AllFreeNovel
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She has three degrees, a crocodile bag that costs more than a condo, and lashes faker than my father’s charity foundation.
The girl showed up to her interview in a braless jumpsuit so tight that her nipples are answering the questions.
Dress for the job you want, right?
Maybe the secretary position got her into my office, but she flashes teeth like her heart’s set on CEO.
Choking on mint chocolate perfume, all I want to do is boot her ass and bleach her chair.
Fucking despise mint.
I smooth my buttons to keep calm.
Capri’s daddies own half my hotel’s board seats, and I need their votes of confidence even more than I’m going to need some deep fucking head to bleed out her ice cream pheromones.
Dutch growls, low and threatening.
Playing bodyguard, he stands behind my chair, popping a reluctant tent in a suit tailored for enforcer bulk. Blond, smelling like maple butter bacon—so much tastier than fucking mint—he curls his juicy lips.
As soon as I gracefully toss this omega, my throbbing cock will be his problem.
“You have an MBA. Why would you want to be my secretary?” I push away her resume, fighting the urge to pump a hit of hand sanitizer. My fingers are soaked in toothpastey omega juice.
“Hotel management is my passion.” Capri’s coy smile sharpens. “Besides. My fathers said I’d learn the most by working at your side. And my grandfather? Marcus Bloom—”
“You’re hired.”
Fuck me.
Fuck the Blooms and fuck my fucking father for scamming three generations of their pack with his Ponzi schemes.
White collar criminals deserve the fucking guillotine.
Two years after my father’s sentencing, I’m still holding the bag, trying to keep the family business from crumbling like artisanal sheep’s milk feta. But I’d rather drink my bleach than hand an outsider my weakness.
That’s the one thing I learned from Bishop Barrington Senior.
Well, besides how to bullshit and cook books.
It doesn’t matter if you’re drowning.
Never let them see you squirm.
The Barrington Hotel is mine, mess and all.
I take care of my own.
So I smile and offer a handshake. Let Capri try to spy. Whether she wants to steal intel or make a play for our empty mate slot, I’m not giving her anything but contempt and polished professionalism. “See HR. We’ll onboard you right away.”
“Pleasure. Can’t wait to get started.” She returns the shake and struts from my office.
I’ll worry about schemes later.
First, I pump a glob of sanitizer to scrub off her touch. Then, I swivel in my chair, pointing to the bulge in my on-trend, in-season, designer pants. “Fix it.”
Mint chocolate is even more putrid than corporate espionage, but my dick doesn’t give a fuck.
“Bish…” Dutch’s thick lower lip juts. His bodyguard persona, the tough guy act, just fucking melts when we’re alone, turning him back into his real self—the puppy dog linebacker. He cups his junk. “What about me?”
