Misadventures with the Boss (Misadventures #12)(4)

I informed HR of my departure two weeks ago—a fact I’m sure they told you but you’ve allowed to slip your mind. Thank you for the opportunity, and I’m sorry it didn’t work out. As I’m sure I’ll not be receiving a recommendation from you anyway, and this job will not be listed on my résumé, please allow me to provide you with some advice for dealing with future assistants.

I can’t read your mind. Nobody can read your mind. And you can’t work people like they were born specifically to serve you.

Good luck finding someone who will be able to meet your insane standards.

Regards,

Jane Clarence





I blinked, reading over the last paragraph again. She had a hell of a lot of nerve telling me what I could and couldn’t do when she barely knew how to type, file, or keep a damn schedule.

Tossing the letter into the recycling bin, I made a mental note to confront HR first thing on Monday about my lack of assistant. I’d go straight to the head of the department—after all, there was no reason I should have had to train eight assistants in the past three months unless the candidates they were providing me were subpar.

Clearly, there was a systemic issue at play here that needed to be addressed.

With a muttered groan, I settled into the chair behind my desk. I pulled up the Meals-to-Go app on my phone and ordered in some dinner and then opened a browser for a list of dating sites.

I hated this. Hated every last detail of having to enter my personality type and what I was looking for in a soul mate. Because, you know what? I wasn’t looking for a soul mate. I wasn’t even looking for a girlfriend. I was looking for a quick, casual piece of ass. A good time in exchange for a guaranteed good time.

I briefly considered just heading to the nearest nightclub and hoping for the best. Fact was, it usually worked out in the end, but the last thing I wanted to do after a long week at work was spend four hours in a noisy club in exchange for an hour or two in the sheets. Especially if it meant having to extricate myself from a needy woman who had missed the memo. I shuddered at the thought.

I’m not an asshole. I don’t lie or make promises I can’t keep. But some women just can’t shake the feeling that every guy they sleep with might be “the one.”

PSA: I’m not “the one.” And I will never be “the one.”

Which was why I opted to click on a site notorious for no-strings hookups.

I downloaded the app and entered all the usual information before searching the database of women looking for casual sex, just like me.

With a bunch of them, I could tell it was a ploy at first glance. There was a needy hope in their gazes. Like, they’d say all the right things, but deep down they hoped that as soon as some poor sucker saw what was underneath their dress, they’d magically want something more from them than a good lay.

Those girls, of course, I avoided like the plague.

And the girls who said their idea of a romantic night was a candlelit dinner in Paris?

No thanks.

I didn’t need a night with a dreamer. I wanted a dirty, uncomplicated romp.

Which was when the sixth girl in my matches caught my eye and made my cock pulse.

She wasn’t my usual supermodel-lean type of girl. Her cheeks were full and smooth, rounding out a perfect, heart-shaped face, and her long mane of dark-red hair looked soft as silk—but it was something in her broad smile that made me click on the picture and read on.

In the description, there was another picture of her. In this one, she was dancing on a table, her wild hair flying behind her while she kicked out her feet and laughed at the camera. She wore a low-cut black dress that accentuated her luscious curves. I swallowed hard before glancing at her bio.

She liked Netflix and comfy couches. She was an animal person and a busy professional. All her sentences were quick and to the point—she wasn’t trying to impress anyone. Which meant maybe, just maybe, she meant what she said. I double-checked she had indeed checked off that she was interested in casual sex, and then I bit the bullet and sent her a message.

Jackson21782: Hey, you interested in dinner and hooking up tomorrow?





Quick and to the point. If she wasn’t interested, I’d move on to the next girl. No harm, no foul.

Within a matter of seconds, though, my screen dinged, and I clicked over to see a response.

Fantasy Girl 29: Absolutely. Name the time and place.





Jackson 21782: Florentine Inn. 6 o’clock.





I paused, and figured, fuck it. Might as well make sure she knew the score right out the gate.

Jackson 21782: Don’t wear underwear.





I waited, mildly curious to see what her reply would be. A second later, my screen dinged again.

Fantasy Girl 29: I can’t make any promises.





I grinned at that and scrolled back to her image, feeling satisfied and already a little less tense just thinking of our date. One slow, hard fuck, and I’d be right as rain. Then, when I came in on Monday, I’d be able to deal with this whole HR problem without wanting to rip people’s heads off at every turn.

I closed the app’s messenger and penned the meeting into my date book, secretly wondering if she might dance on the table for me without her panties on tomorrow night if I asked nicely.