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NEW Fake Relationship Billionaire Boss Romance

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0D3KJNPFW?maas=maas_adg_6D243557EC56DAC55B83D881A62D5337_afap_abs&ref_=aa_maas&tag=maas

L. Steele

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PERSON_PROFILE

I head for my boss’ office, then draw in a breath. This is it. Show time. I tuck stray strands of hair behind my ear, square my shoulders, then knock on the door.

I wait for a few seconds but there’s no answer. I knock again. The seconds stretch further. Should I wait? The coffee'll get cold, and he specified it must be hot. Fine, fine. I need to get this over with. Need to find my mettle. Need to chin up and face the music. He’s only a man. I square my shoulders, push open the door and step in, only to find the place is empty. Hmm.

I take a step forward and that’s when the scent of rich tobacco and leather, and something deeper—sandalwood?—pours over me. I take a deep breath, and little fires seem to light up my spine. It’s a very masculine smell. Something very male. Something primal which resonates with a need deep inside me. I squeeze my fingers around the handle of the cup I’m holding and glance about the space.

There’s a massive desk set in front of a glass wall, with a view of the Thames.

The lights are dimmed, so the space crawls with shadows. A gust of wind rattles against one of the walls, I shiver. The hair on the back of my neck rises. I realize I’m not alone. My attention is drawn to the other side of the room.

There, in the corner, in the space between two windows, shrouded in shadows, is the unmistakable outline of a man.

I gasp and strain through the dim light, trying to make out his features.

His face is in darkness, but there’s just enough light to pick out the shape of his shoulders, which are broad enough to stretch his suit. The sleeves are tight around his biceps, and his jacket pulls across his chest.

He’s standing with one hand thrust in his pocket, the other at his side. His jacket is black enough to meld with his surroundings, and he’s wearing a shirt, which is also black. I can tell that his black tie is made of silk because of the light that reflects off it.

He takes another step in my direction. The light from above illuminates his features. I forget to breathe.

High cheekbones, a hooked patrician nose, a thin, firm upper lip that promises he’s not someone to be messed with. And that puffy lower lip which is ridiculously sensuous. The square jaw, which is so perfect it makes me want to weep. But it’s the scar that stretches from the tip of the left side of his lips to the edge of his eye which focuses my attention.

It slashes across his cheek like someone dragged a blade in exactly the perfect symmetry to bisect the expanse.

Whatever happened to cause that wound must have been life-threatening. It’s probably a miracle he’s standing here.

Every muscle seems to be carved out of stone. The tension that rolls off of him weighs the air and sparks it with electricity.

My nerve-endings tingle.

I don’t know why that HR lady thinks his face is hideous, or why his previous assistants couldn’t stand the sight of him, for this man is not repellant or scary to look at. He is gorgeous.

Sure, his face is scarred but that only adds to his appeal. It makes me want to find out how he was wounded.

Whoa, I need to stop that train of thought. This is my boss. I'm his employee. I have no business thinking of him in such an inappropriate manner.

Whatever he sees on my features causes his face to close even more. A nerve tics at his jaw.

"Place the coffee on the table," he rumbles.

I swallow, continue to stare in his direction.

"Do it," he snaps.

Instantly, I’m moving. My feet don’t seem to touch the ground. I reach his table, round it and place the cup of coffee in the space in front of his chair. I straighten and glance in his direction. "I’m—"

"Get out."

"What?" My jaw drops.

"Leave and don’t return unless I ask you to."

My heart slams into my ribcage. For some ridiculous reason, I want to cry. I don’t know this guy, haven’t done anything to elicit this kind of reaction from him, so why is he being so rude?

I open my mouth, but he throws up his hand. "If you don’t like the job, you can leave that, too."

There’s something in his voice that implies he expects me to do just that. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s why he’s being so rude. Not that I plan on quitting. Not when I just got this job. And the money? I need that money. So no, I’m not going anywhere.

"What time?" I sense his surprise, since I can’t make out his features. "Lunch. What time do you want it?" I prompt.

"One p.m. and—"

"I won’t be late." I ignore the scowl on his face, then spin around and walk back the way I came.

When I reach the door, I grab the handle, twist it and push the door open, then pause.

If I’m going to survive this role, then I need to let him know I’m not a pushover. I need him to understand that I’m not scared of his bluster or his domineering manner.

I square my shoulders, then half turn and fix my gaze on the shadow that is him.

"Oh, by the way," I say in a tone that I hope conveys confidence. "I don’t scare easily, Knox Davenport. Question is, do you?"

L. Steele

https://www.facebook.com/AuthorLSteele/

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