*3 Pour Another Cup For Insta Love Nutella Jars*
Once again AR have spun their magic and gifted us with another smutty book. Swear I read other romance books too. What till tomorrow and you'll see.
Masons best friend and business partner thinks Mason is serious all the time because he needs to get laid. But what he wasn't ready for was the new assistant whose about the turn his whole world upside down.
Kennedy is desperate, desperate to keep her only family alive, so with desperation comes desperate measures. She had too much replying on this one job but she's never been a liar and Mason isn't the type of guy who let's fibbing slide, one giant misconception later things got raunchy in a blink of an eye.
Love AR. QUEENS for life. I mean I first started reading smutt by them so ya blame them for me obsession. As always they delivered and I already wan
Mason foster goes through assistants like some people go through tissues. He’s sick and tired of having to replace them, so his best friend and business partner decides to help him out.
Kennedy Myers is here for a job and nothing else. But when the money is too good to be true, there’s nothing she won’t do to please her new boss. She’s bought and paid for, so who is she to say no? Especially when she likes it.
Warning: This dirty office romance is over-the-top filthy. If you want a possessive alpha with a bossy mouth, then do what you’re told and get this book! Seriously, though, if Mason asks, just say you bought it. He’s grumpy.
Chapter 1 *Kennedy*
I think I’m going to throw up. The single thought runs through my head, over and over. I take a deep breath, trying to get my nerves under control. Glancing around the giant room, I feel completely out of place. A woman in her late fifties sits typing away at a large desk, the clicks of her fingers hitting the keys the only sound in the big, empty lobby. I’m on the fiftieth floor of the Foster Building, trying to control my stomach as the lady ignores me and continues to work.
Her silky gray hair is cut short to just below her ears and she’s wearing thick-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Everything about her is professional and says she belongs here. Her outfit is stylish in a way I could never put together, even if I had the money to do so. She’s classy and elegant and was surprisingly sweet to me when I checked in. She didn’t give me a snide look like the women downstairs had done.
I run one hand across my thighs in an attempt to brush away any pieces of fuzz on the too-tight gray skirt I have on. I’m still shocked I got myself into the thing. I got it in the ninth grade when I’d joined the debate team and needed to look professional. My stint at that size lasted about as long as my time on the team. The waist is starting to dig into my stomach, and I pray that the button in the back won’t pop.
I’m wearing simple black heels that I spent two hours practicing walking in yesterday. I found them in a discount bin in a shop down the street from my little studio apartment, along with a simple button-up white shirt. I feel so plain, even a little mousy. I was trying to look older, but I’m not sure I’m pulling it off.
I tried my hand at a little makeup and even took the time to put some curls into my hair. I’d tried to mimic a woman from a magazine I saw, but I’m not sure I got close to what I was trying to pull off.
What am I doing here? I shake my head at myself. I’m a horrible liar and I know it. The absolute worst at it. When I was seven, I broke a glass case my grandpa kept a signed football in. I’d confessed before he could even ask me what happened to it. Then when I was thirteen, my grandpa asked me how my day at school was, and out of my mouth came details of how Cody kissed me after school. I was so bad at lying.
I couldn’t even fake it for a second. I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.
How I think I’ll ever pull this off, I have no idea. Because you have no other choice, I remind myself. I need this job. Correction, I more than need this job. I needed this job three weeks ago.
The little money I had left from selling my grandpa’s house is almost gone. I have no idea how I am going to make rent in my shitty little studio apartment. I might actually be happy to lose the place, though. Maybe I can find a local YMCA to stay at or something. My landlord is starting to really creep me out.
His apartment is right next to mine, and this morning he caught me as I was leaving, reminding me my rent was due three days ago. He also implied there are other ways to pay my rent. Ways that don’t involve money. It made my skin crawl. Mr. Kelly was easily sixty years old. He is always in pajama bottoms and a wife beater with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. And I am pretty sure the lady across the hall from me is paying her rent in the other ways he was talking about. I’d heard her earn her room on multiple occasions, and it made me shiver with disgust.
He was always a little too handsy. He finds new ways to put his hands on me all the time, and it’s becoming unsettling. I try to find ways to avoid him, but yesterday I’d come home to find him standing inside my home. He said he was checking on the water pipes, something about a leak, but my blood ran cold at how easily he accessed my home. How easily he could do it again. After he left, I shoved a chair under the door handle, but it gave me no comfort. I barely slept all night.
I had no idea what I was going to do if I came up with the money to pay the rent, because I didn’t feel safe at all.
I’m just happy I still have a few more weeks until I need to make another payment to the nursing home my grandpa’s in. Knowing he has a place to be for a little longer gives me some relief, but not much. A sharp pain in my palm reminds me I’m squeezing my apartment keys too tight and they’re digging into my skin. I open my bag and drop them down inside.
Your name is Kennedy Myers. You went to University of Michigan, where you got a degree in liberal arts. You are twenty-two years old and have always dreamed of working for a company like Foster and Crate, I remind myself for the hundredth time. All lies, other than my name. Lies I made up to try and get this job.
I’m barely eighteen, almost didn’t graduate high school because of my attendance, and I had no freaking clue what Foster and Crate was until two days ago when I saw the job listing. It’s a job that pays more than I could dream of. Enough to keep my grandfather in the pricey nursing home he’s in. Not only that, but if I can keep the sham up, I can get us both health insurance in a few months’ time.
This has to work. I have no other options. This isn’t merely about me. It’s about the man who raised me since I was a little girl. A man who tried to give me everything he could until he started to forget who I was.
I knew I couldn’t take care of him anymore. He needed someone to be with him 24/7, and not only that, I was physically incapable of helping him at times—my grandfather is a big man, easily twice my size. I could, however, make sure he was somewhere safe where people were good to him. So far, I had done that, but the place was far from cheap, and I quickly burned through the money I’d gotten from selling the home he raised me in. I’m drowning in bills. Waiting tables and cleaning jobs simply aren’t cutting it anymore.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered other ways to make money. One of the girls in my building strips and says she could make over a thousand dollars some nights just off cash tips. I’d toyed with the idea. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but there wasn’t a lot I wouldn’t do to keep my grandfather happy.
The man had raised me since I was a little girl. I don’t remember my mother. My memories are crafted from the stories he told me about her. I never knew my father. My grandpa made it seem like he didn’t know who he was either.
It was always just the two of us, and I love him more than anything in the world. He is the only family I’ve ever known. I loved it when I’d lie down to bed at night and he’d tell me stories about grandma. He always lit up at the memory of her. I grew up thinking I wanted a love like that, but then all that was pushed to the back burner as his health started to decline.
Lately, whenever he is having a good day and starts talking about my mom and grandmother when I visit, I write down everything he says. I am scared that one day he’ll no longer remember the stories himself, and I want to be able to tell him those same stories.
I feel wetness hit my cheeks and I quickly wipe it away. Looking up, I see the woman behind the desk watching me. She gives me a sad smile, and I look away, not liking that I’ve been caught crying. Lovely. I’m sure that’s not going to help me get this job.
I stand up. I need to get myself under control.
“Bathroom?” I ask the woman.
“Down the hall, second door on the right,” she says.
I nod and make my way down the hall, almost running into a man coming out of an office.
“Sorry,” I whisper before moving around him and darting into the bathroom. I feel his eyes on me the whole way.
Get it together, Kennedy.
I think I’m going to throw up. The single thought runs through my head, over and over. I take a deep breath, trying to get my nerves under control. Glancing around the giant room, I feel completely out of place. A woman in her late fifties sits typing away at a large desk, the clicks of her fingers hitting the keys the only sound in the big, empty lobby. I’m on the fiftieth floor of the Foster Building, trying to control my stomach as the lady ignores me and continues to work.
Her silky gray hair is cut short to just below her ears and she’s wearing thick-framed glasses perched on the end of her nose. Everything about her is professional and says she belongs here. Her outfit is stylish in a way I could never put together, even if I had the money to do so. She’s classy and elegant and was surprisingly sweet to me when I checked in. She didn’t give me a snide look like the women downstairs had done.
I run one hand across my thighs in an attempt to brush away any pieces of fuzz on the too-tight gray skirt I have on. I’m still shocked I got myself into the thing. I got it in the ninth grade when I’d joined the debate team and needed to look professional. My stint at that size lasted about as long as my time on the team. The waist is starting to dig into my stomach, and I pray that the button in the back won’t pop.
I’m wearing simple black heels that I spent two hours practicing walking in yesterday. I found them in a discount bin in a shop down the street from my little studio apartment, along with a simple button-up white shirt. I feel so plain, even a little mousy. I was trying to look older, but I’m not sure I’m pulling it off.
I tried my hand at a little makeup and even took the time to put some curls into my hair. I’d tried to mimic a woman from a magazine I saw, but I’m not sure I got close to what I was trying to pull off.
What am I doing here? I shake my head at myself. I’m a horrible liar and I know it. The absolute worst at it. When I was seven, I broke a glass case my grandpa kept a signed football in. I’d confessed before he could even ask me what happened to it. Then when I was thirteen, my grandpa asked me how my day at school was, and out of my mouth came details of how Cody kissed me after school. I was so bad at lying.
I couldn’t even fake it for a second. I simply couldn’t bring myself to do it.
How I think I’ll ever pull this off, I have no idea. Because you have no other choice, I remind myself. I need this job. Correction, I more than need this job. I needed this job three weeks ago.
The little money I had left from selling my grandpa’s house is almost gone. I have no idea how I am going to make rent in my shitty little studio apartment. I might actually be happy to lose the place, though. Maybe I can find a local YMCA to stay at or something. My landlord is starting to really creep me out.
His apartment is right next to mine, and this morning he caught me as I was leaving, reminding me my rent was due three days ago. He also implied there are other ways to pay my rent. Ways that don’t involve money. It made my skin crawl. Mr. Kelly was easily sixty years old. He is always in pajama bottoms and a wife beater with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. And I am pretty sure the lady across the hall from me is paying her rent in the other ways he was talking about. I’d heard her earn her room on multiple occasions, and it made me shiver with disgust.
He was always a little too handsy. He finds new ways to put his hands on me all the time, and it’s becoming unsettling. I try to find ways to avoid him, but yesterday I’d come home to find him standing inside my home. He said he was checking on the water pipes, something about a leak, but my blood ran cold at how easily he accessed my home. How easily he could do it again. After he left, I shoved a chair under the door handle, but it gave me no comfort. I barely slept all night.
I had no idea what I was going to do if I came up with the money to pay the rent, because I didn’t feel safe at all.
I’m just happy I still have a few more weeks until I need to make another payment to the nursing home my grandpa’s in. Knowing he has a place to be for a little longer gives me some relief, but not much. A sharp pain in my palm reminds me I’m squeezing my apartment keys too tight and they’re digging into my skin. I open my bag and drop them down inside.
Your name is Kennedy Myers. You went to University of Michigan, where you got a degree in liberal arts. You are twenty-two years old and have always dreamed of working for a company like Foster and Crate, I remind myself for the hundredth time. All lies, other than my name. Lies I made up to try and get this job.
I’m barely eighteen, almost didn’t graduate high school because of my attendance, and I had no freaking clue what Foster and Crate was until two days ago when I saw the job listing. It’s a job that pays more than I could dream of. Enough to keep my grandfather in the pricey nursing home he’s in. Not only that, but if I can keep the sham up, I can get us both health insurance in a few months’ time.
This has to work. I have no other options. This isn’t merely about me. It’s about the man who raised me since I was a little girl. A man who tried to give me everything he could until he started to forget who I was.
I knew I couldn’t take care of him anymore. He needed someone to be with him 24/7, and not only that, I was physically incapable of helping him at times—my grandfather is a big man, easily twice my size. I could, however, make sure he was somewhere safe where people were good to him. So far, I had done that, but the place was far from cheap, and I quickly burned through the money I’d gotten from selling the home he raised me in. I’m drowning in bills. Waiting tables and cleaning jobs simply aren’t cutting it anymore.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered other ways to make money. One of the girls in my building strips and says she could make over a thousand dollars some nights just off cash tips. I’d toyed with the idea. It wasn’t something I wanted to do, but there wasn’t a lot I wouldn’t do to keep my grandfather happy.
The man had raised me since I was a little girl. I don’t remember my mother. My memories are crafted from the stories he told me about her. I never knew my father. My grandpa made it seem like he didn’t know who he was either.
It was always just the two of us, and I love him more than anything in the world. He is the only family I’ve ever known. I loved it when I’d lie down to bed at night and he’d tell me stories about grandma. He always lit up at the memory of her. I grew up thinking I wanted a love like that, but then all that was pushed to the back burner as his health started to decline.
Lately, whenever he is having a good day and starts talking about my mom and grandmother when I visit, I write down everything he says. I am scared that one day he’ll no longer remember the stories himself, and I want to be able to tell him those same stories.
I feel wetness hit my cheeks and I quickly wipe it away. Looking up, I see the woman behind the desk watching me. She gives me a sad smile, and I look away, not liking that I’ve been caught crying. Lovely. I’m sure that’s not going to help me get this job.
I stand up. I need to get myself under control.
“Bathroom?” I ask the woman.
“Down the hall, second door on the right,” she says.
I nod and make my way down the hall, almost running into a man coming out of an office.
“Sorry,” I whisper before moving around him and darting into the bathroom. I feel his eyes on me the whole way.
Get it together, Kennedy.
Alexa Riley is two sassy friends who got together and wrote some dirty books. They are both married moms of two who love football, donuts, and obsessed book heroes.
They specialize in insta-love, over-the-top, sweet, and cheesy love stories that don’t take all year to read. If you want something SAFE, short, and always with a happily ever after, then Alexa Riley is for you!
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