Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73240 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Read Online Books/Novels: | His Cocky Valet (Undue Arrogance #1) |
|---|---|
Author/Writer of Book/Novel: | Cole McCade |
| Language: | English |
| Book Information: | |
Ash Harrington's life is out of control. At twenty-three years old, he's suddenly the head of a multibillion dollar global corporation he is in no way equipped to run. His father is dying. His mother's run away. He's spent his entire adult life playing fast and loose with his life and his loves, but when he's dragged into a position of responsibility with the fate of the company on his shoulders, he goes spinning into freefall. And Brand Forsythe is the only man to catch him. Icy, detached, nearly twice Ash's age, the massive monolith of a British valet is impossible to deal with and like no servant Ash has ever met. Domineering and controlling, Brand quickly puts Ash's life in order. And quickly takes Ash in hand. Even if by day Ash has to project authority, leadership, and calm...by night he's discovering the breathless pleasure of giving up control. The shivering thrill of surrendering to Brand. The sweet taboo of being submissive to the man in even the smallest things. Ash can't quite understand why it feels so good to put himself in Brand Forsythe's capable, commanding hands. He only knows, as he faces the hardest decisions of his life...the only thing that can save him is the love of his cocky valet. Author's Note: If you're reading this, you likely know why this book exists. Bask in the petty, my darlings. Bask. | |
| Books in Series: | Undue Arrogance Series by Cole McCade |
| Books by Author: | Cole McCade Books |
CHAPTER ONE
ASHTON HARRINGTON TRULY NEEDED BETTER friends.
Or at least, friends who gave better references. Friends who weren’t trying to ruin his reputation. Friends who weren’t half the reason for his rapidly escalating stress levels. Friends who, at the very least, gave a damn about his ability to function as a human being.
Friends who gave a damn, period.
Perhaps, in this hypothetical universe where he had such friends, he wouldn’t be staring at this flinty-eyed, utterly cold behemoth of a man who stood stiffly before his desk—and apparently thought Ashton was going to give him a job.
Ashton offered a thin, formal smile and lifted a finger. “If you’ll hold a moment, please,” he said, fetched his cellphone from his inside breast pocket, and pushed the third number on his speed dial.
Vic picked up on the second ring; Ashton didn’t have to see his face to know he was grinning from the sound of his voice. “I was waiting for this. Hullo there, Ash.”
Ashton narrowed his eyes. “You ass,” he hissed, then flicked another glance at the motionless man.
His stone-set expression hadn’t changed, lips thinned as if he already disapproved, eyes narrowed behind rimless, reflective glasses. It was like being raked over by one of his old professors, that I don’t know what it is yet, but I know you’ve done something wrong stare that could cut down to the bone, and it made Ashton’s stomach flip.
He flashed a frozen smile, then dropped his voice and spun his desk chair around to face out over the broad glassed-in wall and the glimmering New York City skyline. “I ask you for a PA and you send me—” Conan the Barbarian “—this?”
“I’m telling you. He’s worked for my family for years. Brand’s amazing.” Vic’s cultured British accent made everything he said sound utterly polite and reserved, even when he continued, “Maybe he’ll help you get your shit together, Ash. Something’s got to stop your downward trajectory into pure fuckery.”
“I’m well aware,” Ashton grit out through his teeth. “Hence why I asked you to find me someone. If he’s so amazing, why isn’t he still working for your family?”
“Mum and Dad went back to the old country. Brand wanted to stay. And me, I prefer my personal assistants a little…leggier.” Vic snickered. “Not that Brand couldn’t be absolutely fetching in a short skirt, but I do believe that’s more to your taste than mine.”
“Oh my God, fuck you.”
“Now, now.” Vic clucked his tongue. “Hardly fitting language for the newly anointed heir, now is it?”
“I hate you.”
“You’ll learn to love me again. Give him a shot. You won’t regret it.”
“You’re a liar and an asshole.” Ashton sighed, risking a glance back, peering around his high-backed leather chair. The man—Brand, Brand Forsythe according to the resume on Ashton’s desk—was practically a statue, barely even breathing. “I should go.”
“…he’s standing right there, isn’t he?”
“Yeah.”
Vic let out a laugh that bordered on a cackle. “Oh my God, Ash. Go. Jesus fucking Christ, you cheeky little bugger. Get your shit together.”
“I’m trying,” Ashton snarled, then slammed this thumb down on the screen and ended the call. Taking a deep breath, he tried to exhale his scowl like smoke, smoothing his expression, forcing a smile—then spun his chair once more.
Forsythe eyed him with one brow lofted as he meticulously adjusted the perfectly, blindingly white cuff of his shirt, just barely visible past the crisp lines of a precisely tailored black three-piece suit. The man was so sharply put together it was as though his edges had been cut out with scissors, the streamlined, graceful flow of his suit giving his bulk taper and trim.
Even if he was still imposing as fuck.
He had to be at least six foot four, maybe more, his shoulders all broad, hard angles tapering down to a narrow waist and long legs. The subtle, quiet grace of his angular features was offset by a stubborn, clean-shaven jaw, the glasses at odds with his brutish body to give him a quiet, formal, bookish appearance made only more severe by the white gloves on his long, graceful hands. The late afternoon sunlight through the office’s windows glinted off his glasses, and gave a subtle gloss to the backsweep of smoothly combed, glossy hair in a muted, soft pale golden brown touched at the temples and scattered throughout with threads of silver.
With deliberated calm, he settled his shirt cuff, refastened his cufflink, then folded his hands together behind his back. His icy regard fixed on Ashton again, dark green eyes cool. “I assume my credentials have checked out, then,” he said smoothly.
Where Vic’s British accent made everything he said sound posh and polite…Brand Forsythe’s accent added a note of cultured, chilly disdain, deep and rolling with lyrical inflections. Ashton flushed, resisting the urge to reach up and pull his uncomfortable suit collar away from his burning-hot neck. That…would probably be a bad idea, anyway.