It’s a Work Thing
Michelle Karise
Copyright © 2020 by Michelle Karise
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. 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 an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design—T.E. Black Designs www.teblackdesigns.com
Developmental Editing - Marni McRae
Editing— Kristen Breanne, Your Editing Lounge
Proofreading—Dawn Webb-Lucous, Yours Truly Book Services
Cover Model—@IamNaomiThomas, IStockPhoto
Contents
Synopsis
1. Garrett
2. Jasmine
3. Garrett
4. Jasmine
5. Garrett
6. Jasmine
7. Garrett
8. Jasmine
9. Garrett
10. Jasmine
11. Garrett
12. Jasmine
13. Jasmine
14. Garrett
15. Jasmine
16. Jasmine
17. Jasmine
18. Garrett
19. Garrett
20. Jasmine
21. Garrett
Epilogue
Afterword
Acknowledgments
About the Author
A Sneak Peek of “Kandi’s Crush”
Synopsis
Garrett
They call me the King of Dynex, architect of the company’s crown jewel: the world’s largest scientific website. Half the company loves me, the other can’t stand me—when you’ve got your sights set on bigger things, it comes with the territory. Bonus: My ice-cold reputation hides my broken heart.
If Dynex pulls off its upcoming public offering, my best friend and I will be swimming in corporate stock, free to launch our own company. Now more than ever, I need to be focused. I don’t need a distraction like Jasmine Carmichael, a gorgeous consultant with honey-almond skin and a killer smile.
Jasmine
Ever had any luck with dating apps? No? Girl, same. I don’t play games. One, my travel schedule as a consultant doesn’t allow it. And two, at the first hint I’m an old-fashioned girl in search of romance, I’m ghosted.
I shouldn’t be attracted to six-three of citrine-eyed, muscular, urban sophistication like Garrett Hamilton. He’s a client, and clients are definitely out of my dating pool. But something about him makes me want to ignore the rules and roll the dice.
I should have remembered corporate games never end well—especially when you gamble with your heart.
To the professional and appropriate girls who love veiny forearms, believe that grits are best served with salt and pepper, and who've conquered the three-strand twist. This novel is for you.
Garrett
Life and love each bring along their own set of challenges and stressors, but there is no greater pressure than making it through the holiday season. The parties, gifts, and forced family gatherings are enough to make any man lose his mind.
The contemplation of the past three hundred and sixty-five days can make the most confident person feel inadequate. Didn't get the promotion you hoped for? Dumped by your significant other before the start of the holiday season? Eleven fifty-nine p.m. on December thirty-first is the perfect time to reflect on it.
Then there's the search for the perfect date.
Kiss someone at midnight, and your year will be filled with love.
The basic tenet of the superstition is that your first experiences in the New Year set the tone for that year. If your home is clean at midnight, then your home will remain spotless throughout the year. If you have money in your wallet, you will have wealth for the next twelve months. If you kiss your dream woman at midnight, then you will have a year filled with love.
I have my mother to thank for pushing that silly belief in my head.
Bringing in the new year with a scotch and soda, flannel pajamas, and the remote control would have been pleasant and relaxing, but celebrating alone wouldn't have been wise. I couldn't risk being by myself for the rest of the year. Besides, I had received my first formal invitation to a work-related party with members of my job's c-suite and the board of directors.
Attending the party gave me an excuse to wear the single-breasted midnight blue velvet jacket that I'd recently purchased, along with black slacks, and a crisp, white, button-down shirt. A pair of patent leather Christian Louboutin loafers pulled off the look, and all courtesy of one of the few women in my life who wouldn't sleep with me—my personal shopper.
Armed with a bottle of fifty-year-old aged scotch, I hopped in the car and made the thirty-mile trek from my River North neighborhood to a stately home in the North Shore. And there I stood, in the land where Christmas threw up, freezing my ass off while the party raged inside.
I'd rung the doorbell once then turned to look at the holiday lighting display. This was a far cry from my parents' tasteful and homeowner's association approved Christmas decorations. Someone had draped tens of thousands of lights over every surface of the Tudor. A larger-than-life Santa Claus inflatable bounced in time to an instrumental version of "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" blaring through outdoor speakers.
I waited thirty seconds before ringing the doorbell again. Inside, laughter and chatter roared. The party sounded loud, but not so loud that the host would forget their responsibility to answer the door. I pulled out my cellphone to call the organizer before I froze into a block of ice.
I hadn't even found his telephone number when the door opened, and an inebriated Tony Jones stood in the doorframe. Glazed eyes stared at me while I focused on his bowtie that sat slightly askew. I wanted to alert him that he had a stain of something on his shirt. His disheveled appearance was atypical. Tony looked like stir-fried shit.
"Fuck. How long have you been out here? Why didn't you knock harder? Come on in!" Before I could answer, he opened the door wider and hollered back to someone. "It's Garrett. I thought Clem was watching out for guests. Garrett, let me get your coat. Glad you came out."
I stepped into the foyer before shrugging out of my jacket and scarf. I handed Tony the bottle of Macallan and blinked several times in amazement. If the exterior of the house looked like Christmas threw up, the interior looked like a small child's nightmare. Right inside the foyer stood a sixteen-foot Christmas tree. Wreaths and flowers festooned the walls. Life-sized Nutcrackers and Santa figurines stood in each corner.
"Ah. You're a man of class. Thank you." He surveyed the label. "Let's break open the seal a little later."
"You're welcome. How's it going?"
"Everything’s good. It'll be better when it's time to cash in the shares."
Tony served as one of the board members and the most trusted advisor of the Dynex Industries leadership team. He'd sat on the board since the inception of the corporation, almost twelve years. He and his wife, Clementine, owned several companies and had an affinity for investing in startups.
"I hear you. Where's Clementine?"
"She's around here somewhere. I'll put your coat away in a bedroom. We've set up the bar and buffet in the back." He tossed his head in the direction of the rear of the house. "Make yourself at home."
And with that, he
disappeared into the chaos, leaving me alone to fend for myself in the sea of drunken partygoers. For the first hour, I milled about, drifting from inane conversation to inane conversation. At some point, a group sucked me into a somewhat spirited discussion on the future of social media. Spirited in that it was loud, and there were exaggerated hand gestures. I was only engaged because I was one of the youngest guests in attendance, so I had to serve as the authority on the millennials. I stood firmly on the side that it wasn't going away, and we should prepare ourselves for the next iteration.
I politely excused myself and continued to make my way through the clusters of revelers and stopped to dance a little with one of the female guests.
On my way to the bar for a second whiskey sour, womanly hands came from behind and encircled my waist. The mystery woman's face pressed against my back.
"Guess who?"
I'd recognize that nasal voice from anywhere.
"Hi." I inched out of her clutches and turned to face her. My greeting came out more like a sigh than a genuine acknowledgment, and it didn't go unnoticed.
Bronwyn Griffin is one of the first people I met when I moved to Chicago. I had been fresh out of college and working my dream job at a fledgling startup. For a year and a half, Bronwyn and I ran around Chicago, pretending to love and care for each other. She was with me for my potential, and I was with her because I was alone in an unfamiliar city.
Not only was she vapid and privileged, but she surrounded herself with a group of fucked up friends. The partying and hardcore drug usage grew old; I became tired of the scene and broke up with her. We were friends with benefits for months later, but that all came to a grinding halt when she found a wealthy restauranteur interested in making her his wife.
"Don't sound so excited about seeing me. How long has it been?"
"I can't remember," I grunted out before scanning the room to figure out where Tony dropped off my coat and scarf. “Hey, it was great seeing you. Take care."
I moved to walk around her, but she blocked me. Pressing a hand to my chest, she leaned in.
"You still look . . . great. I've followed your achievements over the years, and I'd hoped you would be here." She placed the opposite hand on my back and pulled me closer. "I'm alone if you want company."
Anyone who overheard this conversation would not have mistaken her intent. Bronwyn wanted to fuck. The difference was that I wasn't interested. First, she was a married woman. Second, she was annoying. And finally, she didn't stimulate me intellectually.
"Have a happy new year." I moved out of her reach and added a curt nod before turning on my heel and walking away.
She followed behind me, but I lost her by ducking into the first available dimly lit room. I hoped I'd found where Tony hid my coat. I had completed my obligatory rounds. I had taken part in small talk. If I hopped in my car, I could make it downtown in time for fireworks on the river.
I closed the heavy door behind me, muffling the laughter and loud voices from the raucous party.
"Need a break, too?" a husky, feminine voice called out from a darkened corner of the room.
"I'm sorry. I hope I didn't disturb you." I spun to open the door and step out.
"Wait. You didn't disturb me."
There was a click of a lamp switch, and soft light filled the space. I turned and strode further into the room. Nestled in an alcove was a loveseat in front of heavy, emerald green draperies. A small table to the left of the sofa held a plate of sweets and a silver champagne bucket.
The owner of that voice had a curtain of straight, chestnut hair that fanned over her shoulders and flowed down her back. She wore a black satin skirt with a fitted sparkly blouse. Long, gorgeous tanned legs ended in hot pink heels. A rich, berry pink lipstick emphasized golden skin and lush lips. She looked as if she had just returned from an island vacation.
She sat straighter in the seat; her eyes roamed over me, devouring every inch of my body. That wicked mouth mesmerized as it curved into a smile. I itched to kiss that pink lipstick off of it.
"You didn't answer my question. Did you slip away for a break?" Her voice was low and raspy. I imagined how she would sound when she breathed secrets into my ear as her nails scraped along the sensitive skin on my back.
"Are you alone to harass innocent passersby?" I returned a smile and took a few more steps near the sitting area.
"Innocent?" She chuckled a hearty, throaty laugh. "I made a conscious decision to drink my way into the new year. That would be more fun than being out there pretending to be joyous." She held up the orange-labeled bottle of Veuve Clicquot for emphasis. "There's too much pressure in life to always be on. In this room, you can be as happy or as grumpy as you choose. This is the room for real people. Sit down. Rest your heels." She moved her skirt out of the way and patted the neighboring sofa cushion.
I could stick around for a few minutes longer.
I walked over and took a seat next to her. The nearness sent electrical currents through my limbs. She smelled like she looked—dark and mysterious. I bet she tasted like the winter, delicious with hints of currants and figs.
Bottle still in hand, she stood and began twisting the wire cage surrounding the cork. Deftly, she turned against the stopper until it released. My companion didn't flinch at the pop and kept the contents from projecting across the room. She dropped back onto her seat.
"To new years, new lives, and new friends." She took a dramatic swig and handed it to me. Our fingers briefly touched before I held the bottle high.
"To new friends." I tilted the bottle to my lips and downed the liquid. The effervescent bubbles rolled down cold and tickled my nostrils.
"I feel like this is a party from 2016 that keeps being recycled every year. Same people. Same food. Same jokes. If I can't change the party, then I can change my contribution to it."
The hot pink satin heel dangled off her foot as it flexed and retracted. My eyes followed the line from her foot to her calf. She nudged the bottle against my jacket.
"If we will be friends, I ask that you call me Colette."
"Friends don't let their friends go without dessert." I nodded toward the plate.
She picked up the plate of macarons and a large slice of red velvet cake. She glided the fork through the cake and held it to my lips. When I opened, she slid the morsel into my mouth. I chewed as she took a forkful for herself and groaned approvingly.
"Good, huh?" I asked, watching her mouth as it moved. I liked women who had a healthy appreciation for food . . . and sex. This time, I took the plate and handed over the bottle. I plucked a red macaron from the plate and held it to her lips. After she bit into the cookie, I tossed the remaining bite into my mouth.
"Tell me something that nobody knows," she said.
"I'm only here to network. I'd rather be home."
"Climbing the good old-fashioned corporate ladder. I've always said that it isn't what you know, rather who you know. Cheers." She held the bottle up in salute before taking a gulp and passing it to me.
"Well, don't leave me out here. Tell me a secret."
"My New Year's resolution is to have fun. There's a belief that the person you ring the new year in with is the person that you spend it with. I want to live life on the edge, not play it so safe. All work with no play makes Colette a very dull girl."
"I find it hard to believe that you're a wallflower."
"I'm not. I'm the right woman to have fun with." The flirtation in her tone contradicted the seriousness of her facial expression. "Judging from the fact that you're alone and sitting with me, I would say you’re the perfect man for fun."
That statement was an approval to take our interaction where I’d wanted it to go.
"You have a bit of frosting on your mouth,” I murmured. She ran her tongue over her lips. "You missed it, let me get it." I glided my thumb over the full, cherry-colored pout. The lipstick smeared across her lovely lips. She placed a small kiss to the pad, then inhaled a sharp breath when I raised my
hand to my mouth, flicking at my lipstick-stained thumb.
Taking her chin in my hand, I angled her face to mine and sampled those perfect lips. She tasted like champagne and cake. Her mouth was so warm and so wet as her tongue entered my mouth and tangled against mine. The kiss lasted until we were both breathless, then we continued as if our lives depended on it. We pulled away but remained mere inches apart. Her small, shallow breaths misted my lips as she let out a sigh.
"I'm not sure I got it all," I whispered against the corner of her mouth while caressing her face. I tingled and ached for more.
This time, she leaned in and kissed me. Sucking my bottom lip and moving over me to straddle my hips. Each move ground against my hardening cock.
Over the next hour, we made out like teenagers. At the stroke of midnight, while our friends blew noisemakers and cheered to bring in the New Year, she was still grinding her pussy against my clothed cock.
"Happy New Year," I breathed against her neck.
At the stroke of midnight, you're supposed to kiss the person that you want to keep kissing.
Seven months later . . .
"Morning, Beverly." I hurriedly turned the knob and rushed into my office before my administrative assistant could respond to my greeting. I had a busy day ahead and wasn't in the mood for small talk.
Most people would be genuinely interested in chatting with coworkers, or at least, would understand that it was important to pretend to enjoy it. I wasn't that great of an actor. Besides, Beverly knew that I was practically comatose until my first cup of coffee. The best part of waking up was a strong cup of dark roast poured from a French press. Emails and to-do lists made little sense without it.
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