by Max Monroe
Stupid brain. I shake off those pointless thoughts. It doesn’t matter what he said or how good the kiss was. Or that he talked about putting his face between my legs. It was a one-time thing.
Plus, he was the one who walked away, not me.
Emory scrunches up her nose. “Okay, half of what you just said doesn’t even make sense, but you’re forgetting something else you know.”
“What?”
“That he’s a good kisser.”
I groan and drop my face into my hands. I don’t want to be discussing this at all. In fact, I’d rather be harpooning myself with one of those guns they use to tag sharks and shit.
She smacks my arm to get my attention. “That’s a pretty important detail, friend.”
“Sure. Whatever you say,” I agree just to make her happy and lift my eyes to hers. “But you really need to wrap your mind around the fact that there’s nothing else there, E, no matter how much your romantic heart wants there to be.”
Her only answer is a frown heard ’round the world.
And if I’m honest, I’m kind of sad too.
But I don’t have time for a man, and I don’t have the investigative skills to find one I don’t actually know. This is a job for a Sherlock, and I’m really more of a Shirley.
Fuck, that’s not even true. I’m a Laverne.
Regardless, I need to focus on my firm, the hotel, and turning things around with my new boss.
It’s going to require long hours and personality adjustments and a lot of hard work.
I don’t have time to stop and smell the roses, and I don’t have time to fall for someone random, good kisser or not. Especially not someone who walks away before I can invite them to sleep with me.
Love, it seems, will just have to come later.
Trent
Greer Hudson.
The new designer for the hotel in New Orleans, the snarky—albeit gorgeous—woman from the gym, and my waking nightmare.
She made pouty, disapproving lips at me for the entirety of the meeting with the new team, and the weight of her stare makes me want to shove it off and slam it to the ground like body builders do after snatching.
Well, probably something less violent, but just as visually significant.
The more she stared at me with those big, blue, judgmental eyes of hers, the more annoyed I became and the heavier my chest felt. My mind might as well have been a hoarder’s house for all the clutter and garbage filling every thought.
Perhaps the worst part? This is just the beginning.
In less than a week, we will be spending all of our days, week after week, month after month, working as closely as two people can work.
It’s intimate and inescapable, and the whole idea of being crushed by inexplicable ire and manic, annoyed thoughts for the next nine months is nearly unthinkable.
I retreated to the familiar feel of my office to contemplate my options, but the gray walls and clean lines of my desk haven’t had anything to say.
Paper clips litter the reclaimed wood surface in a trail generated by my anxiety, and three empty coffee cups sit mockingly in the corner. Busying my hands and readying my mind felt like the only options since the moment that meeting ended and my new staff left for the day, but all I’m left with now is an overexaggerated coffee buzz and no idea what to do about Greer.
It’s only taken two interactions for me to know she’s outspoken and obstinate and her every opinion appears to be the opposite of my own. She hates the design of the Vanderturn Manhattan, one of our most successful hotels and the crown jewel in my father’s empire. She’s beautiful, sure, but trusting her taste for every single element in this hotel feels like a career death sentence.
What am I going to do? Can I really do my best work like this?
Everything is on the fucking line—my career, my relationship with my father, the success of Turner Properties, my mother’s happiness—and making sure this hotel is everything it should be and more is the most important thing I will ever do.
And I’m supposed to just, what, rely on this infuriating woman to design it?
My phone pings from in the middle of my desk calendar, and I pick it up to check the message.
The name Caplin Hawkins fills the tiny bubble, beckoning me to open it, but the action it sparks is different altogether.
Fuck the message. I need to see him in person.
I shove back in my desk chair and rise, turning in one fluid motion to grab my suit jacket off the coat rack behind me, dropping the phone into my pocket, scooping my keys out of the top left-hand drawer of my desk, and striding out of my office with a new sense of purpose.
Caplin may have texted me as a friend, but he’s about to get a visit as my lawyer.
“There’s got to be a way!” I shout, pacing the herringbone tile floor so furiously, Caplin might have to regrout his office.
Fifteen minutes ago, I forced my way past his assistant when I arrived and barged in during the middle of what was apparently an “important” call.
I explained quickly that this was an emergency, a four-alarm fire, and he reacted accordingly by asking the president of ABC to reschedule.
The problem came when I explained that the fire was more like a firing—of an employee.
A new employee.
A very annoying employee with a menacing influence on the retention of my sanity.
Greer Hudson, I explained to him, is the devil in angelic clothing.
With her cerulean blue eyes, tanned skin, and dark brown hair, she’s everything a man should be fighting to keep.
Except that she’s quite possibly the most maddening, rudely forthright, boldly sarcastic person I’ve ever met. And I cannot spend nine months fighting with her while I’m trying to complete the New Orleans project.
Since my arrival, I’ve suggested every reason for firing an employee I’ve ever heard of. My supposed friend and hotshot lawyer has turned down every one of them, the bastard. It’s like he wants me to punch him right in the center of his proportionally featured face.
Undisclosed pregnancy?
She’s not pregnant, he says. Plus, if she were, that’s about as low as you can fucking get, Turn. And you might be a dick sometimes, but we both know you’re not an insensitive tool.
What about damaging company property?
What property? Your fucking pride?
Theft?
Stealing your sanity doesn’t count.
He tries telling me to give her a chance, but I’m still on a roll.
I know it’s insane. I know I’ve quite possibly lost my fucking mind, but goddamn, I don’t see Greer Hudson and me working side by side for nearly a year and it ending in anything but absolute disaster.
The Vanderturn New Orleans hotel needs to be a success.
But how can the designer of said hotel be someone who called the appearance of our most popular hotel ugly?
If only my father weren’t such a controlling, prideful son of a bitch when it comes to his business decisions. This would be a much easier scenario if I could just tell him that his choice in designer isn’t going to cut it.
But me taking a bullet to the heart would end better than giving him that kind of constructive criticism.
Fuck, I have to figure out something here.
If there are a billion, trillion stars in the sky, there have to be at least a million and one legal loopholes for every situation. I round the proverbial third base and head for home, trying my last few reasons with an even deeper sense of desperation.
“A slander clause,” I suggest.
He frowns and tosses the tiny basketball he keeps in the bottom drawer of his desk up like he’s shooting. When he doesn’t give me anything else, I move on to the next.
“Or…misappropriation of taste!”
He quirks a brow. “And that’s what, exactly?”
“There’s no way my father knows how she feels about the Vanderturn Manhattan. Isn’t that something she’d have to disclose?
“When did Turner Properties start using protocols from fucking Gossip Girl?” he tosses back with a far too knowing smirk. “You and I both know her not liking the design of a hotel she had no part in designing is utter bullshit.”
God, he’s right, and I’m seriously losing it.
But fucking hell. I need an out.
“Goddammit, Cap! Work with me here. There’s got to be something.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t—”
“No, no.” I point an accusatory index finger toward him. “Don’t you say it.”
“Look, Turn—”
“No!”
“You already know this, but since you’re obviously having some kind of psychotic break that I’m praying is temporary, I’m going to say it. You can’t fire her without opening a whole shitcan of shitworms. She hasn’t done anything wrong.” He says what, deep down, I already know. “You’re just going to have to ride it out. I’d suggest literally if you weren’t such a prude.”
“A prude?” My face contorts into confusion and annoyance. “Can a man even be a prude?”
“You’re what I like to call evidentiary support.”
“Fuck off.”
“Dude, you’re in my office. If you want me to fuck off, you’ll have to do the fucking. Oh, whoops. Forgot. You’re a prude.” He laughs like a hyena, and I decide immediately to cut him from my life with a savagery and ruthlessness that rivals the most oppressive tyrant.
“What I can do for you,” he continues, “if you insist on carrying on with this whole insane charade rather than fucking the insanity out of your system, is a background check. I’ve got a PI I’ve worked with on occasion, and he’s licensed in forty-nine states.”
Hmm. Maybe his offer holds merit, even if I’m supremely curious as to why one state has refused this guy credentials.
“Is the state he’s not licensed in this one?”
“Would I be involved with someone like that?” Caplin asks, and I nearly snort.
“Yes. Yes, you would.”
He smiles, secure in the questionable parts of his morals. Hell, that’s probably why he’s the main counsel for pretty much every fucking billionaire and millionaire around. Not to mention, a successful lawyer who turned a million-dollar idea of creating an app to assist people with cheap and quick legal counsel into a thriving company he sold off for a measly 2.2 billion dollars.
“And what about Louisiana?” I ask and he chuckles.
“He’s licensed in the states you need him to be. Trust me.”
I don’t trust him one bit, but I have only two options at this point—use the resources he’s suggesting to dig up dirt on Greer Hudson, or turn tyrannical against him while also losing my sanity.
Bloody torture will have to wait for another day.
“Fine. Do it.”
“Please? Thank you?” he prods.
“You’re welcome,” I goad back.
His brown eyes deepen with sin and enjoyment, and his voice is eerily calm. “I know people, Turn.”
I roll my eyes, and he smirks.
“Just don’t act shocked if you wake up behind bars one day.”
“I’ll prepare nightly.”
“By sticking things in your ass? Because that’s what will happen to you. You’re a real pretty boy, and they love those in there.”
“Fuck you, dude.”
“Yes, that is what they’ll call the game they play with you. Because you’ll be the prettiest boy there.”
“I know it’s hard for you to admit that I’m better-looking,” I say with a sly smirk. “But don’t worry, over the years, I’ve learned to understand your backhanded compliments. And thank you.”
Cap laughs, and just as he opens his mouth, I quickly cut him off.
“Anyway, don’t you have better things to do today than to compare our good looks?” I ask, knowing we’ll be stuck in this vortex of nonsense and insults all day if I don’t.
“Yes, in fact, I do. I was in the middle of an important call when you barged in here with a hard-on for termination, remember? Stroke that thing a little tonight, and it might just go away.”
“Prick.”
“Prude.”
“I’m not a prude, fuck you very much.” I roll my eyes, and he challenges me with a smirk.
“Prove it.”
“How?” I raise an amused brow. “You want me to pull out my dick or something?”
“We both know that’s the kind of thing I would do, not you.”
I nod. “Because you have zero fucking shame.”
“You got that right, Turn.” He smirks. “There ain’t no shame in my big-dick game.”
“Jesus,” I mutter, and Cap just laughs, his entire fucking body vibrating with humor.
“Anyway, it’s been what? Five? Six? Twenty months since you’ve even touched a woman?”
“It’s been exactly one day.”
He furrows his brow.
“I kissed someone at the New Year’s Eve party the other night.”
“Ooh, kissing,” Cap croons in an annoyingly fake voice. “Did it happen under the bleachers or in the back seat of your car?”
“I had just met her, dude. We kissed at midnight, and she was wearing a Beyoncé mask because of Quince’s terrible fucking idea. What was I supposed to do, fuck her in the bathroom?”
He laughs. “That’s what I did.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say, but it’s mostly in an effort to hide my jealousy. The truth is, Caplin’s not that off base. I was so into the woman at the party, so into the kiss we had at midnight, I was considering all the ways we could spend the rest of the night. Visions of her in my bed played vividly in my mind, and if I’m honest, still do.
I wanted to take her up to one of the penthouse suites and spread her legs.
I wanted to touch her. Taste her. Slide my cock inside of her.
I wanted to do a lot of fucking things, but my father’s stare was weighty, even from across the room, and despite the protection of my mask, it felt like he could see right through me.
His judgment about my behavior at a work function—a party we as a company were responsible for putting on—was more than I was willing to risk.
I know I shouldn’t give him that much control over my personal life, but the fact remains, he’s finally giving up enough control to let me run the show on something big. And right now, the New Orleans project is my main priority. My entire focus. And, quite possibly, a huge turning point in my career that will result in my dad finally trusting me and realizing I am more than capable of running Turner Properties.
Random sex with a random woman, no matter how irresistible she was, was not a good enough reason to put that kind of future on the line. No matter how fucking worth it her perfect, satin-covered body and plush, warm mouth made it seem at the time.
“You know what?” Cap asks, but apparently, the question is for himself. “I am ridiculous. Because you can’t say ridiculous without saying dick, and you can’t come without getting your dick wet.”
I laugh. “You can’t get genital herpes without sticking your dick in random pussies either.”
“Geez, Timmy. Back away from the well. That’s what condoms are for.”
“For fucking random strangers without contracting diseases? I’ll suggest that to Trojan for their new campaign,” I say with a little smirk. “I’m sure their marketing department is just waiting for that kind of million-dollar idea.”
“I’d buy forty cases,” Cap retorts, and another laugh escapes my lungs.
“And go through them in a week.”
“Glad to see you’re starting to understand just how virile my big cock and I really are, Turn.”
“I swear to God,” I say through a laugh. “One day, I will get a wedding invitation for the impending nuptials of you and your dick.”
“And I will look fucking gorgeous in a wedding dress. Satin and silk, though. No fucking sequins and tulle.”
“So that��s how it would work.” I grin. “You would be the bride?”
“Of course.” He snorts. “My cock is far more of a man than I am.”
“Touché, Cap. Tou-fucking-ché.”
He smirks like he’s the smartest man in the room, and I shake my head when I realize just how far off track he’s managed to take us.
“God, sometimes I really do kind of hate you.”
“I love you too. Now get the hell out of my office, and don’t come back until you’ve fucked the new chick.”
I laugh. “I know your general inclination is toward absolute insanity, but I’m not going to have sex with her.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“For about a million different reasons…not only are intraoffice relationships a hell no, but she’s literally the last person I would consider having sex with.”
“Is she ugly?”
“No,” I admit. “She’s beautiful.”
“Does her pussy have actual fire ants living inside?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Then why in the hell would she be the last person on earth you’d have sex with? Because I personally never say never until I see a vagina with fangs and venom. Even then, I’d consider it. Sometimes freaky, kinky shit is just what the good doctor ordered.”
“She’s an employee, Cap,” I repeat. “And she’s obstinate. Stubborn. Fucking infuriating.”
“Mm-hmm. And you, what? Have the employee handbook memorized and say your prayers over it nightly?”
I shake my head. “You don’t get it.”
“Oh no. I get it perfectly.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Oh, trust me, I do.” He smirks like the devil. “I’m even going to start a countdown on my desktop.”
“To what?”
“The fucking,” he says with the biggest grin that could fit on his giant head. “Because that’s exactly where you’re headed, Turn.”
Pfft. That’s not happening. Ever. I’ll be rolling around in my grave before I have sex with Greer Hudson.
But this is a useless conversation where Cap is concerned. He’s convinced something nefarious is going to happen, but he’s a moron when it comes to shit like this. The bastard thinks every life scenario ends with sex. Funerals, business meetings, trips to the fucking grocery store, sex is always a possible outcome for ole Cap.
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