by Kat T. Masen
The Office Rival
Kat T. Masen
Contents
Blurb
Note to reader
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Next in the series
Other books by Kat T.Masen
Connect with the author
About the Author
Kat T. Masen
The Marriage Rival
Kat T. Masen
Copyright 2015 Kat T. Masen
All Rights Reserved
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to real events, real people, and real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, organizations or places is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. This book is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the express written permission of the author. All songs, song titles, and lyrics contained in this book are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
Disclaimer: The material in this book contains graphic language and sexual content and is intended for mature audiences, ages 18 and older.
Editing by Nicki at Swish Design & Editing
Proofing by Kay at Swish Design & Editing
Cover design by Sarah from OPIUM HOUSE Creatives
Cover Image Copyright 2021
Second Edition 2020
All Rights Reserved
Blurb
Arrogant, cocky, immature—how many ways can I describe my co-worker?
I should have called in sick that day and stuck to my rule of keeping my personal life private.
But like always, he got to me and pushed all the wrong buttons.
Then we made one mistake.
To prove just how much we hated each other…
Presley Malone knew her relationship with her fiancé had run its course.
The second that ring came off her finger, she didn't expect to be the pawn in an immature game played by her stuck-up co-worker.
Haden Cooper enjoyed playing games, and when it came to Presley Malone, it was all too easy. Miss Know-it-all, with her over-the-top OCD, was soon going to get a taste of what it was like to live on the edge.
But what starts as an innocent prank in the office soon becomes an unhealthy obsession.
Note to reader
This book was previously published with the title #JERK and now has a new cover in addition to being rewritten and re-edited.
The truth is that Haden Cooper is still a Jerk.
So this is my warning to you… you’ll hate him, probably even cuss out loud, and vow not to finish the book.
But chances are, you’ll fall in love with the Jerk.
And if you do, I promise you’ll get your Happily Ever After.
You may just need to fasten your seatbelt first and hold on for the ride.
Prologue
Haden
The dictionary defines a jerk as a contemptibly foolish person.
That’s being nice.
And nice isn’t something I do.
Give me something in return, and maybe I can play nice. Like the time I sucked up to get that promotion with a made-up title, or when I befriended the local stoner and got an extra stash of weed. And we can’t forget about last night with the promise of some sweet pussy, but what a disappointment that turned out to be.
I get what I want because I don’t give a damn.
About anyone or anything.
I just want to have fun, but even now, that game is fast becoming old.
I am bored and need a new challenge—something to keep me occupied. And one day, it all just fell into place by accident, of course.
Our office is one giant playground. I dub myself the school bully, and the Ice Queen is my target. It’s her own fault, though. I’ve never met a woman so fucking uptight where you’d need a whole army to pull the giant stick out of her ass.
It is one juicy ass, though—perky, with that round bounce that you just know will make a terrific sound when you slap it with your palm.
But that is beside the point—way beside the point.
I don’t like her stubbornness, nor her obsessive need to have everything clean and in order. I loathe the way she answers every question like a pompous know-it-all bitch. And that ridiculous skirt she always wears which makes her look like a schoolgirl. All right, perhaps there are benefits to that skirt if you picture her in eight-inch heels and a pair of garter belts peeking through, but it is not appropriate office attire.
What irks me most is the way she parades around the office with her nose stuck up in the air—Miss I’m-Too-Good-For-All-You-Juveniles-So-I’m-Going-To-Act-Like-A-Fucking-Grandma.
Yeah, she thinks she is fucking all that. I don’t like women like her, especially when they parade that ring on their finger like some fucking accomplishment. The guy probably gave it to her because he had a small dick and knew he’d hit the jackpot. Yeah, well, I’ve got a big dick and probably could teach her a lesson or two.
Then it happened—the day that ring no longer taunted me.
The day the office gossip went into overdrive because Presley Malone was back to being single. The Ice Queen didn’t even look sad. I don’t even think she shed a tear, and probably Mr. Small Dick found some less-frigid pussy elsewhere and jumped ship. But a victory for every goddamn cock and balls in the office that went ape-shit fighting over who could get her in bed first.
It is exactly the challenge I need.
And I don’t intend to play nice.
Nice is for chumps.
It wasn’t a payback, and it wasn’t vindictive.
It was clean, harmless fun.
Fuck that… it was dirty fun.
There is only one way to get her attention, just one way for her to finally notice I exist. I have to make her life in the office a living hell and push all the right fucking buttons. She is vying for a promotion, and perhaps—so am I. The same very role.
According to her, if it walks and talks like a jerk, then I am a jerk.
But I understand the meaning of ‘jerk’ a little differently—to be a selfish, manipulative, insensitive asshole luring her in by playing Mr. Nice Guy, only to give her false hope and leave her cursing the day I was born.
One
Presley
From a very early age, I knew I was different from the rest of the kids I hung around with. I may have only been seven years old, but my mother wasn’t shy about telling me I was an old soul with the wisdom of an eighty-year-old. I didn’t consider it a bad thing as my grammy was the most beautiful lady who ever existed, next to my mother, of course.
It was the mid-eighties, and the biggest thing to
rock my world was the newly released Peaches ‘n Cream Barbie. I still remember the epic moment when the box was placed in my hands and how incredibly beautiful she was, dressed in her flowing peach gown and shimmering bodice. Her hair was golden, perfectly styled, and adorning her neck was an exquisite diamond-like necklace fit for a princess. She deserved a special spot on my shelf, and Workout Barbie took a hit, moving out of center position.
My mother would often complain, “Presley, why don’t you play with your dolls like other girls?” Well, dear Mother, other girls had Barbies with godawful haircuts and missing shoes, and rings were a rare commodity.
I had to have everything perfect.
So, you can imagine my horror when I arrived at school the next day, and every girl with their new Peaches ‘n Cream doll had short-cut bobs, mismatched shoes, and zero rings. I decided then that my Barbie deserved the best. So, I planned the most epic wedding event of all time.
Barbie was finally going to marry Ken.
I invited all my friends, and under the big oak tree in my backyard, they tied the knot on that sunny September day. The guests oohed and aahed. I overheard my friends commenting on how pristine my Barbie looked, ‘fresh out of the box,’ and then there was the groom. Ken looked ravishing with his light gray suit and pink pocket square to accentuate his tanned skin and plastic comb-over.
The thrill and excitement of this perfect day were forever engrained in my memory, and at the ripe old age of seven, I knew exactly what I wanted—I wanted to get married to my Mr. Right and live in our two-story dream house.
I had a plan.
The problem with plans is the second they fall apart, you have absolutely no idea how to cope.
Fast-forward twenty years, I was certain that Mr. Right just sat at my table. His name is Jason Hart—tall, handsome, with the deepest blue eyes—and if you stared long enough, it was like looking into the ocean.
We met at a mutual friend’s wedding and were thrown together at the shameful singles’ table in the back corner of the ballroom. All we needed was a neon sign flashing ‘sad and pathetic single people looking for a good time.’
This time, however, the party was at our table. It was a fun group—we were all in our mid-twenties, looking to get drunk on some free alcohol. Jason was seated directly opposite me, and it was impossible to ignore his flirtatious smile. My ovaries were having a celebration, the party was on, drinks were served, and damn, we would make very cute babies together.
Lucky for me, Jason turned out to be the sweetest guy you could possibly know. It was the perfect story to pass on to our grandkids—met at a wedding, love at first sight, and who could forget the moment I caught the bouquet? Okay, so maybe I was pushing fate by stepping on another woman’s foot to dive for the bouquet but so what, bouquet-catching should be declared a sport—it’s every woman for herself out there.
The moment Jason grabbed my hand and asked me to dance, I thought, Yes, he is Mr. Right. He is my Ken, minus the plastic comb-over, of course, and together, we could live happily ever after in our dream house.
We went through the relationship milestones—moving in together after a year, joining our bank accounts to save for our first apartment, and last year on our fifth anniversary, he popped the big question, and obviously, I said yes.
My parents loved him, and his parents loved me. It was just one perfect moment after another, and to curb my OCD, which had intensified over the years, it was all going according to plan. Until the day I had lunch with my mother and mother-in-law.
We spent hours going through magazines, interviewing wedding coordinators, immersing ourselves in various fabrics, and all the while, alarm bells were ringing in my head. Miss Plan-Out-Her-Whole-Life had absolutely no clue what she wanted. Every magazine page thrown in front of me was showing a blushing bride staring lovingly into her groom’s eyes. I couldn’t remember the last time Jason and I looked at each other with such love. We were comfortable, but comfortable wasn’t perfect. I loved him, it was impossible not to love him, but there was this tiny bug crawling within my gut telling me something wasn’t right. I prayed every night that this mysterious bug would grow into a beautiful butterfly and remind me what we were all about.
Yeah, that butterfly never showed up, and that bug had sunken its teeth in even further.
We both were stuck in routine—working late, ordering takeout almost every night, sex on Fridays, and the Saturday trip to the laundromat. The spark which had ignited that day at the wedding had died down to a dwindling fire.
I craved more. Not being sure of what that was, I tried spicing things up by cooking in some nights, a quick rendezvous to The Hamptons for Valentine’s Day. Maybe I should have fought harder for us, but we both agreed our perfect relationship had run its course.
“It isn’t working out, Jase. It’s just… I can’t explain it,” I spoke solemnly.
Sitting on our sofa dressed in a neatly pressed tux having just returned from a wedding, he leaned back and rubbed his face vigorously with his hands. I, on the other hand, didn’t want to cry. This shouldn’t be about emotions. Rather, it should be a rational decision between two adults.
“Are we doing the right thing, Jase?”
His voice croaked, but quick to compose himself, he smiled and, as always, managed to say the right words. “We’re just so comfortable. I didn’t…” he paused then said, “… never mind.”
“No, tell me, you didn’t what?”
He hesitated at first, then opened up, attempting to relay his emotions. “I didn’t think we’d fall into this rut so quickly. Couples get married all the time, and then the relationship becomes a routine.”
Remaining quiet, I gave myself a moment to get my words right. “You expect raw and wild sex at random moments, dinners at fancy restaurants, making out at the movies, but it’s not like that.”
He chuckled heartily. “Presley Malone, I’ll sure miss your ways. I hope the next relationship I have won’t shoot me for placing my black socks in the same row as my white.”
Ouch, that stung a little.
Brush it off, you wanted this. Yes, you loved him dearly, you’re just not in love with him anymore. You knew it wasn’t right, you knew you wanted more. More what, though?
“But this is so calm. Aren’t breakups supposed to be full of tears and throwing bags of clothes out the window?” I asked.
“Yeah, maybe, but we’re beyond that. I’ll always love you, Pres. But this… this is the best for us. We owe it to each other,” he reaffirmed.
He was right. We had given each other five great memorable years. I couldn’t have asked for a better person to have shared that with, and now we both needed to see what else is out there in the world.
I wasn’t sure if it was proper breakup protocol to hug it out, but I leaned in anyway, and for the very last time, I held on to Jason. His embrace was warm and familiar, and I knew that no matter what happened to me, wherever I go or whatever I do, I have a friend in Jason Hart.
We called off the wedding and parted ways.
Single. Again. At thirty-fricken-two.
Marriage, three kids, and that damn dream house just flew out the window.
What terrified me most was maybe it wasn’t in the grand plan for Presley Malone. Maybe fate and the universe got together and said, “Hey, Miss Plan-It-Out needs to learn a lesson in life. Let’s screw her sideways and see how she copes.”
The problem wasn’t fate or the universe—it was the biggest jerk of all time.
My office rival.
And unfortunately, now, I am bound to him.
Forever.
Two
I am running a marathon and beside me, others speed past threatening to reach the finish line before I do. The adrenaline is kicking in, and just at that point when my legs are about to give out and refuse to carry me any further, the black and white checkered flag comes into sight, waving proudly.
The end is within reach, only a few more minutes, and you’ll cross the fi
nish line and crown first place. My heart is thumping loud, ready to burst out of my chest and collapse onto the ground. The sweat beads are forming and dripping down my face. The time clicks over to thirty minutes, and like a strike of glory, I hit stop.
My marathon is actually me running on the treadmill. My lungs hurt so much that I am this close to calling the cute personal trainer over to resuscitate me.
Okay, so I’m being a drama queen.
It’s way too early in the morning for this, and let’s not forget to highlight the fact that I am a gym virgin. I don’t mind a brisk walk or run in the park once in a while, but the gym and I, we’re complete strangers.
Since my ex-fiancé, Jason, moved out last week, I have come here almost every day hoping to relieve the anxiety and tension consuming me. It’s not like we ended on bad terms. In fact, it was the best breakup you could have asked for—no tears, finances were divided evenly, and we decided to put the apartment on the market and split our profit. I couldn’t have planned a more amicable breakup.
The problem here is that it is going way too smoothly, and I can sense something looming on the horizon. No matter what I do I can’t shake it off, and so here I am today, sore and working out like I’m about to enter a real marathon.
