His parents had already known this, of course. They told him all the time.

They told him when he made the all-star baseball team, when he was top of his reading group, and when he’d been asked to solo in their church’s children’s choir group. You’re going places, Jakey.

His teens had been a muddle of varsity sports, student council, honor roll, and prom king. Topped off nicely with the usual yearbook crap: Jake Malone, Most Likely to Succeed.

No pressure.

But he had succeeded. At least at first.

He’d graduated at the top of his journalism class from the University of Florida and taken his Hearst Journalism Award Finalist plaque all the way to New York City with every intention of taking the journalism world by storm.

For the first few years, he’d gone out of his way to remain a free agent, preferring the flexibility to write for whomever he wanted, to say nothing of the amazing travel opportunities.

And although he’d never admit it out loud, Jake had loved telling his parents that he was off to Hong Kong or Kiev or Rio almost as much as his parents had loved bragging to their friends about it. Almost.

Jake Malone was indeed going places.

But then he’d taken a local gig, just for a couple of months. It had been weird at first, waking up in the same bed every morning and eating breakfast somewhere other than an airport. But it had been temporary—just long enough for him to really sink his teeth into New York City.

Except it hadn’t been temporary. The two-month stint had been quickly followed by a six-month gig kissing up to the New York Yankees and attempting to cater to the players’ enormous collective egos.

It had been half a year of documenting hairline finger fractures, reporting multimillion-dollar deals, and trying to find a positive way to spin a dugout brawl over who ate whose sunflower seeds.

It had been the worst kind of journalism. Repetitive, slightly distorted, and completely predictable.

In other words, his nightmare.

To this day, Jake refused to set foot in Yankee Stadium. Not that he’d mention that little quirk in the office. Anti-Yankee sentiment was the worst kind of treachery in the Oxford office. Forget about cash Christmas bonuses. It was all about season tickets.

Following the bullshit Yankee gig, Jake had every intention of jumping on the next plane to anywhere, but then he’d met Bill Heiner. Jake hadn’t been looking for a mentor, but Bill had the type of personality that sucked people into his vortex.

And Bill’s vortex was Oxford magazine.

It wasn’t that Jake didn’t admire Oxford—he did. Any magazine that could claim the title of best-selling men’s magazine for more than sixty years deserved a nod.

The magazine itself had never been the problem.

It was everything that had come with it. The nine-to-five. The suits. The like-clockwork deadlines. The uptown office building that never changed. Ever.

Ultimately, though, Jake had caved out of loyalty and admiration for Bill. The old editor in chief had been a friend in addition to being a kick-ass mentor. Being a member of Bill’s team had been worth the desk job and multiyear lease on his apartment. And it wasn’t without perks. The 401(k) and health insurance were handy. And responsible.

And boring.

But Bill was gone now, probably sitting on a beach in Barbados.

And Jake was realizing too late that he didn’t want to be just another NYC salaried columnist scrambling up the journalism ladder.

It was time to get back on the going-places track. Preferably somewhere that involved a plane ticket. Jake was creeping up on thirty-four, and while he loved New York, he’d been here for over six years.

It was starting to feel a lot like the rest of his life.

He wanted to reclaim the old Jake. The fly-by-night, who-knows-what’s-next kind of guy that all of his friends and family had expected him to become.

He wanted to be the version of himself that his parents could brag about, and he knew exactly how to get there.

After years of Jake’s badgering, Oxford was finally, finally adding a Travel section to the magazine.

Jake was the perfect person to take it on. He was the most senior columnist, had no wife or kids to keep him in New York, and was willing to try anything, eat anything, live anywhere.

He was the best man for the job. He knew it. Bill Heiner had known it.

And then Bill had retired.

Now Jake just had to make sure that newbie Alex Cassidy knew it.

So far, they weren’t off to a good start. Cassidy had gotten it into his well-groomed head that Jake would be the perfect candidate to do some fluffy “let’s cooperate with the girls” joint article with one of the Stiletto women.

Over his dead body.

He loved women. On a personal level. He loved the way a woman’s eyes went dark when he pinned her hands above her head. He loved the way no two women applied perfume in the exact same way. He loved the rarity of finding a woman who could make him laugh—really laugh—although the numbers on that were low enough to be depressing.

But professionally? He’d already done his time writing the tawdry sex advice and the insipid when-to-let-her-pay-for-dinner bullshit.

“Look, I know you’re new in the business …,” Jake started.

Cassidy’s gaze sharpened, and Jake quickly reversed. Wrong tactic.

He started over. “I hear what you’re saying. I do. Women have always hated Oxford, and men hate Stiletto. Each side is objectifying the other sex, yada yada.”

Cassidy’s eyebrows lifted. “I don’t get the sense that you’re losing sleep over this.”

“No. Because it’s what we do,” Jake said, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not writing for chicks any more than the gals over at Stiletto are writing for men. There’s no reason to complicate shit.”

Cassidy silently leaned down and pulled an impressive stack of envelopes onto his desk. “See this pile? This is about two hundred reasons why we absolutely need to ‘complicate shit.’ The readers have spoken. The way it’s always been isn’t working.”

Touché.

Score one for the new guy.

But it didn’t mean Jake was going to be the one to bend over.

Journalism wasn’t about spoon-feeding your readers. Well, okay, sometimes it was. But mostly it was about having grit. It was about good writing, and going with your gut. And Jake’s gut told him that pussyfooting around with some short-skirted writer wasn’t going to help his resume any.

Jake Malone was a good journalist. A good team player, he was not.

He understood Cassidy’s situation. Really, he did. Times were changing, and there were probably a decent number of guys who swiped their girl’s magazine off the nightstand for a shitter read. Just like there were plenty of women who probably snuck a peek at their brother’s Oxford subscription to try to discern what men were “really thinking.”

But the way Jake saw it, both sides were bound to be disappointed.

Men didn’t want to hear that putting the toilet seat down was now considered nonnegotiable, any more than women wanted to know that yes, he does look at your tits first, and no, he probably doesn’t actually think you have “great eyes.”

However, Jake recognized the look on Alex Cassidy’s face. There was no way he was going to be talked out of his play-nice-and-write-a-joint-article-with-a-woman idea.

Jake switched tactics. “Cole should do it.”

“Cole Sharpe doesn’t even work here.”

Jake shrugged. “Have you told him that?”

Cassidy let out a sigh of frustration “I mean he’s not a full-time employee. He’s a sportswriter we have on contract from time to time because our Health and Fitness department has more turnover than a rotisserie chicken.”

Jake clicked his pen in triumph as though it had been decided. “See? Sportswriter. Women love that shit. Put him on a few fake dates with one of Camille’s man-eaters.”

Cassidy sat unmoving, holding Jake’s gaze in what they both recognized as a pissing contest.

“Bill told me you want the Travel gig,” Cassidy said, finally breaking the tense silence.

Jake went on high alert. Now they were getting somewhere. “I do.”

“Bill said you’d be great at it.”

“Then why the hell didn’t Bill make it official before he left?”

“We talked about it. Decided it would be fair if I had the chance to make that assessment for myself. Given your record.”

Jake felt tingling in the back of this hands—a sure sign his temper was stirring. “What record is that? The one that says that my name is the most recognized of anyone associated with the Oxford brand? The record that indicates I’ve brought in more advertising through a few happy hours than half the people on the sales team? That record?”

Cassidy leaned down slightly to pull something out of a side drawer. How much shit did this guy have hiding behind his desk?

His boss slapped a newspaper in front of him, and Jake carefully hid his wince. Oh. That record.

“Yeah. That record,” Cassidy said, reading his thoughts loud and clear.

“Does it make a difference if I say that this one isn’t true?” Jake asked, sliding the paper back across the desk.

“So Miss New York’s fiancé didn’t chase you out of her apartment with nothing but a half-empty bottle of bourbon to cover your balls?”

“A key detail was missing,” Jake said, pushing the paper back across the desk.

“What detail was that? They got the type of whisky wrong?”

“I didn’t know she was engaged,” Jake said quietly. “Didn’t even know she was involved with someone.”

Normally he didn’t make much of an effort to defend his reputation as a wild bachelor, but this wasn’t just about pride. This was about his job. And if the crap stories the scandal sheets liked to publish were the only thing standing between him and the Travel spot, he’d be glad to set the record straight.

When Christine Alverson had come on to him in the bar, all shiny red hair and passionate about the nonprofit she was starting for better technology in the schools of rough neighborhoods, he’d been blissfully unaware of the fiancé who worked out of San Francisco four days a week.

And when he’d found out, he’d been good and pissed. Just because Jake didn’t have any visions of being a husband didn’t mean he didn’t have plenty of respect for the institution of marriage. His parents were happily married, as was one of his sisters.

The thought of anyone stepping out on someone they’d pledged their life to …

Well, maybe Jake wasn’t quite as tolerant as he thought. Not when it came down to things like loyalty and f**king common decency.

Cassidy continued to study him. “Is it true that you never turn in your stories before four o’clock on the day they’re due?”

“Yes.”

Cassidy winced. “Christ, you didn’t think to lie to me on that one?”

“It’s also true that I’ve never missed a deadline. Never.”

“You’re still a wild card. With this Travel gig, I’d go months without seeing you. Maybe longer. You’ll be on different time zones, bedding women on all continents. You’ll have to manage yourself, and frankly, I’m not sure you’re up to it.”

“Now hold on just a second,” Jake said, his temper hitching up another notch. “You’ve been behind that desk for all of a month. I’ve been doing this for years. If anyone should do the proving—”

“Hear me out,” Cassidy interrupted. “I respect Bill’s opinion, but I deserve a chance to form one of my own. One that doesn’t come from the man who thinks you shit gold, one that doesn’t come from the tabloids, and one that doesn’t come from the harem of women you’ve slept with.”

Jake was tempted to give Cassidy the finger and head out the door.

Instead he pictured the stamps in his passport. Imagined what it would feel like to be rid of that itch between his shoulder blades telling him something was off.

This Travel gig was the only way he knew how to get rid of the empty feeling that had settled around him the past couple of years.

So instead he stood, taking a deep breath and walking toward the window. The move was inappropriate considering this wasn’t his office, but he needed a minute to pull his shit together and let his temper cool.

Alex Cassidy remained silent and gave Jake his space, which was appreciated. Would have even earned a thank-you if Jake wasn’t so annoyed that his new boss had flaunted his tabloid exploits at him.

What kind of crazy city did they live in that a magazine columnist even made it onto the local gossip page? Surely there were Broadway stars to stalk or displaced Hollywood starlets to follow around?

Jake glanced down at Eighth Avenue. It was busy, but then what street in New York wasn’t busy during midmorning?

Oxford’s offices were only on the sixth floor, and Jake was just able to make out the shape of strollers and dog walkers heading to Central Park, even as suits and high heels were heading into office buildings or the nearest Starbucks.

Jake realized that his eyes were lingering on the women. More precisely, the brunette women. Subconsciously he was watching for that haughty woman from the cab this morning. She was definitely the most interesting female he’d met in months.

It certainly hadn’t been his finest moment, creepily climbing into the taxi with her like that. He hadn’t been in that much of a hurry. But then he’d seen her up close, and she’d been snotty, standoffish, and completely gorgeous.

And he’d wanted to get under her skin just to watch the spectacle of it.

The joke had been on him, though, because then she’d told the cab driver the address of her office building.