Jock Row (Jock Hard #1)(94)

Things Liars Say Things Liars Hide Things Liars Fake





How to Date a Douchebag Series


The Studying Hours The Failing Hours The Learning Hours The Coaching Hours





Jock Hard Series


Switch Hitter

Jock Row

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About Sara




Sara Ney is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the How to Date a Douchebag series, and is best known for her sexy, laugh-out-loud New Adult romances. Among her favorite vices, she includes: iced latte’s, historical architecture and well-placed sarcasm. She lives colorfully, collects vintage books, art, loves flea markets, and fancies herself British.

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Love,

Sincerely,

Yours





Meghan Quinn





PROLOGUE



Peyton


Vivian: God, why is he such an asshole…?

Brielle: Don’t you think the better questions is, ‘Poor George, why is he never prepared?’

Peyton: George spends more time at the latte machine then his computer, that’s why—and look at how jolly he is. Like a cute little Santa Clause…

Vivian: Sigh. George’s wife makes the best apple pie.

Brielle: Oh crap, Vivian, look out, he’s coming for you.

“Vivian, what came out of your test study?” A man’s voice cuts into our our group chat and, unprepared, our co-worker stumbles to pull her notes up on her iPad.

Brielle: Shit, Viv is a goner.

Peyton: Oh I feel bad, she’s turning red.

Brielle: Yeah Viv, you’re turning SO red.

Peyton: Viv, you should see your ears…

Brielle: Maybe if the devil himself wasn’t breathing down her neck, she wouldn’t be sweating so much.

Peyton: To be fair, we are in the middle of a meeting—she should be prepared, not pretending to take notes but instead chatting online.

Brielle: Look how irritated he is. His nostrils are flaring.

Peyton: Yeah…look at his face. He looks like a dragon tempted to light the entire room on fire.

I turn to study it from my chair at the conference table, the long wooden slab a monolithic buffer between me and my boss. He’s at the head of this table, brandishing control and silver tongue over the room like a sharp sword.

No one is exempt from his contempt.

I watch as he reprimands my friend from the marketing department—her small office is two down from mine—laying both palms on the desk and leaning toward her.

“I have no new ideas to work with here. How the fu—” He stops himself from cursing midsentence, pausing to take a deep breath and starting over. Runs one of those large, masculine palms through his dark hair. “What the hell is it you do in your office all day? Stare out the damn windows waiting for inspiration? I want you outside for fucks sake—go climb a goddamn mountain. This is an outdoor adventures company, for fucks sake! Go outdoors!”

He pins a big, brawny guy named Branson with a hard, emotionless stare. “Innovations are your job, Branson. Take a tent out, set the fucking thing up, and find a way to improve it.”

He’s breathing hard, pissed off.

“Look. I know we’ve just come off the holiday season and everyone is beat—but if we don’t get some advances with our designs to boost sales, this fiscal year is going to end up being complete shit.”

He drones on, deep voice reverberating off the walls as we all sit silently, holding our breath.

Vivian: Uh, hey, guys? Do you think he still wants my notes?

Brielle: Fuck your notes, Viv—don’t say another word unless your “notes” are actual notes.

Peyton: Pretty sure you lost your moment before he stood up and starting pacing like a tiger at the zoo.

Vivian: Thank god—I had nothing new to ad.

I watch across the table as Vivian slouches with relief, a sly smile playing across her bubble gum painted lips. Her lithe fingers tap away at the cell phone she’s holding beneath the table, and I know her next message isn’t to us.

Brielle: Do you not have notes because you were so focused on flirting with the guy tet online that has—how did you put it…

Peyton: Meat steaks for pecs?

Brielle: Yeah, that guys. “Meat steak guy.”

Vivian: I can’t be accountable for my actions! I have to flirt!

Peyton: You don’t even know if he’s real.

Vivian: Who cares if he’s real—he’s the prefect distraction.

“I want everyone to crawl back to their hole of an office and pull an idea out of their ass by noon. This is the summer of ‘roughing it.’ Our target demographic—Harry can provide the data—is the millennial, and the yuppy. If you don’t know what a yuppy is, google it. If you can’t figure it out how to do that, clear the shit out of your desk.”

At the mention of his name, Harry blanches, an unattractive contrast to the muddy green color of his short sleeve plaid shirt. His neck turns a ruddy burgundy, which only serves to highlight the stubble his razor missed when he shaved this morning.