Love Hate Relationship (a Colors novel)

by Jessica Prince

  And nothing was going to hold me back.

  “This is bullshit,” I grumbled as I collapsed against the back of my chair.

  “Well, too damn bad, Rowan,” Lauren said from across the wide expanse of her desk. If she hadn’t been the best goddamned publicist in New York, I swear to God, I’d fire her simply for being a raging pain in my ass. Lauren casually leaned back in her chair, twirling a pen back and forth through her fingers. She appeared almost bored as she looked over at me. “The last personal assistant you were in charge of hiring was gone within the first month. You’ve left me no choice. I can’t trust you with the hiring process, so now I get to take time out of my hectic schedule to babysit you through the interviews so I can guarantee we get a PA who's worth what they’re being paid. And this time, he or she will be employed by Enterprise, not you. So you can’t fire them for no good reason.”

  “I didn’t fire Veronica for no good reason,” I argued. “My reason was totally valid.”

  “First of all,” Lauren said, sitting tall in her chair. “Her name was Victoria. And second, you fired her because you slept with her—”

  “And she got clingy!” I interrupted. “She turned into a grade-A psycho, Lauren. The woman should have been committed, for Christ’s sake.”

  “If you wouldn’t go around New York sticking your dick in every willing female then maybe you wouldn’t have this problem, Rowan. Ever think of that?!”

  “Aww, baby,” I crooned, knowing I was risking the well-being of my nuts, but I was unable to control my desire to push her buttons. I’d worked with Lauren for nearly a decade, and her bark was most certainly as bad as her bite. The woman was a shark, and although teetering in her mid-fifties, she still looked good for her age… damn good. I respected the hell out of her as a publicist, but that didn’t mean I didn’t get a kick out of pissing her off every now and then. “You feeling left out? Just say the word and I’ll bend you over that desk and fuck the tension right out of you.”

  “Oh, for the love of God,” she huffed with a dramatic roll of her eyes. “This is exactly what I’m talking about. You’re a goddamned PR nightmare, Rowan!”

  “I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration,” I muttered as I crossed my arms over my chest, feeling somewhat insulted.

  “It’s not, Rowan, believe me. I wish I were exaggerating. You were photographed having sex in public with a married woman…”

  “In my defense, I didn’t know she was married,” I responded.

  “I saw the pictures, Rowan,” Lauran said dryly. “There isn’t enough brain bleach in the world to un-see what I saw. There was no missing the three-carat ring on her finger.”

  “Hey, she came on to me. I was too distracted by her tongue down my throat to notice a wedding ring.”

  Continuing on as though she hadn’t heard me, she said, “You got into a pissing match with one of your readers on Twitter that went viral!”

  “Well, that reader was obviously a moron.”

  “He gave you a bad review so you called him an 'inbred, uneducated, backwoods hillbilly'. Christ, Rowan, you hashtagged 'uncle fucker'. What were you thinking?”

  I thought back to that particular incident and couldn’t help but cringe. “Okay, so that might not have been one of my finest moments…”

  “You have no fine moments. You’ve shown a side of yourself on social media that your readers don’t like. And when your readers don’t like you as a person, they’re not going to buy your books. Broken Shadows was your worst release to date, which is a damn shame because it’s the best book you’ve ever written, but you’ve turned people off, Rowan. They don’t like you. Trademark is talking about dropping you at the end of your contract. And there’s not a publishing house in this state who will pick you up if that happens. Your agent is scrambling to keep them calm, but your image is shot to shit. If there’s the slightest possibility I can pull you out of the cesspool you’ve created, I need to make sure you don’t ruin it.

  “You’re a self-centered, narcissistic asshole who needs an assistant who can put up with your bullshit without running away screaming, or spreading her legs. That’s why I’m in charge of hiring. The only reason you’re here is because I decided to grant you the courtesy of meeting the person I decided to hire, which is more than you deserve. So, I suggest you sit back, shut the hell up, and let me do the job you pay me for, which, as of right now, is nowhere near enough money.”

  I opened my mouth to throw back some smart-ass—undoubtedly witty—comeback, only to be interrupted by a faint knock on her office door.

  “Okay, that’s her. Please, for the love of God, just behave.”

  Throwing her my most winning smile, I replied, “No worries, Lauren. I’ll be my usual, charming self.”

  “No! No, do not be yourself. Be anyone but yourself. You know what? Just don’t talk. That would be smart. Just sit there and play mute.”

  Before I had a chance to act properly offended, she called for the person on the other side to come in. The door opened slowly and I caught my first glimpse of shining, honey blonde hair that had me holding out serious hope for the rest of what was hidden behind the door. I had a serious thing for blondes with mile-long legs that I could wrap around my waist—or shoulders—with ease. However, all my hopes were dashed as she stepped into the office, my visions of wrapping my fist in that long, thick mane of hair went up in a puff of smoke with the snick of the door closing behind her.

  Don’t get me wrong, she was cute… but I didn’t do cute. I did hot, I did sexy, I did exotic. Never cute. Cute got clingy. Cute wore their hearts on their sleeves and could never differentiate between love and really good sex. Cute was a pain in my ass. And the woman—more aptly, the girl, because that’s exactly what she looked like—standing before me in an ill-fitting, shit colored suit didn’t have an exotic bone in her barely five-foot-tall body. For Christ’s sake, she looked like one of those damn china dolls. She might as well have hung a sign from her neck that read, Warning, Extremely Fragile. Handle with Care.

  I hadn’t the first clue how to handle anything with care. And I certainly didn’t do anything in the bedroom with care. I couldn’t fathom what my publicist had been thinking when she brought this girl in for an interview. No way in hell would she last two seconds as my personal assistant. She’d probably break down in tears within the first week.

  Yep, it was official. Lauren had just fucked me… and in none of the ways I enjoyed.

  You got this. You got this. You got this.

  The internal pep talk, along with the mental fist bump I was giving myself, went a long way in calming my nerves as I lifted my hand to knock on the heavy wooden door. When the feminine voice called out to come in, I shook out my slightly sweaty hands, squared my shoulders and lifted my chin.

  I’ve so got this, I thought as I pushed the door open and stepped into the large, expensively decorated office of Lauren Brown at Enterprise PR.

  My eyes quickly scanned the huge expanse of the office before landing on the most handsome man I’d ever seen up close. I took in his nearly jet black hair and penetrating ice blue eyes. Oh, hell, I so don’t got this.

  It took all of five seconds to scan the entirety of his face—full, dark brows tipped down; strong, defined jawline covered in a bit of scruff; full, deliciously pouty lips pulled down into a frown that did absolutely nothing to take away from his stunning good looks. Jesus Christ on a cracker, the man looked like he belonged on the cover of a magazine…all of them. As his chilly gaze trained on me, seeping through my skin and causing me to shiver, it took everything in me not to melt into a puddle of goo on the carpet. The man sitting before me was what every female fantasy was made of, and there was no doubt, whatsoever, he was going in my spank bank.

  But then, because luck was a fickle bitch who hated me for some apparent reason, he opened his mouth and all that hot, rugged, manly man-ness went right out the window.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Lauren. You’ve got to be kidding me!
”

  “Excuse me?” I asked, my forehead creasing in confusion as my gaze bounced between Sir Hotness McPotty-Mouth and Lauren.

  “Rowan, I’ll kindly ask that you keep your comments to yourself for the duration of this meeting,” Lauren told the man with a scowl so fierce it looked like it could melt paint off the walls. As she turned back to me her smile was genuine. “Ms. Collins, please come in and have a seat.”

  I took the last few steps toward the empty chair next to the man, who was currently staring daggers at me for some unknown reason, and sat down, rubbing my damp palms on my skirt anxiously.

  “Ms. Collins, this is Rowan Locklaine. I apologize in advance for his… demeanor. I was just telling him what a valuable asset you’re going to be as his personal assistant.”

  The sound of brakes screeching to a halt echoed through my head for more reasons than one.

  “Personal assistant? But, I thought the position was for a senior administrative assistant with the company.”

  Rowan let out a rough, gravelly sound, something between a snort and a scoff, as Lauren fidgeted just slightly behind her desk. “Yes, well, that was the original position you applied for. However, after meeting with you, I was convinced you’d be a perfect fit as Mr. Locklaine’s assistant. You’ll still be employed by Enterprise as a part of my team, but you’ll be working directly with Rowan as opposed to me.”

  “Wait…” I shook my head in an attempt to clear the cobwebs. I was having trouble keeping up. “So, I already have the job? I thought I was coming in today for my second interview.”

  “After our initial interview, I saw no need to drag out the process any further. I think you’ll make a wonderful addition to the Enterprise team. And I feel confident that you’re exactly what Mr. Locklaine needs.”

  While the words were complimentary, the narrow-eyed glare she shot to the man next to me as she spoke them caused my hackles to rise.

  “Now, here is all the paperwork. You’ll need to fill that out so we can get it to HR. Your salary and benefits package is enclosed, as well. This position pays more than we had originally discussed, so please take a chance to look that over. If you have any questions at all, please don’t hesitate to call me. I’m here if you need anything at all.”

  I’d just walked into The Twilight Zone. I came prepared for a second interview, only to find out I’d already been given the job. Granted, it wasn’t the job I’d originally applied for, but it was still a job, nonetheless. As I looked down at the packet in my hands, my eyes grew wide at the dollar amount listed on the page. That couldn’t have been right. There was no way a personal assistant made that kind of money.

  I felt like I was missing something really important. With the looks Lauren kept giving that Rowan guy, his obvious bad mood, and the dream salary, I couldn’t help but think I was being left out of the loop on something important.

  Quit your bitching, Navie. You need the job and the money!

  Despite my reservations, there was no arguing with the pushy voice in my head. No matter what hurdles came with the job, I was determined to be the best damn personal assistant who had ever existed.

  “Thank you so much, Lauren. Mr. Locklaine,” I said with a nod to the frowning yet insanely handsome man. “I look forward to working with you.”

  That comment earned me another snort/scoff, but Lauren was too quick to jump in before I could question whether or not something was wrong.

  “The pleasure is all ours, I assure you,” she responded as I stood and came around the desk to shake my hand. “I’m sure Rowan is just as excited as you are…” I doubt that, I thought, but she wasn’t finished. “…and if you have any issues… any issues at all…” she continued with a side glance at Rowan. “You don’t hesitate to come to me.”

  Well, that was rather cryptic. Before I could fully grasp the meaning behind her statement, I was being graciously, if not somewhat hastily, pushed from the office, the door clicking behind me with resounding finality.

  “Well,” I said to myself as I headed toward the elevators, “a job’s a job. It can’t be that bad.”

  Famous last words.

  “Hey!” Harlow said excitedly as she came through the front door after work, looking like a supermodel in a tight, cream-colored pencil skirt with a blush-colored sleeveless, tie-neck shirt. God, I envied her. She really was gorgeous, all long limbs and slim figure. She had flawless, olive-toned skin with long, glossy chocolate-colored locks, and what could only be described as cat eyes--a mixture of green and brown that almost appeared yellow depending on the color shirt she wore. If I didn’t love her with all my heart, I’d have no choice but to hate her for her perfection.

  Luckily for me, she was as genuine and loving as they came. Freshman year at NYU, we’d been roomed together and Harlow, being the loud, boisterous person she is, gave me no choice but to be her best friend. The girl just wouldn’t have it any other way. Over the past four years, she’d really helped me to come out of my shell. I’d gone from meek and mild, the poor bullied girl, to someone who refused to let other people bring her down. I had to admit, I totally loved the new me.

  “Hey, Har. How was work?” I asked as she kicked the door shut behind her and dropped her purse on the small bench next to it.

  “Work was work,” she answered with a roll of her eyes as she kicked off her heels and came to join me on the couch. “They might as well take executive assistant off my nameplate and put personal bitch in its place.”

  “Well, at least you’re working in the industry you love,” I placated.

  “Blah, blah,” she grumbled. “I wanted to be a fashion photographer, and this is kinda the furthest thing I could get from that. Anyway, tell me about your day. How’d the interview go?”

  I stood from the couch and headed into our tiny galley kitchen to pour us each a glass of wine. One thing Harlow and I had learned to appreciate was the taste of cheap red wine. Some of those bottom shelf bottles were just as good as the expensive stuff.

  “It wasn’t really an interview,” I spoke across the bar that separated the kitchen from the living room. “Turns out I already had the job.”

  “That’s great!” she exclaimed as she took one of the glasses from my hand. “Why don’t you seem more excited about it?”

  I sat at the end of the couch, pulling my feet up underneath me, taking a hearty gulp before answering. “I am, don’t get me wrong. But the whole thing was just a little weird.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, the job isn’t for an administrative assistant. I got hired on as a personal assistant. And the pay is more than what I originally applied for. Like, a lot more.”

  Harlow’s perfectly sculpted brows rose. “How much more are we talking?”

  “Almost double.”

  “Holy shit!” she shrieked, nearly spilling her wine on the sofa as she did a little happy dance. “Navie, that’s awesome! Whose personal assistant are you supposed to be? Is it someone rich? Oh, please, tell me they’re famous. Pretty, pretty please!”

  “Some guy named Rowan Locklaine. He was there today and I gotta tell you, he didn’t give the best first impression. It was like he was pissed off about something. And Lauren kept giving him these weird looks…”

  “What kind of looks?”

  “Looks that said she’d murder him in his sleep if he so much as spoke a word. I walked out of there feeling like I was missing something.”

  Harlow’s expression grew pensive as she spoke his name softly, “Rowan Locklaine... why does that name sound so familiar to me?”

  “Don’t ask me,” I answered with a shrug. “I’ve never heard of the guy, but apparently he’s big enough to warrant having a personal assistant.”

  “Well, let’s Google him and find out.” Harlow set her glass on the coffee table and jumped up to retrieve her laptop from her bedroom. Once she sat back down, we typed his name in and clicked 'search'. Page after page after page popped up on the guy.

  “Swee
t Lord in Heaven,” she breathed out. “Navie, that dude is seriously fine. I’m talking stupid fine. Jesus, girl, that’s your new boss?”

  “All right, simmer down,” I grunted as I clicked on the first link.

  “That’s where I know his name!” Harlow shouted. Good Lord, that woman didn’t do anything quietly when she was excited. Her exuberance reminded me so much of my foster brother’s adopted daughter, Willow. That little girl only had two volumes--loud and deafening shrill. “Rowan Locklaine is the author of the Broken series.”

  “The what series?”

  She looked at me like I’d just admitted to hating Sons of Anarchy and thinking Charlie Hunnam was icky.

  “Are you serious, right now? The Broken series is only the best murder/mystery series to be written ever, since the beginning of time.” She ignored my little snort, laughed and continued on. “He’s the number one New York Times best seller. The man is legen… wait for it… dary.”

  “First of all,” I started, holding up one finger. “No more How I Met Your Mother marathons. And secondly, I’ve never heard of him. I’m not a big murder/mystery fan. Sorry.” I gave her a shrug that said anything but sorry.

  “Ugh!” she grunted in frustration, “Whatever. The guy’s an icon, and hot as hell apparently. And you get to work for him,” she squealed, bouncing up and down on the couch, causing me to nearly fall off.

  “Cut it out. Look at this,” I said, pointing to one of the most recent articles posted about Rowan Locklaine. “Apparently, he got into a Twitter fight with a reader who left him a bad review.”