Objects of Attraction

My new boss likes rules, but there's one nobody dares to break . . . No touching his banana. Seriously. The guy is like a potassium addict. Of course, I touched it. If you want to get technical, I actually put it in my mouth. I chewed it up, too . . . I even swallowed. I know. Bad, bad, girl. Then I saw him, and believe it or not, choking on a guy's banana does not make the best first impression. I should backtrack a little here. Before I ever touched a billionaire's banana, I got my first real assignment as a business reporter. This wasn't the same old bottom-of-the-barrel assignment I always got. I wasn't going to interview a garbage man about his favorite routes or write a piece on how picking up dog poop from people's yards is the next big thing. Nope. None of the above, thank you very much. This was my big break. My chance to prove I wasn't a bumbling, clumsy, accident-prone walking disaster. I was infiltrating Galleon Enterprises to follow up on suspicions of corruption. Cue the James Bond music. I could do this. All I had to do was land the position as an intern and nail my interview with Bruce Chamberson. Forget the fact that he looked like somebody carved him out of liquid female desire, then sprinkled on some "makes men question their sexuality" for good measure. I needed to make this work. No accidents. No disasters. No clumsiness. All I needed to do was hold it together for less than an hour. Fast forward to the conference room before the interview, and that's where you would find me with a banana in my hand. A banana that literally had his name on it in big, black sharpie. It was a few seconds later when he walked in and caught me yellow-handed. A few seconds after that was when he hired me. Yeah. I know. It didn't seem like a good sign to me, either. Contains mature themes.

How'd I meet her? Well, a gentleman never brags. Thankfully, I'm no gentleman. First, I paid for her cherry (pie, but that's not the point). Next, I deflowered her. After that? I left my business card and walked out like I owned the place. Yeah, you could say we hit it off. Hailey: How did I meet William? He walked into my bakery, bought a cherry pie, stole a vase of flowers-I still have no idea what he wanted with them-and left his business card. Before I say what I did with the business card, I should clarify something: William couldn't have walked into my life at a worse time. My bakery was failing. My creepy ex refused to leave me alone. Oh, and I was a twenty-five-year-old virgin, a fact my friends refused to stop hassling me about. William was stupid hot, the kind of hot that makes women do stupid things. The kind of hot that made me think crazy things. So I called him. Maybe it was against my better judgment. Maybe I was stepping into a disaster waiting to happen. I knew I was in trouble when he chuckled in that deep, sexy voice of his over the phone and said, "I'm still craving your cherry. Do you deliver?" Contains mature themes.

Having a hot boss isn't complicated or confusing at all, said no one ever . . . But all I have to do is resist for a few months. Come January, I'm flying to Paris to chase my dream of being an artist. Too bad I can't have my treat and eat it, too. I forgot to mention . . . My hot boss was also my high school crush. Sort of. First, I wanted to crush him with gooey affection. In the end, I just plain wanted to crush him. Now he's back, and he might as well have "do not touch" printed on his chest. One tiny question: would it count if I didn't use my hands? Let me answer my own question. Yes, Emily, you raging horn dog, it counts. Besides, my dream is practically waiting for me like a perfectly wrapped, shiny little package if I can just behave. I'd be an absolute idiot to risk that, and I have a long, proud history of not being an idiot to protect. But all I have to do is one quick job for him. A few posters and a few props for a big Halloween party that he's hosting. Then I just walk away from his dreamboat eyes and perfect body, grab a plane, and forget about all the beautiful children we could've squeezed inside our white picket fence. Contains mature themes.

Normally, I was more of a cat person. As in, if I had to choose who lives, I'm going to take the cat nine times out of ten. It's not that I particularly like cats, I just don't particularly like most people. My neighbor wasn't most people. He lived in the apartment across the hall, and he was your typical, buttoned-up, fancy shoes, smells like a Calvin Klein commercial, looks like he actually flosses kind of guy. I mean, seriously? Wasn't flossing just made up by dentists so they could go on their little power trips once every six months? The point was, this guy very obviously had his life all put together. He was Mr. Perfect, and If you asked me, he needed to be brought down a few pegs to wallow with the rest of us. Cue his long, thick, package penetrating my tight little mailbox. I accidentally dropped a knife on the package a few times back in my apartment. It basically sprang open on its own, and I had no choice but to look inside. His dirty little secret was staring me right in the face. As it turned out, Mr. Perfect wasn't so perfect. Who knew? Hint: I knew. And I was absolutely going to enjoy every second of what was coming. Contains mature themes.

I'll admit it. I messed up. Mistake #1: Asking Peter Barnidge for a job. Mistake #2: Accepting his offer instead of throwing it in his face like I planned. Mistake #3: In the interest of stopping before #99, I'll pretend the only other mistake was withholding one, tiny little nugget of truth during my interview. Peter Barnidge... I wish it was easier to just plain hate him, instead of the twisted, confusing blend of hatred and attraction I feel. He's the kind of hot that makes me want to do that Catholic cross thing every time I look at him, because one glance takes my brain straight to a world of sin. Speaking of sin... I also lied a little during my interview. But I'm a single mom and I'd do anything to provide for my daughter, even if it meant keeping one tiny little secret. I think it's only a matter of time before he finds out, and somehow, I don't think he's going to be happy when he does. Contains mature themes.

Everything went wrong when I trimmed his bush. And no, it's not what you're thinking. I'm a professional. The client hired me to trim a bush in his garden for a party. I accidentally turned it into something that rhymes with "a big rock and walls". Imagine my surprise when the art world decides it's a masterpiece. Were my raging hormones the cause of my bush sculpting blunder? I mean, who would blame me if they were? After meeting Harry Barnidge for the first time, my brain went straight to cavewoman mode. There were undignified fantasies of being bashed over the head and carried off to a cave, a significant loss of vocabulary, and maybe even a little drooling. But I can't focus on that. On him. I need this job to make my little sister's dreams come true. Until now, I've managed to screw everything in my professional and personal life up, but I'm determined to make this work. So when Mr. Heartstopper offers to help me manage my accidental art career, it's impossible to say no. It's like the old saying goes. If you erect it, they will come. Or something like that. Contains mature themes.