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It’s just business, nothing personal…until you have to work with your ex
NOTHING PERSONAL is a brand-new, full-length STANDALONE ROMANTIC COMEDY with a single dad, enemies-to-lovers, second-chance office romance twist, from the NYT & USA Today Bestselling Author of A Nordic King and Bad at Love.
Nova Lane is having the worst week possible. Her latest relationship ended while on her much-needed vacation, then upon her first day back at work, she learns that her beloved boss has quit – and despite having worked so hard for it, she’s not being considered for his position.
Who is being considered for the position is none other than Kessler Rocha. Her ex-coworker and ex-lover, Kessler’s the man who broke her heart five years earlier and the reason she moved thousands of miles away, switched jobs, and created numerous voodoo dolls in Kessler’s (very burly, very handsome) liking.
Yup. Worst week ever.
New in town and on her turf, Kessler promises he’s not the same man he was – and considering he’s now a single father to a precocious toddler, he’s telling the truth.
But he’s still an arrogant and devilishly charming man who’s taking over the position Nova feels she deserves. The fact that he’s gotten even more sexy over the years doesn’t help either.
Now Nova and Kessler have the choice to let bygones be bygones, or fight with each other every chance they get, with unresolved sexual tension only adding fuel to the flames, creating a fire that might just burn down the whole office.
In the corporate world they say it’s just business, nothing personal.
Nova and Kessler are about to show just how personal things can get.
NOTE: This book may be a light and sweet comedy BUT it also contains raunchy humor, a copious amount of swearing and, of course, some fairly gratuitous sex scenes! READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
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My life has officially turned into an episode of Seinfeld.
To be specific, the “Vegetable Lasagna” one where Elaine and Puddy go to Europe, break up, get back together on the plane and then break up again.
That awkward plane ride full of bickering, all to the discomfort of the passenger next to them (aka Vegetable Lasagna), is pretty much what I’m going through right now as we come back from our Vegas vacation.
Except Roger doesn’t really bicker, which is a good thing since he has this problem controlling the volume of his voice. We might be at a romantic restaurant and he’ll say, “you look ravishing tonight” (yeah, he uses ravishing, which should have been a red flag), and someone across the restaurant will say, “thank you.” That’s how loud he is. Even when he whispers, he’s trying to rupture your eardrum.
No, Roger doesn’t bicker but he also doesn’t do much of anything.
Everyone was surprised when we started dating five months ago. Roger is very much the opposite of the guys I usually date and I figured that was a good thing since the guys I usually date are rat-bastards. Handsome rat-bastards, but rat-bastards all the same.
Turns out Roger is a rat-bastard too, and one I didn’t see coming, which has really given my pride a kick in the ass. I went out with Roger because he was a supposed nice guy. I went out with him because he was a dependable and financially stable banker. I went out with him because he looked like a potato with long legs. All of those things were supposed to mean that Roger was a safe choice.
It turns out that when a guy refers to himself as “a nice guy,” they usually aren’t. That when they have a boring job and dull attitude, they might go looking for excitement elsewhere. And just because they have a big fat balding potato head and tend to shout lyrics to songs instead of singing them, doesn’t mean they won’t think they’re god’s gift to women.
I found that out two days ago when I decided I’d had enough and went to bed early, and he went out to get a lap dance on the Strip and well, I guess those dancers can spot a sucker a mile away, because a lap dance led to a blow job, and a blow job led to who knows what else was on the menu and that dancer turned out to be a hooker.
And how do I know all of this?
Because at four a.m. he came stumbling into the room and went straight to the shower, crying his damn eyes out. When I asked him what was wrong (I thought maybe he was mugged at gunpoint) he told me everything that happened. Okay, not everything—I stopped him at the blow job part.
I appreciated his honesty and all, but that was officially the end of us.
Then the next day, when he’d sobered up and slept off the skank and the shame, he acted like nothing happened. Back to yelling (“I didn’t know she was a prostitute! I thought she was being nice!”) over coffee and wondering if I wanted to see David Copperfield (yet another red flag).
I did what any sensible person would do—I got another room.
In another hotel.
Then I proceeded to get drunk.
The only thing I couldn’t fix were the flights back to Honolulu. They were all booked solid which isn’t surprising for November. If you’ve ever wondered where the people who live in Hawaii go on vacation, it’s Las Vegas. The money, the glamour, the lights, the chaos, the dry, desert air—it’s pretty much everything you start craving when you’ve been in Hawaii too long.
Which is why Roger and I decided to go to Vegas, taking our first vacation together.
Of course, it also ended up being our last.
The most annoying thing about all of this isn’t that we couldn’t find anyone to switch seats with us for this six-hour plane ride from hell, but I’d specifically chosen Roger to date to avoid all this sort of stupidity.
Roger is currently trying to adjust his seat-back, much to the annoyance of the person behind him. He can’t even do anything subtly or gently, he’s just this long-legged, potato-headed clumsy oaf who sleeps with hookers and cries about it. You can how imagine how the sex between us was. I’d felt like I was being mauled by a mule, lots of accidental kicking, big teeth where there shouldn’t be big teeth, and the occasional braying noise.
I look at him, fixing him with a hard stare, both hating him for being such a loser and myself for dating him to begin with. I need to get my high standards back.
“What?” he asks defensively, after I’ve been glaring at him for a good minute. Did I mention he’s also kind of dense?