”

I grimace. “How wonderful.”

He fixes those impossibly gorgeous mocha-brown eyes on me. “And you get to keep a five percent commission on all advertisements sold as part of your compensation package.”

The tightening in my chest worsens. Am I having a panic attack? Pay on commission are ugly enough words to unleash a panicked reaction. “Which translates into you offering me an intern-base salary, am I right?”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to match your previous compensation.” Richard takes out a bundle of papers from a drawer and inches it toward me. “This is our standard contract.”

I stare at the small—in all senses—numbers printed on the white paper. Yep, exactly the amount of my first paycheck after college. The pressure in my chest increases and I begin to feel lightheaded.

“But as I said,” Richard resumes his pitch, “you’d get complete freedom on what to publish and state-of-the-art tech support.” The handsome bastard smiles at me, giving me time to digest the news.