Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55599 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Dane is hell on skates. He’s one of the best in pro hockey, but he parties as hard as he plays, and his team owner is fed up with his PR disasters. When my firm assigns me to be Dane's full-time handler, I take the job and cross my fingers that I'll finally get promoted beyond lowly junior publicist.
The job's even worse than I expected. Dane is brash and obnoxious. Not remotely my type. We argue over everything while we're practically glued together thanks to his team’s rigorous travel schedule. But before long, our contempt starts to turn into something even more powerful than desire.
It’s need. And giving into it will come at a steep price.
This book was previously published in Vella as Dane Pucking Foster.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
Josie
I thought eating peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for lunch every day at work was the worst.
It’s not.
Running out of jelly and bread before payday and eating a peanut butter sandwich made with the two heels of the bread loaf—that’s actually the worst.
“That looks disgusting, Josie,” my coworker Monica says as she unwraps the deli sandwich she had delivered from DoorDash.
“It’s not bad,” I lie, reaching for my water bottle to wash down the stale bread.
Monica is twenty-three and still lives at home. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be so broke you put five dollars’ worth of gas at a time in your car because it’s all you can afford.
I smile to myself because that’s the one upside of my car getting repossessed last week: no more paying for gas. But now I have to pay for bus rides to work, which costs more than gas.
FML. I thought by age twenty-seven, I’d be a senior publicist at JG Publicity, getting my hair and nails done on my Friday lunch breaks to prepare for a weekend of barhopping in downtown Minneapolis.
Instead, I spent the first half of my lunch break listening to horrible on-hold music for the electric company before begging them to give me another week to pay my bill, leaving the rest of my break free for my dry sandwich and clueless coworker.
“Eww, I told them no tomato,” she says, grimacing at her sandwich. “They mess my order up every time, I swear to God.”
I lock eyes with Linda, one of the secretaries. She’s a single mom of four who also has no tolerance for Monica’s nonstop complaining.
“You want an apple?” Linda offers, taking one from her lunch bag.
“I’m good, thanks.”
It’s true what they say about people who have the least being the most generous. Linda knows I struggle, and she checks on me to make sure I’m okay.
I’m not okay, but I’m hanging in there. Making payments on a ten-thousand-dollar health insurance deductible for an unexpected gall bladder removal surgery eight months ago has put a major strain on my already meager finances. Those monthly five hundred- and fifty-dollar payments are the reason I’m waiting tables on weekends and clipping coupons.
Good thing I’m in line for a promotion. If I get it, the salary increase will change my life.
Convincing my boss to promote me, though? That’s another story.
“Excellent font choices, Monica,” Jane Garver says during our two p.m. group meeting. “The client wants to see a full presentation. I’ll expect it to be ready by Monday afternoon.”
“Absolutely,” Monica says.
“Josie, did you steal that shirt from a homeless person?” Jane asks me, wrinkling her nose.
Or should I say, Aunt Jane. Having my aunt as a boss is worse than eating dry peanut butter sandwiches for every meal.
Monica cackles like the ass-kisser she is, and I smile tightly. My plain short-sleeved gray shirt may not have a designer label on it, but it’s perfectly fine.
“I’m not seeing clients today, so I decided to dress down a bit.”
Jane scoffs. “You’ll need to go home and change before our four o’clock meeting.”
“What meeting?”
She waves a hand. “I’ll fill you in before. It’s a job for a high-profile client, and you’re perfect for it.”
I straighten in my chair, taken aback. Perfect for it? Aunt Jane has never, since meeting me within a minute of my birth, thought I was perfect for anything.
“I’m sure you’ve all heard that Marnie is leaving us,” Jane says crisply. “That creates an opening for a senior publicist. Junior publicists, show me your best work in the coming weeks and help make my decision easier.”
Jane was so offended by Marnie’s resignation that she told her not to even work out a two-week notice. She takes it personally when someone quits.
This job for a high-profile client is my chance to prove myself. I’ve worked here for five years, starting straight out of college as an intern. I like my job, and I want to stay here.
Publicists get to make people shine. Sometimes, we come in for damage control, helping clients rebuild their images. I like being part of a team that consists of me and my client.
I also like paying my electric bill on time and having a professional cut my hair instead of doing it myself.
Which means I have to get that promotion.
“Wait. What?” I gape at my boss a couple of hours later after finding out what my special assignment is.
“You’ll be his...handler,” Jane says brightly. “It couldn’t be an easier job, really. You just watch over him and make sure he’s not getting into trouble.”
Arnold Morgan, owner of the Minnesota Mammoths pro hockey team, grins at Jane.
“I can’t thank you enough for this, Jane. Bill me whatever rate you think is reasonable. And if she can keep him out of trouble for the whole three months, there’ll be a considerable bonus.”