Christmasly Obedient: Small Town Holiday Romantic Comedy Romance

by Julia Kent

  Light brown hair with a nice wave to it and those crazy-green eyes. A perfect nose. Broad shoulders set off by one hand on his forehead, one on his hip, making his forearms pop a bit, the muscles from neck to shoulder joint stretching like an athlete’s. It was like looking at one of those guys on television, an actor in a show you watch not for the plot, but for the eye candy with a spark of smarts and wit.

  If he told her he was a firefighter or a detective, she’d believe him. He had the look of a man who takes care of himself because he has to in order to function well at his hands-on job.

  He works out, she surmised as the window scrolled down. Boring business-casual uniform of Dockers and a button-down shirt. Couldn’t see his shoes but she guessed something from Land’s End.

  Middle management.

  Which was one step above her. Gritting her teeth, she wondered what this was about.

  “Hi. Could you please move your car?” A baritone voice with way too much authority gripped her gut, an internal reaction out of proportion to his request. That voice. He sounded like a ship’s captain, or a commander in combat.

  She couldn’t help but begin to react, the breathless “Yes” nearly popping out involuntarily. Holding back, she wasn’t even breathing for fear she would comply like a skittish puppy, acting in deference to the incredibly unfounded request.

  Who orders someone out of their parking spot? He smiled, the tight look of a man evaluating what to say next as seconds ticked by and she did nothing but stare at him.

  “Why?” she asked, carefully cultivating a neutral tone, one of reasonableness without too much inquiry, as if she didn’t give a hoot what he wanted but would be polite about it. She invoked her Midwestern tone, casually acquired from being a Maine girl with parents who were from the Midwest, the voice of newscasters and documentary voiceovers for sexual harassment and government contract reporting requirements videos.

  “Because it’s mine.” He threw a thumb toward the top of the skyscraper. “Head office assigned it to me.”

  Not the reaction she expected. She could guess his next move, predictable among these middle management types, like a real-life version of Gary Cole’s character in Office Space. Next, he would lean on the car and do that douchey “I’m gonna need you to go ahead and...” spiel.

  Lydia was having none of it. She might be just an administrative assistant, the corporate equivalent of a dishwasher or a toll taker, but two years of this was enough. A master’s degree in Gender Studies might be useless in the workplace, but here in the parking lot it meant everything. Backing down wasn’t happening.

  “Why would the head office give you my parking spot? They’re numbered.” She pointed to the sign defiantly.

  His face remained neutral. Instead of leaning on the car, he reached one golden arm in and aimed for her right hand. Of course he was perfectly, evenly tanned. Of course.

  “I’m Matt Jones. The new director of social media. And this is my numbered spot.”

  “What? There is no director of social media job here. Not yet, at least. They’re announcing it soon, and—” A wave of cold horror hit Lydia. Director of social media. Director of social media? That was the job she was supposed to apply for! Except no one had told her that the job had been created yet, and now here stood the new hire?

  He cut her off with that same commanding tone. “It’s been filled. By me. And parking”—he shook his head and looked around with an expression of exasperation—“is a ridiculous problem here, so while I respect your need to stay and, uh, read, I need this spot.” Leaning forward, his eyes twinkled as he smiled, trying to charm her, his voice shifting from commanding to smooth.

  It was working. The scent of his aftershave filled the car’s interior. Musk and man and something with spice—an expensive scent that was far too sophisticated for a guy who was one parking spot ahead of her in the food chain at Bournham Industries. He held her gaze for too long, letting silence hang between them.

  He was what her friend Krysta called a “playah.”

  And oh, how Lydia wanted to be played.

  She hated herself for it, but right now Mr. Director of Social Media was stealing her parking spot. A girl had to have some limits.

  “You’re telling me that HR gave you the director’s job and handed off my parking spot?” she squeaked. The voice that came out of her sounded foreign. Tame. Rattled. She brushed a stray lock of her dark brown hair and wished she’d spent more time on her appearance this morning. After a quick yoga session, she just showered, threw her hair in a quick up-do, and tossed on her version of administrative business casual: a loose, flowing J. Jill outfit she got off the clearance rack and her ancient Danskins. She looked like a preschool teacher at a posh tot place instead of an ambitious, up-and-coming corporate do-bee vying for the director of social media job.

  Oh. That’s right.

  It was taken.

  He pulled back and smiled, a look of triumph and mischief on his face. “Now you get it. And I didn’t even have to buy you a coffee.”

  “Why would you do that?”

  “Because you seemed to be a bit slow on the uptake, and I figured it might be caffeine deprivation. It is 7:30 a.m., after all.” Half his mouth turned up in a grin as his brow furrowed. “Then again, maybe I interrupted you at the wrong time during your reading.”

  Biting his upper lip, Mr. Asshole Matt Jones had the balls to hide a laugh. As if she were supposed to be embarrassed reading Fifty Shades. As if she cared what he thought.

  “Let me clear a few things up for you, Matt,” she announced. Finally. There she was. The real Lydia, the one who didn’t take crap like this.

  “First of all, I don’t care what HR did with the parking situation. I won’t take your word for it, because for all I know you’re some creepy guy pulling a scam on me and if I get out of my car you’ll take me to your dug-out hole and lower lotion to me in a bucket, and three months from now you’ll mail dehydrated parts of my body to my mother.”

  She took a deep breath and continued. “Second, if you really are the director of social media, kicking your direct report out of her parking spot when you haven’t even started your first day of work shows such extraordinarily terrible business instincts that I suspect you won’t be around long enough to qualify for the matching 401k funding through your precious head office.”

  Eyebrows arched, now he did lean away. And cross his arms. Staring her down? She stared right back, working too hard to control her breath, trying not to let him see how rattled she was. He looked like a young Anderson Cooper.

  But straight.

  Oh, please let him be straight, she thought, then mentally slapped herself. Where did that come from?

  He leaned in the window and reached for a strand of her hair. “Sorry, babe. Chianti and fava beans aren’t on the menu. And if I were going to turn you into something edible, I wouldn’t choose a dehydrator as my electronic item of choice.” His eyes surveyed her body as if he owned her.

  As if he owned his time. And boy did he take it, seeming to document her full breasts, her nipped waist, the tight skirt that stretched across her knees in her seat, shoes kicked off and hose covering her pedicured toes.

  She could feel him note the seam of her panties, like a collector of fine wines, or of horses, as if she were a specimen. The V between her breasts pinkened, her lungs filled with the scent of his skin, as if eager to inhale his dust, the lines between his eyes, the light freckles on his cheeks, the intelligence in his irises.

  He was cataloging her. Taking inventory.

  Until her own, defiant gaze caught his and she realized he wasn’t objectifying her.

  He was appreciating her.

  And that was way, way more threatening than being demeaned.

  “See you at the office—and don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re done with that,” he said, pointing at the book. Turning on one heel, he sauntered off, his tight ass evoking a swoon in her that nearly made her growl with impotent
rage and lust. Lydia stared at the main doors to the office building as they shut slowly under the control of the pneumatic system, Matt Jones’ body disappearing as if swallowed.

  The day was not going well at all as she stewed in her Red Car of Pain.

  Squaring her shoulders, she slipped out of her vehicle and walked with purpose toward the main entrance. If nothing else, she hadn’t relinquished her parking spot. A petty victory, but one she needed.

  In the distance, the main doors to Bournham Industries stood apathetic, uncaring, and monolithic. Stone and steel didn’t care about a worker do-bee like Lydia. Pulleys and fuses and computer boards moved the elevator up, filled with Matt Jones, taking him where she knew he would need her.

  Need her. She would be supporting the very person she’d intended to be. Director of social media.

  Playing it cool, she stood in front of the fleet of elevators, pressing the button for the one that covered her floor, and wondering where he was. By the time she got to her cubicle she realized he wasn’t there yet, probably in human resources torturing one of those women with his arrogance. He carried it like a stick, poking people with it.

  Stockinged feet propped up on her desk, leaning back on her ergonomically correct chair and using it improperly, with the first volume of Fifty Shades of Grey opened wide in her hands, she let herself sink into the plot.

  Uh, yeah—the plot. It was the hottest trigger in publishing in ages, and she needed to practically memorize it for a huge project she was working on—one that might get her promoted out of admin hell.

  A muffled tap tap tap announced his presence as he pseudo-knocked on the cloth-covered wall of her cubicle. He was the most charming asshole she’d seen in the past two years. And the only reason she knew it had been two years was because two years ago, right after she’d been hired, she had actually met the CEO of the company, Michael Bournham.

  This guy looked just enough like him to make her recall the encounter she’d had, though the new guy looked much younger. Where Bournham was known as the “Silver Fox” for having gone completely silver in his early thirties, this guy had light brown hair, green eyes (unlike Bournham’s famous sparkling sapphires) and a look of arrogance that was slightly watered down compared to the CEO.

  “Excuse me?” he said, rapping on her door. Lydia put the book down, careful to make sure that the cover was facing away from him, and yet also noting the smirk on his face as he followed her movements and stared at the book’s back.

  “Excuse me,” she replied, hands on hips, standing as tall as she could considering her stockinged feet and her obvious surprise at being interrupted by him again.

  “Do you have a key to my office?” he asked, as if she were the keeper of the keys. Parking-spot stealer, job stealer, and now he expected her to help him through the first day on the job?

  Oh, hell no. HR wiped butts. Not her.

  She stiffened, stared him down, working very hard to control the impulse to be friendly, and said, “How do I know you’re really the new director of social media and not some guy who randomly tries to steal parking spots?”

  He studied her, eyes roving across her face, down to her chest, taking in her curves with a look of possessiveness and a lazy, leisurely approach that made her body flush hot, heart race, and skin tingle in the most unprofessional of ways.

  Read the rest at Maliciously Obedient now!

  About the Author

  Text JKentBooks to 77948 and get a text message on release dates!

  New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding that life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.

  She loves to hear from her readers by email at jkentauthor@gmail.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at facebook.com/jkentauthor

  Visit her website at http://jkentauthor.com

  Other Books by Julia Kent

  Suggested Reading Order

  Her Billionaires: Boxed Set (A New York Times Bestseller!)

  It’s Complicated

  Completely Complicated

  It’s Always Complicated

  Random Acts of Crazy (A New York Times Bestseller)

  Random Acts of Trust

  Random Acts of Fantasy

  Random Acts of Hope

  Randomly Acts of Yes

  Random Acts of Love

  Random Acts of LA

  Random Acts of Christmas

  Random Acts of Vegas

  Random Acts of New Year

  Random Acts of Baby

  Maliciously Obedient (A USA Today bestseller)

  Suspiciously Obedient

  Deliciously Obedient

  Christmasly Obedient

  Shopping for a Billionaire Boxed Set (Books 1-5) (a New York Times Bestseller!)

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancee

  Shopping for a CEO (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Wife (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for a CEO’s Fiancee (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for an Heir (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Honeymoon

  Shopping for a CEO’s Wife (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for a Billionaire’s Baby (A USA Today bestseller)

  Shopping for a CEO’s Honeymoon

  Shopping for a Baby’s First Christmas

  Shopping for a CEO’s Baby

  Shopping for a Yankee Swap

  Little Miss Perfect

  Fluffy (A USA Today bestseller)

  Perky (A USA Today bestseller)

  Feisty

  Hasty

  Our Options Have Changed (with Elisa Reed) (A USA Today bestseller)

  Thank You For Holding (with Elisa Reed)