by Roxy Reid
Famously Wed
A Billionaire Boss Romance
Roxy Reid
Copyright © 2019 Roxy Reid
All rights reserved. It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
For my incredible Friends and Family who have encouraged and supported me on my journey to becoming a writer.
Get thee a good husband, and use him as he uses thee.
William Shakespeare
Contents
About the Author
1. Ella
2. Max
3. Max
4. Ella
5. Ella
6. Max
7. Ella
8. Max
9. Max
10. Ella
11. Max
12. Ella
13. Max
14. Max
Also by Roxy Reid
Keep in Touch
About the Author
Roxy Reid writes sizzling hot romance about kick-ass women and deliciously hot guys that are guaranteed to leave you with a smile on your face and a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
Roxy’s first love is writing and a very close second is tea, oh and cake, don’t forget the cake. Most days you’ll find her in a cafe scribbling away in a notebook, dreaming up romantic stories to share with her readers.
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1
Ella
He’s still in my bed. The hot guy from last night is lying, naked, in my bed.
I sit up, careful not to rustle the blankets too much, and push my disheveled hair out of my face so as to stare at my beautiful, sleeping companion a little better. I bite back a grin and consider reaching for my phone. Candice is going to flip. Not that she doesn’t probably already know what’s going on, given that she practically shoved me into this guy’s arms at the end of the night, but I’m so excited to tell her everything.
With a quick glance to make sure he is definitely asleep, I grab my phone off my nightstand and open the camera app. I know anything I say will be met with “Pics or it didn’t happen” from Candice, so this time I will come prepared.
Checking one again for closed eyes and even breathing, I aim the camera at him and quickly snap a picture. With the morning light coming in and the white bedding, he looks like a fallen angel: chestnut hair, dark, hooded eyes, a wicked smile, and a tall, lean and muscular body. That’s what had made me take him home last night. Well, that and the fact that he knew a bit about New York architecture. It certainly wasn’t because of his temperament, because the guy was admittedly a bit of a jerk. I’ve had enough jerks in my time, but a sexy jerk for a one night stand is totally fair game, especially when I’m celebrating.
After two years of unpaid internship hell subsidized by credit card debt, bartending and living off ramen noodles, I finally have a real job. Yesterday, after a grueling three-interview process, I got the call: “Congratulations, Ella, we’d like to take you on as a personal assistant to the CEO of Banks Industries.” Only the biggest architecture and development firm in New York, no big deal. I’d hung up the phone and promptly burst into hysterics before telling my mom the good news. Then I’d called Candice and she’d immediately insisted on going out to celebrate. That’s how we’d ended up at Mace, and that’s where I met mystery man.
I get a little shiver up my back remembering that I don’t even know the guy’s name. I’d refused to let him tell me. It’s a way of ensuring this one night stand remains a one night stand.
Now the one night stand needs to leave, because today is my first day at work, and mama needs a shower ASAP. Setting my phone back down, I crawl over to him and gently rub my hand up and down his bare torso. “Wakey wakey,” I say with a smile. “Eggs and bakey.”
He stirs and rolls onto his back, blinking blearily up at me. “You made breakfast?” he asks, his voice hoarse from sleep.
God, how can anyone wake up looking so hot? I blanch, realizing I should have probably cleaned myself up a bit before waking him, or at least brushed my teeth. Then I remember that I’m never going to see this guy again, so who cares?
“No, sorry,” I reply. “It’s just a silly expression I use.”
“I was excited for a minute there.” He grins. “You got my hopes up.”
“Sorry,” I laugh. “There’s a cute little breakfast place a couple doors down, if you want to check that out.”
He sits up and glances about for his clothes, which are strewn haphazardly around the room. “Clinton’s, right?”
I blink, surprised. I suppose we could have walked past it on the way here. “That’s right.”
He stands, and I am treated to a delicious view of his toned backside as he gathers his belongings. “I’ll get out of your hair, then,” he says as he pulls on his briefs, his back to me.
A bolt of shame strikes me for some reason, but I try to push it aside. I am a grown woman capable of one night stands. This is New York City. Everyone has them. I’m not in Rhode Island anymore. “No rush,” I choke out. “I just need to take a shower.”
“Don’t let me stop you,” he tosses back, reaching for his slacks and belt. “Big day today, right?”
“Right.” I wince, remembering that Candice and I had told him exactly why we were celebrating last night. I need to get better at keeping myself as mysterious as this man has made himself to me.
He stops and looks around, frowning slightly. “Where’d my shirt end up?” I feel my cheeks go hot as his eyes land on me. “Ah. There it is.”
I must have put his shirt on after all the … festivities last night, thinking he might find it sexy to see petite me in his soft blue silk shirt. The sleeves hang off my hands and the shirttail covers my butt and then some. Evidently it’s working. He bites his lower lip and his dark eyes travel lasciviously up and down my body.
His gaze becomes even more hungry when I begin working at the buttons, with the intention of giving him his shirt back. Instead, he strides towards me and takes my hands away from the buttons before sliding his own hands over my waist and hips, pulling me close. “Looks good on you,” he says, his voice a low rumble in his chest. “Keep it. I’ll grab another one at home.”
Mortified by how my breathing has hitched and sped up in his proximity, I swallow and try to play it cool. “Sure. Thanks.”
He gives my bum a gentle squeeze before releasing me and reaching for his socks and shoes.
“Are you going to go out shirtless?” I blurt out, glancing out the window. It’s a bright day, but cloudy. It will definitely rain later on.
He doesn’t answer, but he does flash me a winning smile as he stands, shoes tied and ready to go, missing shirt notwithstanding. “So,” he says, approaching me again, “can I grab your number? Or was this a one-time thing?”
I skirt out of the way of his reach, inching towards the bathroom, eager for that shower. “One time only, I’m afraid,” I reply. “Nothing personal. Just kinda where I’m at right now. New job and all. And new city,” I added, as though that would soften the excuse a bit.
He shrugs, casually leaning his arm against the wall. “No worries,” he says. “I probably wasn’t going to call you anyway, honestly.”
“Oh.” I freeze, prickled by his bluntness.
“Yeah, nothing personal. Just not really my type.” He pushes away from the wall and begins searching for something. I assume it’s his wallet.
I frown and lick my lip. “Not your type?” I ask in as casual a tone as I can manage. “Why’s that? Just curious. I mean you did go home with me.” Shut up, Ella. Who cares, remember? One night stand.
He finds his wallet and shoves it in the back pocket of his slacks, then heads for the door. I take a few steps towards him, unwilling to let him leave on that note. He notices my persistence and smiles. “Look, sometimes after a few drinks when there’s an attractive girl throwing herself at you, you just go for it, even if she kinda lives in a different world from you. I’m sure you’ve settled just to get some action before, right?”
My mouth falls open before I can stop it. I remember this guy being a bit of a jerk, but he is now quickly heading into asshole territory. I close my mouth and lift my chin at him. “Of course,” I reply in a sweet voice. “Last night was a prime example.”
He laughs, and it’s not a kind sound. “Sure.”
My blood boils, and I just need him to leave my apartment. Immediately. “There’s the door,” I snap, gesturing exaggeratedly to it. As he moves towards it, I quickly remove the shirt and toss it at his head. “And keep your shirt. You’d look like an idiot walking around outside without it.”
He grips the shirt in one hand and opens the door with the other, backing out of the apartment with his hands up. “I meant no offense, sweetheart,” he says in mock earnest. “You asked. Frankly I thought you’d have figured it out on your own.”
“Goodbye,” I sing-song, about to shut the door in his face. Then I see him reach for the elevator buttons and push the up arrow. I stop, confused.
I moved into this place literally yesterday, grateful for the temporary housing Banks Industries provided me while I find somewhere to live, but I’m fairly certain my unit is on the top floor of the building. The only thing above is …
“The penthouse.” I don’t realize I’ve said it out loud until he laughs. Something about his laugh sets my teeth on edge and I glare at him. “You live in the penthouse?! Of this building?”
He winks at me and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a set of keys that indeed has the building’s fob on it. “See you around, neighbor.” Before I can reply, the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Then he steps inside and is gone.
I close my door and lean back against it, breathing deeply. What good is a one night stand if the guy is my neighbor? I see an image of the two of us running into each-other at the mailbox, exchanging strained small talk and each thinking of some excuse why we shouldn’t take the same elevator together. I shudder, thanking my lucky stars that living here is just temporary. If anything, this will only light a fire under my ass to find somewhere else to live ASAP.
Focus, Ella. Today is a big day.
I finally step into the luxurious walk-in rain shower, and the tension begins to come out of my shoulders as the hot water caresses them. So I slept with a jerk of a guy who obviously makes decent money, considering he lives in the penthouse of a luxury apartment building. So he is my neighbor. What are the odds of us running into each other again, realistically?
I shake my head, water droplets flying. I can’t think about this right now.
I exit the shower and go about getting ready: blow-drying my hair (and cursing the unruly curls that always refuse to do my bidding), doing my make-up (flawless but professional), and picking out an outfit (smart business casual). I pull on my sensible black pumps and look at myself in the mirror. Confident, professional, capable. Perfect.
Mr. Frodo, coming out of hiding now that our company is gone, meows insolently in the kitchen, demanding breakfast. I’m taking a can of Fancy Feast from the cupboard and scooping it into his bowl when some commotion outside catches my attention. I go to the window to peer out onto the street below.
A sleek black car has pulled up outside the front doors of the building, and a crowd has gathered around it, complete with paparazzi and journalists. What is going on? I wonder, though my stomach sinks as I begin to piece together the events of the morning. Paparazzi outside a luxury apartment building with one penthouse suite …
Sure enough, a familiar dark head exits the building, and the crowd goes nuts. Mystery Man, surrounded by security personnel and wearing a new shirt, strides confidently towards the black car, holding a hand up to the crowd by way of acknowledgement.
So. My conquest and upstairs neighbor is a celebrity of some sort. No big deal. It’s New York City. There are celebs everywhere.
Candice is definitely going to flip.
Speaking of Candice, I’m sure she has responded to my text by now. Picking up my phone, I see there are three messages from her. I grin and open up the thread.
SCORE!!! says the first message. Then, wait. Then, Is that who I think it is?
I text back: I don’t know. He’s famous, right?
I wait an agonizing thirty seconds before Candice replies.
That’s MAX BANKS, Ella!
I frown, and then laugh, quickly texting back: I think you’re off by about thirty years, girl. Max Banks is in his sixties. Max Banks being one of the most successful architects in New York City, and also my new boss. I would know.
I see the time out of the corner of my eye and scramble for my coat and purse. Candice will have to wait. I cannot be late for my first day at work!
2
Max
I step out into an overcast morning, confronted by the usual crowd that accompanies any public appearance I make. The exception being last night, when I snuck out to my favorite bar for some peace and tequila. Mace is my favorite bar because no one who goes there gives a shit about people like me, so I can go unnoticed. It’s refreshing for a girl to think I’m hot because I am, and not because of who I am. So when this cute, petite, curly-haired Latina and her annoying friend approached me without showing any indication of knowing who I am, I figured what the hell.
When she invited me back to my own building, well. That sealed the deal. I’ve never fucked a neighbor before. Talk about girl-next-door.
She did look cute all riled up this morning, her cheeks pink and hair frizzy from sleeping. I know she gave me her name at some point, but I honestly can’t remember it right now. I’m nursing a mild hangover and have a long day ahead of me. My father’s in town, which sure isn’t going to help my headache.
Anyway.
It’s a relatively short ride to the office, depending on traffic. Today is mild by New York standards, and we make it in thirty minutes. Still, I don’t like being too early, and I have nine minutes to spare, so I head into the Starbucks on the main floor for a much-needed black coffee. I inhale the life-saving aroma and take a grateful, scalding sip. I just need to get through the next eight hours, and then it’s the weekend. Two whole days I don’t plan to remember by Monday.
It’s not that I don’t like my job. I love my job. But when my busy-body, self-righteous father insists on spending a week each month cramping my style and bossing me around, it taints the experience a little. I’ve been dealing with his bullshit all week, which is another reason why I ended up at Mace last night. One more day, and I won’t have to see him until the end of next month.
I don’t know why my father even made me head of the company if he was still planning to be around all the goddamn time. I guess retiring and moving to the Hamptons didn’t give him enough control in his life. So he has to control me by extension. Not that he hasn’t always tried to control me. When you grow up with a famous father and socialite backstabbing mother, you get used to being a pawn pretty quick. Well, in a year that will all change. I will be the sole owner of Banks Industries and will be very, very happy. And probably drunk. Every day.
Having stalled long enough, I make my way to the elevator. Most people steer clear when they see me, knowing I like to ride the elevator
alone, so I’m more than a little annoyed when someone pushes the button right as the doors are about to close. “Catch the next one,” I bark, hoping whoever it is works for me so I can fire them immediately.
The doors slide open, and my heart sinks. “Oh, shit.”
“Oh shit, indeed,” she says. It’s the fucking girl from last night. She’s wearing a modest pantsuit and has tamed her unruly hair, but her olive-toned face has gone a few shades lighter upon seeing me.
“This is where your new job is?” She mentioned she was into architecture, but honestly I didn’t listen to much of what she said last night. I was too busy staring at her amazing breasts. It’s all I can do not to drop my gaze to them now, cradled tantalizingly in a sea-foam green blouse.
She nods and steps into the elevator. “Do you work for Banks Industries too?” she asks.
I scoff. She literally has zero idea who I am. Did she even do research when she applied for this job? Who hired her? I need to have a word with them immediately. “I am Banks Industries,” I tell her, not even trying to keep the disapproval from my voice. Twelve floors to go.
She gasps and her eyes go wide. “You are Max Banks! I thought you were much older … No offense.” Nine floors.
“You’re thinking of my father, Maximilian Banks Senior.” Seven floors. God, I don’t remember the elevator taking so long. What is taking so long? “He’s still around sometimes, but I’m the boss now.”
“So are you … I mean, are you … my boss?”
