A sexy, heart-swooning new romance about a girl who has nothing to lose when it comes to flirting with her boss is coming on 9 Oct 2018 from authors Meghan Quinn and Sara Ney, and I have a sneak peek for you.
Excerpt
The space between us couldn’t be any smaller, and the only thing stopping me from shoving my greedy tongue down her throat is the flash of movement in my peripheral vision.
Everyone is watching.
It’s like we’re a bad accident on the side of the goddamn road, and no one can take their eyes off it, instead going slower to inspect the damage.
No one moves.
No one speaks.
No one but Peyton. “Go ahead and do it.”
Her voice is small, but it carries just enough to reach my ears.
“Do what?” I spit out almost sarcastically.
“Kiss me.” She’s daring me, but I’m not an idiot.
I rear back like she’s kicked me in the nuts, putting space between us, hissing, “Are you fucking insane?”
Another laugh. “That’s what I thought. McBossypants and his proper, Mr. Goody-Two-Shoes manners.”
“We. Are. At. Work,” I bite out, words halted.
“I’m not at work—I only came in to clear out my desk. You’re the only one at work here.”
So glad she can be nonchalant. “You just cannot help needling me, can you?”
“Needling you? What are you, seventy?” She’s laughing at me. “No, I’m not needling you—obviously not.” She taps her chin. “You’re adorable when you get yourself worked up into a snit.”
A snit.
What the fuck.
No. I do not get myself worked up into snits; I’m commanding and in control of my impulses—unlike some people, apparently.
“I like it,” Peyton adds, crossing her arms.
“You need to stop.”
“Does it make you uncomfortable when I’m honest?”
“No. I prefer when people lie.” I haven’t rolled my eyes this hard since I was thirteen years old.
“Well, if it’s opposite day, I love that I’m not working for you anymore, and I’m glad I never get to see your grumpy face again.”
Wait. Huh?
I have no idea what to fucking say; but she’s in my face, staring expectantly—and so is everyone else.
Through my clenched teeth, I say, “People are watching.”
She tilts her head. Smiles. “They are.”
“You should probably go back to your party.”
I’ve said nothing that I came down to this floor to say—that she quit and doesn’t deserve a fucking farewell party. That she’s unprofessional—well, okay. Thatpart I did say—that her blue dress makes her look smoking hot to the point of distraction.
And I think about her way more often than I should, even before I realized RoamingHands was her.
And I think about her way more often than I should.
And that I’m so goddamn mad at her for putting me through the wringer, for making me feel more than is appropriate for an employee, and that because I’m equal parts furious and turned on—because she’s fucking hot—I’m tempted to cause a scene. And I never cause scenes.
How has she made me behave like someone I’m not? I barely know myself anymore.
And why is it that not only am I flustered, but I want to bend her over a chair and spank her to teach her a lesson?
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