by Lauren Runow
Copyright © 2018 by Jeannine Colette and Lauren Runow
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission
of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a
book review.
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Editing by Jovana Shirley of Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2018
www.JeannineColette.com
www.LaurenRunow.com
Created with Vellum
For Wilmari Carrasquillo-Delgado
1
BRYCE
I rub a thumb along my temple and look out the window of the black SUV. The way the modern architecture mixes in with the original buildings from when San Francisco first came to life used to amaze me. Now, I look at it as no more than my worst nightmare caving in on me day by day.
The fog is heavy in this part of town, creating an eerie scene over the city. That heaviness is like the weight on my shoulders I carry every day at Sexton Media.
As the oldest son of the late newspaper and magazine magnate, Marina Sexton, I have the responsibility of keeping her memory alive by running the print division, which includes the critically acclaimed San Francisco Standard, Los Angeles Chronicle, Chicago Sentinel, and thirteen local papers around the country. It should be the job of my father, but he’s too busy bagging his new wife and former beauty queen, Missy.
I loosen my top button as I lift my phone to call my brother, Austin. His phone rings and then goes directly to voicemail. I hit redial. I know the prick’s tricks; he’ll dodge my call for as long as possible.
When I get his voicemail again, I don’t hang up. “Call me back, or don’t even bother coming into the office tomorrow.” I toss the phone on the seat next to me, grunting in frustration.
I just left a meeting regarding our acquisition of the Seattle Gazette, and he didn’t even have the decency to show up.
Sometimes, I wonder about that fucking guy. It’s been eight years since we were granted our mother’s shares in the company. Eight years since he started skirting away from his responsibilities—finishing college at one of the top party schools and then enlisting in the Marines to play action hero. Now, he has to start taking the reins. Playing babysitter to his party-boy, fast-car-driving, whiskey-slugging antics is getting old.
Our baby brother, Tanner, on the other hand, is the most responsible of the three of us. He’s wrapping up his last semester at Columbia University. Once he graduates, he’ll be in the office, next to me, running our advertising division. The kid is a brilliant artist, and he gets the Snapchats and WhatsApps or whatever it is the kids are into these days.
While Austin tries to evade work as much as possible, Tanner lives and breathes the industry, choosing to study marketing and advertising with a minor in psychology, so he can create a new plan of promotional attack. I copy both brothers on all the financials because I know he’s prepping for the day when he can take his power position. Austin probably sends it directly to Trash.
I wish I knew how to get into Austin’s head. I just don’t get him. Everyone acts like I want to spend ninety hours a week chained to my desk. They think I enjoy sleepless nights, worrying about how my mother’s legacy will remain despite the failings of my father. People believe I have a heart of stone and don’t desire happiness, a family … love.
Maybe they’re right.
“Sir,” Brantley says. I look up at the back of his black driver’s cap. “I know you are the master of your schedule, but you have the gala at the museum tonight. I trust you don’t want to be late.”
“Christ,” I spit and look down at my Rolex. I have an hour to drop these documents off and change into my tuxedo. I wanted to start working on the contract so my team of attorneys can iron out the details first thing in the morning. That will have to wait.
Brantley pulls the SUV up to the steel-and-glass skyscraper that houses our company, and I’m out the door before he has a chance to open his.
I meet the tired eyes of my trusted driver and friend. “Wait outside. I’ll be quick.”
The last thing I want to do tonight is attend a gala at the Museum of Modern Art where my stepmother is receiving an award she doesn’t deserve, but rocking the family boat right now is out of the question.
The security guard nods as I pass through the lobby and straight to the elevator.
The ride to the twenty-second floor is always the longest part of my day. The portion of time that stands still for thirty-three seconds.
In thirty-three seconds, I can lose out on a major advertiser, miss the next headline, be swept out of a deal, or be unavailable for an important call.
In thirty-three seconds, I can be on the phone with the press secretary of the United States, send out several emails, and sign off on contracts that decide the fate of the fifteen hundred employees who work under our umbrella.
In thirty-three seconds, my entire family can fuck up something I have worked tirelessly for.
The door opens, and I’m headed down the hallway. The beauty about having my office on the floor of the newsroom is there are always people here working the story through the night. Editors are pressed on deadlines, fact-checkers cite their sources, and copy editors are dotting the i’s. The buzz in the air is giving me a little lift as I pass down the long hallway to my corner office overlooking the San Francisco Bay.
My assistant, Christine’s, computer is on, but her desk is vacant with her chair draped in an Anaheim Ducks jersey. Hockey isn’t my thing but I put up with her paraphernalia because a good assistant is hard to find. She’s my third assistant is eighteen months, and I’m not about to lose her over the Scott Niedermayer bobblehead that’s perched on her filing cabinet.
Well, I might not lose her over a figurine, but when I open my office door, I find I might just have a different situation on my hands.
Sitting on the glass-top desk in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows looking over the Bay Bridge, wearing nothing but a black lace bra and a matching set of panties, is Christine … my assistant.
“Hello, Mr. Sexton,” she drawls as she uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again in a motion to show off the crotchless nature of her panties.
“Christine—”
“You might want to close the door,” she says.
Despite my better judgment, I do so. The last thing I want anyone in the office to see is my assistant sprawled, half-naked, on my desk. I can just picture the headline: Media King Dalliances After Dark.
“What are you doing?” My tone is deep and serious.
She slides off the desk and walks toward me. Her eyes undress me with each sultry step. “Olive skin and the body of a Greek god. I love the way you look in this suit. What I’d like to see more than you in this suit is you out of it.”
I can’t help the way my eyes travel to the milky curve of her breasts. Her chest bounces as she walks, her nipples threatening to spill out of the lace.
I hold my hands up to stop her approach. “Whatever trouble you have in mind, I’m not into it.”
She saunters closer. Her body brushes up against me, and my cock twitches at the friction. She must feel it because she licks her bottom lip.
“Mr. Sexton, it certainly feels like you’re into it.” She runs a hand up and down my shaft from the outside of my suit, leaving me to momentarily close my eyes and moan. “God, you’re bigger than I dreamed.”
I am a man of great resolve. I know sleeping with my assistant is wrong, but—goddamn it—it feels amazing when she touches me like t
hat. I haven’t been with a woman in months, and it’s taking every ounce of my being to stop her.
“I’m your boss.” I place my hand on hers and remove it from my pants while sidestepping around her and walking straight toward my desk, feverishly looking for her clothes. I scan the desk, the filing cabinet, the bar, credenza, even behind the damn Guiana chestnut tree, but don’t see them anywhere in my office. “Where are your clothes?”
I spin around in time to see her remove her bra and dangle it from her forefinger. Her short blonde hair leaves her décolletage exposed. Her breasts are so full and lush. No matter how hard I try to look away, my mouth salivates.
She runs a finger down her neck and across her chest to slowly circle a nipple. “Powerful, provocative, and a man who knows how to get what he wants. I didn’t take the great and masterful Bryce Sexton to be coy. I thought you were more of a dominant.”
She drops the bra on the floor and stalks over with a shove, pushing me down into my desk chair.
I can’t say this is the first time I’ve been in this predicament. My last assistant quit after we had a one-night stand following the office Christmas party.
While the event was consensual, we weren’t on consenting terms about what was going to happen the next day. She wanted a relationship. I didn’t.
I look up into Christine’s blue eyes and say what I should have said the last time, “You are an incredibly beautiful woman, but I can’t sleep with my employee.”
She falls to her knees. “Oh, I don’t plan on sleeping with you. I plan on fucking you. With my mouth.”
No matter how this plays out … I’m screwed.
2
TESSA
“Are you ready?” Abby calls out from the hallway of our apartment complex.
“It’s open, come on in!”
I’m standing outside my closet, staring into the full-length mirror while holding a dress up against my body. It’s olive green with long sleeves and a scoop neck.
The apartment door flies open and Abby walks in, wearing a one-shoulder black chiffon dress that clings to her killer body. It makes me cast another disapproving glance at my boring ensemble.
“That looks like something you’d wear to a funeral,” she observes correctly.
“I bought it when we buried my grandpa. My life isn’t exactly conducive to galas at the Museum of Modern Art.”
She huffs as she walks up to the closet and starts rifling through the hangers. “Are you going through a gothic stage I don’t know about?”
I have an adorable wardrobe. I know a thing or two about fashion. As a makeup artist, it’s part of the job to know what works with my skin tone and body type. But, since my days are spent at a high-end salon where the dress code is head-to-toe black, it leaves my style choices a tad bit … limited.
I let out a sigh. “Perhaps this is a sign I shouldn’t be crashing the party.”
She waves me off. “None of us should. It’s for the who’s who of San Francisco, but Christine said it’s no problem since her boss is one of the benefactors.”
Leaning against the closet, I ask, “How exactly is that entry for us to a party we haven’t been invited to?”
Her mouth scrunches as she raises her shoulders. “Hell if I know. All I do know is, there’s free champagne and caviar. Two things I happen to love and can’t afford, so”—she grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door—“we’re raiding my closet.”
I met Abby a few months ago when I moved into the building. Our mail kept getting crossed, and one day, she invited herself into my apartment, saying she was—quote—“fascinated with my life.” We bonded over a cup of coffee which quickly turned into a glass of wine, which turned into an absurd amount of Chinese food and a Henry Cavill movie marathon.
And, now, here’s Abby, dragging me into her apartment across the hall and taking control of my appearance for the night.
“This isn’t necessary,” I say as she pulls out a stack of dress-clad hangers, throwing them on the bed.
Picking up the top one, she says, “Of course it is. You go out once a month. I think it’s vital you look incredible. You might meet the man of your dreams tonight!” I give her my best motherly scowl, which makes her add, “I know; I know. You don’t need a man in your life.”
The dress in her hands is green, and although it’s a lovelier shade than the one I was going to wear, I shake my head.
She looks at it and shrugs. “Agreed. It’s really a bridesmaid dress. I hated it even when I had it on.”
Taking in the excessive amount of tulle pooling from the waist, I add, “I bet the bride said you could shorten it and wear it again.”
“I’ve been in four weddings and have never re-worn one of these things.” She flings it back onto the bed and goes back to work, pulling a dress out of the middle of the pile. The next dress is silver and long but not formal. “We can pin your hair up and add some nice jewelry,” she suggests as she twirls the hanger in her fingers to make the dress dance in the air.
I sway my head from side to side, taking in the spaghetti straps and silky material. I could add some charcoal eye shadow and a white shimmer hue to the inner corners of my eyes to mimic the light reflecting off the dress. “It might work. Any other options?”
She looks at the pile of unclaimed dresses and tosses a few to the side. “I wore this one to my prom.”
I scrunch my nose at the taffeta ballgown. “You don’t throw anything out, do you?”
She gives it a wary glare. “Kinda sentimental.” With a flick of her hand, that dress, too, lands on the discarded pile. Another catches her eye. “Oh! What about this one?”
Lifting a hanger up with one hand, she rips the plastic wrapping from the dry cleaner and holds it out to me. I lean forward and grab it with two hands to bring it up to my neck.
The dress is garnet red with a plunging neckline. It’s sexy and daring—far more daring than anything I’ve ever worn. While I pride myself on knowing fashion, I also know when I can work an outfit and when I can’t. This Jessica Rabbit number is a little racy for my taste.
I’m about to tell her I’ll pass when she starts walking out of the room. “Before you say anything, try it on.”
The door closes behind her, and I’m left alone.
I hold the dress out at arm’s length to take in the spaghetti strap dress, right down to the crisscross on the back accented in tiny rhinestones.
I suppose it can’t hurt to try it on.
With a quick change, I’m in the dress, zipping it up and taking a look at myself in the mirror. The gown falls to the floor, so I rise up on my toes to get a feel of how it will fall once I have on heels. The neckline is low … way lower than I’m used to, and I’m thankful it’s snug enough that my boobs stay up without a bra.
There’s a knock on the door, but Abby doesn’t wait for my response when she walks back in.
She places a hand on her hip and leans back with her brown eyes shining. “Damn! That looks amazing on you.”
I drop flat on my feet and run my hands along my stomach. “It’s not too much? Maybe too sexy for a benefit?”
She shakes her head with wide eyes. “You’re a twenty-four-year-old woman with a body like a back road and an ass I can bounce a quarter off of. You look sophisticated and practically feline.” With her hands out, she paws in the air like a cat while squinting her eyes.
I let out a laugh. “Please don’t make that face again.” Running a hand along my chest, touching the bare skin all the way down to the bottom of my sternum, I let out a shaky breath. “I feel exposed.”
Abby stands behind me and sweeps my long brown hair around, so it falls over my right shoulder. “Feel empowered. You spend too many nights being Cinderella, and tonight is the ball. You can turn back into a pumpkin tomorrow.”
I point at her through the mirror. “A ball we’re crashing because we haven’t been invited.”
“Potato, potahto.” She twirls her hand in the air as she walks over
to her vanity. She grabs a pair of dangly gold earrings from a tray and places them in her ears. “Maybe you’ll meet some new clients, wow them with your style and have them booking appointments at the salon. You know, these society girls spend bank on their appearances.”
She does have a point there. My manager has been on me about bringing in more clients.
“Go finish getting ready. Christine will be home—” Abby’s words are interrupted by the slamming of the front door, followed quickly by the slamming of what I presume is Christine’s bedroom door. “Speak of the devil.”
I spin on my heel and quickly walk out of the apartment, barely missing out on her antics. I’ve met Christine a handful of times, and it’s enough to know she is a major drama queen.
From the sound of her incessant cursing, I already know she’s going to start the night with a problem. She’s the type of girl I hung out with in high school and then realized I didn’t have the time or patience for them. Maybe if I were a typical twenty-something, but I’m not.
When I’m back in my apartment, I close the door and lean against it, wondering why I’m even going to this party. I turned down Abby twice this afternoon but caved because she is a persistent little thing, and honestly, I like her. She’s fun without getting into trouble.
Some nights, when I’m craving adult conversation, she miraculously shows up to tell me about a date she went on or some guy she likes at work. It’s exciting to live vicariously through her.
I comb through my already-blown-out hair and pin up one side, liking how Abby threw it all over one shoulder. It kind of makes me feel like I’m covering my very exposed chest even though my hair isn’t hiding a damn thing.
It takes me twenty minutes to prime and contour my face. My eyes are lined in black, and I use a metallic shadow to make my eyes pop. Then, I add some nude gloss to my lips. With one last look, I slide on my heels, grab a clutch, and head across the hall.
