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I’m trying to decide what the hell to do for lunch now that Ellie’s off the menu, when in walks my assistant, Hannah.

“Eric Webb here to see you?”

“Webb?” I flip through the candidate file on my desk. Nothing for Webb. “I thought we were done for today.”

“Apparently this guy is a friend of Ryan’s. He says Ryan promised we’d squeeze him in?” Hannah scrunches up her face, her classicWTFlook. “I’m guessing this is the first you’re hearing about it, too. And I’m also guessing you haven’t eaten anything since that disgusting kale smoothie this morning.”

“Yep. And nope.” Figures. Ryan’s been so focused on the Portland office, it doesn’t surprise me he forgot to mention the additional interview.

“Want me to blow him off and order your lunch?” she asks.

“No, that’s not necessary. Send him in.” Can’t be worse than Brian “Six Sigma” Andover, and lunch can wait.

Gives me an excuse to wait a little longer for Ellie, too.

Pathetic, Holt. You need to get laid, and soon, before you make a fool of yourself.

The new guy steps through the door, attaché case in hand, his smile guarded. He looks nervous—a touch gawky, too—wearing a suit that’s a size too big and a mustache straight out of a 1970s porno.

“You’ll have to forgive me.” I move the folder in front of me to the side. “Ryan didn’t have a chance to send over your resume, Mr.—Webber, was it?”

“Webb.” His voice cracks, but he clears his throat and tries again. “Eric Webb.”

“Eric Webb.” I stand up to shake the guy’s hand, which is slim and surprisingly soft—definitely not into pumping iron, this one. “How do you know Ryan?”

“At the risk of sounding cliché, he’s a friend of the family,” Webb says as we take our seats. “Our fathers went to Yale together. Frank was best man at my parents’ wedding.”

I nod, relaxing into my chair. Ryan’s dad Frank is a hard-ass, but he’s a good man, and definitely knows the business. If this guy is connected to Frank, he’s gotta be good people.

“So. Why should I hire you, Eric?” I give him the fastball, no time for chit-chat. Guy doesn’t miss a beat, though, fielding my questions with an ease his slightly unpolished appearance belies.

“You need me,” he says matter-of-factly, “to diversify your strategic value proposition. You’re getting great returns for your clients, generating lots of buzz on the street. But at the end of the day, you’re still following the same old playbook.”

I cross my arms and raise a brow. “Go on.”

“I specialize in attracting and retaining risk-tolerant, high-net-worth clients looking for unconventional strategies in a time of market volatility and global instability. I’ve got a nose for emerging tech—we’re talkingrighton the bleeding edge. Things most people never even hear about outside of science fiction.”

Webb has me on the hook now. S&H deals mostly with athletes and celebs—people with lots of cash to play with—and they’re always hot for the next big thing. And my friend, and client, Sam, the head of one of the world’s most ground-breaking tech companies, is always telling me I need a tech nerd with vision in my corner.

If Webb can deliver that, I want him on my team.

I ask him a few questions about his experience, letting him wax poetic about his ideal portfolio mix. He has good instincts, the right blend of education and experience, and he knows his stuff.

But what I really need is a candidate who can think outside the MBA box and carry on a conversation about something other than ROI, APR, SEC, and the rest of the alphabet soup my analysts are swimming in.

I need someone who can charm clients and close deals.

I need someone creative, driven, and passionate.

I need someone who can take my mind off my best friend’s little sister.

“What are you passionate about, Mr. Webb?” I interrupt a story about one of his former clients, surprising us both.

He waits a beat. Two. It’s the first time he hasn’t had a ready answer.

“P-Passionate?” he stammers.

“Yeah, something that lights you up inside, gets your juices flowing.”

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