Getting caught reading Fifty Shades of Grey in the parking lot at work wasn't the best way to meet her boss. A boss she didn't know she had. A boss who now had the job she had been waiting to apply for

and win

for the past year.

So Lydia Charles was having a very bad day. And it was only 7:32 a.m.

Tap tap tap.

She looked up, startled, to find a pair of bright green eyes, shaded by a hand, peering in the window of her little red car. He caught the book cover and smirked.

Oh, screw off, she thought, shoving her car key in the ignition and turning it on so she could roll down the window. As if it weren't bad enough being caught reading Mommy Porn

and she wasn't even a mom

, her last few minutes of freedom before enslavement as a corporate drone were being bothered by some anonymous guy.

Light brown hair with a nice wave to it and those crazy—green eyes. A perfect nose. Broad shoulders set off by one hand on his forehead, one on his hip, making his forearms pop a bit, the muscles from neck to shoulder joint stretching like an athlete's. It was like looking at one of those guys on television, an actor in a show you watch not for the plot, but for the eye candy with a spark of smarts and wit.

If he told her he was a firefighter or a detective, she'd believe him. He had the look of a man who takes care of himself because he has to in order to function well at his hands—on job.

He works out, she surmised as the window scrolled down. Boring business—casual uniform of Dockers and a button—down shirt. Couldn't see his shoes but she guessed something from Land's End.

Middle management.

Which was one step above her. Gritting her teeth, she wondered what this was about.

"Hi. Could you please move your car?" A baritone voice with way too much authority gripped her gut, an internal reaction out of proportion to his request. That voice. He sounded like a ship's captain, or a commander in combat.

She couldn't help but begin to react, the breathless "Yes" nearly popping out involuntarily. Holding back, she wasn't even breathing for fear she would comply like a skittish puppy, acting in deference to the incredibly unfounded request.

Who orders someone out of their parking spot? He smiled, the tight look of a man evaluating what to say next as seconds ticked by and she did nothing but stare at him.

"Why?" she asked, carefully cultivating a neutral tone, one of reasonableness without too much inquiry, as if she didn't give a hoot what he wanted but would be polite about it. She invoked her Midwestern tone, casually acquired from being a Maine girl with parents who were from the Midwest, the voice of newscasters and documentary voiceovers for sexual harassment and government contract reporting requirements videos.

"Because it's mine." He threw a thumb toward the top of the skyscraper. "Head office assigned it to me."

Not the reaction she expected. She could guess his next move, predictable among these middle management types, like a real—life version of Gary Cole's character in Office Space. Next, he would lean on the car and do that douchey "I'm gonna need you to go ahead and..." spiel.

Lydia was having none of it. She might be just an administrative assistant, the corporate equivalent of a dishwasher or a toll taker, but two years of this was enough. A master's degree in Gender Studies might be useless in the workplace, but here in the parking lot it meant everything. Backing down wasn't happening.

"Why would the head office give you my parking spot? They're numbered." She pointed to the sign defiantly.

His face remained neutral. Instead of leaning on the car, he reached one golden arm in and aimed for her right hand. Of course he was perfectly, evenly tanned. Of course.

"I'm Matt Jones. The new director of social media. And this is my numbered spot."

"What? There is no director of social media job here. Not yet, at least. They're announcing it soon, and—" A wave of cold horror hit Lydia. Director of social media. Director of social media? That was the job she was supposed to apply for! Except no one had told her that the job had been created yet, and now here stood the new hire?

He cut her off with that same commanding tone. "It's been filled. By me. And parking"—he shook his head and looked around with an expression of exasperation—"is a ridiculous problem here, so while I respect your need to stay and, uh, read, I need this spot." Leaning forward, his eyes twinkled as he smiled, trying to charm her, his voice shifting from commanding to smooth.

It was working. The scent of his aftershave filled the car's interior. Musk and man and something with spice—an expensive scent that was far too sophisticated for a guy who was one parking spot ahead of her in the food chain at Bournham Industries. He held her gaze for too long, letting silence hang between them.

He was what her friend Krysta called a "playah."

And oh, how Lydia wanted to be played.

She hated herself for it, but right now Mr. Director of Social Media was stealing her parking spot. A girl had to have some limits.

"You're telling me that HR gave you the director's job and handed off my parking spot?" she squeaked. The voice that came out of her sounded foreign. Tame. Rattled. She brushed a stray lock of her dark brown hair and wished she'd spent more time on her appearance this morning. After a quick yoga session, she just showered, threw her hair in a quick up—do, and tossed on her version of administrative business casual: a loose, flowing J. Jill outfit she got off the clearance rack and her ancient Danskins. She looked like a preschool teacher at a posh tot place instead of an ambitious, up—and—coming corporate do—bee vying for the director of social media job.

Oh. That's right.

It was taken.