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I Kissed The Boss
Author/Writer of Book/Novel:
Drinks + Christmas Party + Lost eye contacts = Flaming Hot Kiss
Except I have no idea who was on the receiving end.
New week, new day at work,
Not that I don’t already have enough on my plate as it is,
Why was he suddenly acting so out of character?
Did I fax the wrong letter maybe?
This is a steamy 2-book romance novella box set. No cheating. No cliff-hanger. And the kind of ending you will just love. Team HEA all the way!!
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CLAIMED BY THE BOSS
My hot sexy EX is back and wants me to work for him.
The nerve he has to even show me his gorgeously annoying face after all these years.
He wants me to organize the most luxurious Christmas party for him.
And I just want to toss a big bag of poop at him.
If he thinks his big fat check is going to make me agree to stay in his close proximity for longer than needed to throw that sack of poop, he can dream again.
And his smoldering gaze as it roams over my body tells me he definitely has other plans on his agenda.
It probably includes melting back into his arms and bed.
Which is totally absolutely never ever going to happen again.
The only problem, he keeps kissing me “by mistake” at every turn.
No matter which way she looked at it, Trey Hartford would always have been her downfall.
Ambi’s hands shook as she held the black phone receiver away from her face. She closed her eyes and took a breath. One. Another. Two. A shaky third. Three. She kept going, all the way to ten. When she hit the magical marker that was supposed to calm everything down and make the world brand spanking new and sparkly, all her problems still remained. She knew she couldn’t put off the call any longer. It only takes so long to check if a date is open.
As much as she would like to say that November twenty-seventh was taken, it unfortunately, wasn’t. While she was busy with other parties leading up to it, it wasn’t wedding or grad season and while a few people hired an event planner to help with Christmas functions, it wasn’t exactly a hot time of year.
Not only was she free, she knew that no matter what, no matter how much she hated Hartford & Heatherford Assured Investment Group- their stupid name was reason enough to hate them- she knew she’d take the job. A high-profile client like that could really help her business and she’d work hard to get a good reference.
Ambi punched the red hold button and mustered up her sweetest, I don’t give a shit tone.
“Sorry for the hold. We’d be delighted to help you plan your event.” I’d rather die a slow, agonizing death choking on a party popper. “If you want to set up a time to meet, we can go over the details. I have an office, or I can come to you.” I’d rather munch on broken glass and rusty nails than ever go to H&H.
She was pretty sure their name shouldn’t have been Hartford and Heatherford. Those two H’s should have been dumbed down to Hell and Heller. Or double hell. Not that their name wasn’t shitty enough on its own. Dale Hartford had probably been searching for just the right business partner for years, one with a name so close to his that it would look resoundingly ridiculous on a sign or card and sound even worse, not to mention the assured part of the name, which was misleading, since investment was never a sure thing.
“Oh, well, I can give you some of the details now, as my schedule is quite full over the next little bit. That way we can just get started if that’s alright?”
Ambi closed her eyes. Normally, she loved keeners. People who had their shit together enough to avoid making her life a living hell. This girl though, Sarah, was grating on her already shredded nerves. Which wasn’t her fault. Sarah couldn’t help that she was probably blonde, beautiful and bubbly, the three B trifecta. It was that she worked at H&H that was the annoying part.
“Yeah. Sure.” She reached for her notepad, the one with lamas dancing at the top in various frilly outfits and polka dot dresses. “Shoot.” As in please shoot me now before I can ruin myself taking this job.
“Well, we wanted something that could include anyone, so please no references to ethnicity or religion. We want this to be as neutral as possible, so we would prefer no reference at all to Christmas. If it has to say something, happy holidays would be preferred.”
“Great. Not a problem.” You do realize you started this conversation telling me you wanted me to plan a Christmas party?
“The budget is pretty wide open. This is the first real office party we’ve had in ages and we want it to become an annual thing. Mr. Hartford Sr. has eighty thousand set aside for decorations, food, games, entertainment. You know. Basically, think of an upscale wedding. All the good stuff. What do you normally charge for your services of something of this magnitude?”
“How many people again?” Ambi choked out. She scrawled eighty thousand across the top of her notepad in huge, blocky numbers. Who the fuck spent eighty K on an office Christmas party? Oh, right. A happy holiday party. And double right. Dale Hartford, douchebag of the century.