I stare at the door he just left through for a moment, and then finally I push the intercom. “Sammia, send in the second interview, please.”

“Sure thing.”

My eyes drop to look at the interview-rating-system sheet in front of me, and I exhale heavily. How the fuck do I even rate that?

I stare at my computer screen. It’s been five days since I interviewed the three finalists. Five days of me fighting myself over who I want to hire.

Rebecca is fantastic. She would be an asset to any business, and I will be offering her a position regardless of whether she gets this role.

Joel, the other candidate, was perfect on paper. His psychometric testing was spot on, and he blitzed every question with a practiced perfection.

Then there was Fletcher Anderson. He didn’t even want to do the interview. He wouldn’t shake my hand and near fucking killed me with barely an apology. He’s crazy and wild and everything I don’t have the time or energy to train.

He also had more passion in his little finger than the other two had combined.

No matter how hard I try to talk myself out of it, he’s the one I keep going back to. He’s the one with loyalty to family, albeit. . . mishandled. Media is in his blood, and he has a real opportunity to take over Anderson Media one day as the CEO . . . that’s if the company holds out that long. I know it will. Claire’s got this. With his passion and temper and the right training, we could make him the best damn CEO in New York.

I exhale heavily as I go over the pros and cons of each candidate again, hoping by some miracle to find something good about the other two—and there is, but there’s just an untapped quality that Fletcher has. But then he has major anger issues, and I will perhaps be forced to fire him down the track anyway.

Two steps forward, one step back.

I even tried to call Rebecca to offer her the position yesterday, but when it came to making the call, I couldn’t do it.

My head says he’s too hard and to let it go; my gut is telling me he’s the one.

Decisions, decisions.

Claire

Patrick lies on my bed as I fold the washing and stack it all around him in piles. “Read that line again, Paddy,” I say.

“The house was in the ha . . . ha . . . ha . . .” He frowns as he concentrates.

“Sound it out,” I remind him.

“Ham-p-tons.” He accentuates the s at the end.

“Yes, you got it.”

He smiles proudly and keeps going. Patrick has just this year been diagnosed with dyslexia. And to be honest, once we got that diagnosis, it was a huge relief for me. His teachers and I couldn’t work out why he couldn’t read and why some tasks at school were so hard for him when he’s obviously so bright. In the end, I took him to a therapist, and she discovered it.

“All al . . .” He frowns. “Long,” he continues.

Fletcher walks into the room. He’s fighting a smile.

“What?” I ask as I keep folding.

“I’ve decided that I’m deferring university.”

I throw a newly folded towel onto the pile. “Well, that’s not happening.”

“Yes, it is. I’m eighteen next month, Mom. I can do what I like.”

“Fletcher Anderson, you are way too smart to have a year off doing nothing. I’m not even discussing this with you.”

“I got an internship.”

My face falls. “What do you mean?”

“I applied six months ago and made it to the final three.”

“What?” I stare at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to get your hopes up.”

I smile and take his face in my hands. “Fletch, when are you going to stop worrying about me?” I fold another towel. “So when is the final interview?”

“I already had it.”

My face falls again. “What? When?”

“Wednesday, in New York.”

I stare at him. “How did you do this without me knowing?”

“Caught the train. Anyway, I didn’t think I had a chance after Monday and the way we met.”

I screw up my face in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“It’s with Miles Media.”

“You got an internship with Miles Media?” I gasp.

“Yep.” He smiles proudly. “Tristan Miles is my new boss.”

My eyes widen in horror. “What? No,” I snap. “You can’t work with him.” I throw the next towel on the pile with force. “Forget it.”

“Mom, they’re the best media company in the world. It’s a big deal for me to get this. They had over four thousand applicants.”

“You tried to shove underpants in his mouth, Fletcher,” I cry. “How can you walk into that office and not be ashamed of yourself?”

“It’s okay. I apologized, remember?”

“No, it’s not okay. It will never be okay. It’s the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever witnessed. You can’t work there; I forbid it.”

Fletcher’s a firecracker. I don’t want him embarrassing me further. I get a vision of him losing his temper at work, and I shiver in mortification. This is my worst nightmare.

“I am,” he snaps. “You can’t stop me.”

“I can and I will,” I cry.

“I want to learn from the best. I want to run Anderson Media one day; they can teach me how.”

“All they are going to teach you, Fletcher, is how to be ruthless.”

“And that’s exactly what I want to learn.”

I glare at him. “You call Tristan Miles back and tell him to stick his job where the sun doesn’t shine.” I’m so angry with that man for going behind my back on this that I can’t even stand it.

He should have called me to tell me about the interview.

Ever since he met my kids, I haven’t heard from him. Not that I wanted to, but anyway, it’s the principle of the situation. And now, for him to not call me but to offer my son a job as some kind of poor excuse for him being a wimp who hates kids? He was so hot for me and came to my house, and after one meeting with my children . . . boom. Cold as ice.

I should have known to expect it—actually, who am I kidding? I did.

The beautiful man I met in France isn’t the cold man who lives in New York. They are worlds apart. The man in France I adore; the man in New York I despise.

I don’t want him near Fletcher, and I most definitely don’t want Fletcher to learn business ethics from him.

The notion is preposterous.