Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82945 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 415(@200wpm)___ 332(@250wpm)___ 276(@300wpm)
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
Chapter 1
Fiona
If I weren’t desperate to keep my job, there’s no way I’d powerwalk through Boston’s Logan International Airport in a pair of heels with a carry-on and a wobbly suitcase, chasing after a man I’m pretty sure would leave me behind instead of being even ten seconds late. I’m a sweaty mess and seriously starting to rethink this whole situation. Unemployment sounds great right about now, except starvation wouldn’t be fun, and I like paying rent. Which means I put my head down and barrel forward.
Meanwhile, my boss, Gareth Kane, powers through the crowds in a perfect navy-blue suit like he’s floating on air. Someone’s grandmother elbows me in the chest and throws me a dirty glare as I breeze past her. Sorry, Nana, got to keep up with the worst boss I’ve ever had.
Somehow, Gareth makes even shoving his way through crowds seem effortless.
“Student loans,” I say quietly to myself through gritted teeth. “Swinger parents. Absent best friend. Broken car. Rent. Netflix. Wine.” I go through the litany of why I need this job more than anything in the world, trying to remind myself that it’s worth sweating into my cheap polyester business-formal attire.
The recruiter tried to warn me. She said Gareth Kane paid extremely well, but he had a reputation. I figured that reputation was overblown.
I was very wrong.
“Fiona,” Gareth says sharply as he reaches the doors leading out toward the street. “Keep up, please. The driver’s waiting.”
“Yes, Mr. Kane.” I flash my best smile at him, even though I’m exhausted from the flight. All I want to do is change my shoes, crawl into bed, and sleep for twenty hours straight.
Instead, I toss my luggage into the trunk before climbing into the town car beside Gareth.
“Notes,” he says, staring out the window. The car pulls out, the driver easing into traffic.
I open my bag and dig around for my notebook. “Sorry, Mr. Kane, it’s in here—”
“Seatbelt,” he says.
“Just a second, I almost have the notebook—” I find it under my laptop. “Here it is, and now—”
“Seatbelt,” he says more forcefully, but before I can respond, he leans over, grabs the belt, and yanks it down over my chest.
I stare at him in shock, unable to move. I smell his musky, spicy cologne and feel the brush of his hand against my chest. A spike of excitement runs down my spine straight into my core, sending shivering tingles to my fingertips.
He clicks the seatbelt roughly into place, his face inches from my own.
For a second, our eyes meet, his green-and-gold bearing down into my blue.
Gareth Kane is sinfully attractive. Bone structure that should be illegal. Beard always in the perfectly scrubby range like he trims it every ten minutes or something. His clothes fit his athletic body like a glove, showing off broad shoulders and tense, vein-riddled forearms. Big, strong hands. Sandy brown hair cut short and pushed back, so casual it’s clearly manicured. Lightly tanned skin like he spends an hour working out in the sun every day. The man’s a specimen.
Like seriously, he’s uterus-convulsing hot.
Except he’s also ten years too old, a total controlling asshole, a workaholic par excellence, and overall the opposite of what I want in a man.
But hey, nice to look at.
And apparently, I don’t mind if he does a little casual manhandling. Which I’m sure is against HR policy. If there was an HR.
I’m his legal assistant, which means a glorified secretary. What am I going to do, complain to myself? It’s just me and Gareth.
Not that I mind, fortunately for him.
“Next time, put it on immediately,” he says, shifting back to his side. He looks out the window again like he didn’t just nearly feel me up. Some stupid, dizzy part of my brain wishes he’d come back over here. “Ready to take notes?”
“Ready,” I say, forcing myself back into the moment. I flip to a blank page and click open my pen.
This is a big part of my job. He’s constantly rehearsing closing arguments for clients he doesn’t work for and crimes that didn’t happen. Hotel magnates, shipping companies, heiresses, murderers, famous people and not-so-famous people, he’s always making legal arguments for why they’re innocent of whatever murder/theft/embezzlement/whatever he came up with recently. My job is to write down the big ideas, the prescient lines—he usually points them out—while he drones on and on.
At first, it was impressive. He’s an incredibly smart man. I can see how this constant working and thinking helps him craft his legal theories. It’s like playing chess against himself, except occasionally these mock-arguments come in handy. I’ve noticed him cribbing language from some to use in actual cases, and more than once he’s had breakthroughs while talking to himself as I scribble away.
Today, the case involves a tech CEO and a strangled prostitute. What’s Mr. Grumpy-Asshole got on his mind? Thinking about sex after brushing against my chest? Flattering.