Boss Man Bridegroom Read online

  Published by Hot-Lanta Publishing, LLC

  Copyright 2020

  Cover Design By: RBA Designs

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at [email protected]

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination.

  www.authormeghanquinn.com

  Copyright © 2020 Meghan Quinn

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Excerpt - The Secret to Dating Your Best Friend’s Sister

  Prologue

  RATH

  “Rath Westin, my boss, my commander in chief, my Gucci Governor—”

  “I don’t wear Gucci.”

  “Go with it.” She winks and clears her throat. “Mr. Big Shot, Barking Britches, and Irritable Ira—”

  “Jesus . . . Christ.” I rub my hand down my face.

  “Will you do me the great honor . . .” She wobbles on her bent knee and clutches my hand to steady herself. “Will you . . .” She tears up, her voice becoming shaky. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this before.”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” I say through gritted teeth.

  “And I didn’t think I’d get emotional either.” On a deep breath, she finishes, “Will you do me the greatest honor of all time and be my bridegroom?”

  Christ, nothing is ever simple with her.

  “Why did you say it like that?”

  “Did I not do it right?” she mumbles to herself. “See, I knew I was doing something wrong.”

  “No, why did you say bridegroom?”

  “Oh, well, that’s what you would be. You see, that’s what they used to call men who were soon to be married . . . a bridegroom. But then somewhere along the way they shortened it to groom. But if you marry me, I would give you the dignified pleasure of retaining the honorable title of bridegroom.”

  “Don’t call me bridegroom.”

  “Boss man bridegroom?” she asks with a cheeky grin.

  How the fuck did I allow myself to get in this position? With my quirky and sometimes annoying but mostly efficient assistant, kneeling in front of me . . . proposing.

  Proposing to me.

  In a pair of belly-covering slacks and suspenders, hair pulled back into a tight bun like she often wears it, looking up at me through her red-framed glasses, her bright blue eyes shining past the lenses, begging me to go along with this ridiculous scheme I suggested.

  Yes, me.

  Like the goddamn idiot I am, I thought hey, why not start an HR nightmare and have my assistant ask me to marry her?

  Confused?

  Don’t worry, so am I.

  Where do I even start? Maybe from the beginning?

  Here is a quick rundown: my ex, who used to work with me, left me for bigger and better things. We don’t talk about her, ever, because she took my heart with her. Instead, I buried myself in my work. I became a hermit in my office, firing one assistant after another because they weren’t good enough or their voice annoyed me, or they thought salt was sugar and gave me one bad cup of coffee that ended their career at Westin Enterprises—that mistake was on them.

  In my spare time—not that there’s much—but when I do have spare time, I follow my two idiot friends around the city, helping them avoid fucking up their lives. But now that they’re both in loving and committed relationships, one planning a wedding with my sister as the bride, I have much more time on my hands.

  Maybe they’re to blame for my demise, for this ridiculous charade I’m now a part of.

  What does this have to do with my assistant proposing to me?

  Well, you see, I was in the market for yet another new assistant, and that’s when one of my best friends, Bram, suggested I lean on his assistant, Linus, to help me find someone. Side note: Linus is a gift from God, and I’ve offered him huge pay raises many times to jump ship and join my company, but his loyalty lies with Bram . . . unfortunately.

  So Linus helped me find an assistant, and that’s where it started to go downhill.

  The minute I saw her, I knew it wasn’t going to be a good fit.

  Why?

  Because she’s too goddamn beautiful.

  Because she’s far too bubbly.

  Because with every smile and checklist she devises, she makes me want to bend her over my desk and make her mine.

  But, since I clearly don’t know how to make any decisions worth a shit, I hired her, right there on the spot.

  And that was the beginning of the end.

  Need to know more? Well in case you are on pins and needles about my answer to her proposal, I said yes.

  Here’s the story of how I became Boss Man Bridegroom.

  Chapter One

  CHARLEE

  My grandma once told me, if I want to show someone my true being, my inner joyful soul, I should surround myself with things I love.

  Meaning: if I want someone to see the best side of me, I should meet them in my most comfortable and jubilant surroundings.

  So if I like to cook, go to cooking classes.

  If I’m a reader—and I do partake in a historical romance once a week—bury myself in a library.

  If I find rocks particularly fascinating, help out at the quarry . . . or something like that.

  You get the idea.

  Not that I’m trying to meet someone at this point, since I’m unfortunately “celebrating” my three-year anniversary of being left at the altar—yay, that was fun—but you never know when you’ll have that special moment with someone.

  Therefore, I’m surrounding myself with the one true thing that makes me happy, that gets me high on life, that makes my toes tingle with excitement: organization.

  Hands clasped together, I stare at the banner hanging above the convention center entrance.

  Second Annual Office Supply Con, NYC.

  I am home.

  Turning to a random stranger walking by, I say, “Pardon me, sir, will you take my picture in front of this magnificent sign? I love commemorating moments like this.”

  Dressed in a finely tailored suit, a tie cinching tightly around his neck, he stares at my phone for a second and then takes it from me, huffing in frustration. Not hiding his irr
itation, he steps back and gets in position.

  “You don’t have to, if it will be troublesome,” I say, giving him an out, since he’s clearly annoyed.

  “I have your phone, so just take the damn picture,” he snaps.

  Sheesh.

  Clearly he’s not in his optimum space.

  Ignoring his obvious annoyed demeanor, I spread my arms wide and look up at the sign, a smile on my face. I count to five before I look back down. “Did you get it?”

  “No, someone walked in front of you.”

  “Oh, okay. One more time.” I do the same pose and when I count to five, I ask him again, “Did you get it?”

  “Another person.”

  “Criminy.” I chuckle and then do some traffic control. I put my arms out to passersby and say, “Please hold for one second, I’m trying to take a picture under this wonderful sign. Thank you.” Once the coast is clear, I give the angered man the go-ahead with a wink and an airgun.

  I commit to my pose one more time.

  “Here,” he says, walking up to me and handing me my phone.

  I thank the people who were waiting and then ask him, “Would you like me to take your picture too? With your phone, of course. That would be weird if it was mine, unless we dropped images into our phones. We could do that. Then again, if you already have your phone out, I could just use that to take the picture. So, what do you say?” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Picture?”

  “No.” He gives me a quick once-over and then looks around, buttoning his suit jacket.

  “Do you need help finding something? I have a map.”

  “Of course you do,” he mutters.

  “You don’t have to be rude,” I say before I can stop myself. I might be nice and bubbly, but I also don’t take crap from people. “If you didn’t want to take a picture, you didn’t have to. You could have said not right now and kept walking.”

  His sharp blue eyes bore into me, an intimidation tactic I’m sure works in the boardroom, but I’m used to the signature boss man look. I’ve dealt with my fair share of “intimidating” businessmen so to me, it’s the same stare, a different day.

  “You bothered me, not the other way around. I don’t need your attitude.”

  “I don’t have an attitude; you do,” I shoot back, hands on my hips. “I just wanted to commemorate this moment and you’re ruining it.”

  “You’re at a goddamn office supply convention, what’s there to commemorate?”

  “Everything.” I wave my hands to the side. “Don’t you feel the excitement buzzing in the air? This is the mecca of all pens and paper. Products like the erasable pen were first found here, and whiteout tape . . . don’t even get me started.”

  He blinks.

  Stares.

  Blinks.

  Finally. “You’re deranged.”

  Insulted, my eyes widen as I clutch my hand to my chest. “You’re offensive.” Standing tall, I take a step forward and poke the man in the chest.

  Poke.

  Flex.

  Poke.

  Yowser. That’s a strong pectoral.

  Shaking my finger out, I continue, “Just because you seem to have a small-minded brain and rotten heart, doesn’t mean you need to extract the joy out of everyone else’s life. If everyone here is so beneath you, why even come in the first place? We don’t want your negativity bringing down the pure excitement of this day.”

  “So you’re the spokeswoman now for the convention?” He crosses his arms over his chest.

  “As a matter of fact”—I cross my arms too—“I am.” I hold my hand out. “Gwendolyn Havershire.”

  I know it’s stupid to pretend to be someone else, let alone the queen bee of the office supply convention, but is this suit really going to know who she is? He clearly doesn’t want to be here, so I’m sure he has no idea the organizer of the convention is none other than the beautifully wonderful and highly organized Gwendolyn Havershire.

  Anyway, he needs to be put in his place, and I’m ready to take on the task.

  He stares at my hand but doesn’t take it. Instead, he looks at me, his brows narrowing.

  “You’re telling me, you organized this entire thing?”

  I smoothly take my hand away and stuff it into my pocket. “Yes, I am. So, if you don’t mind, we would prefer for only excited people to be here.” I point to the doors behind us. “I’m sure you know your way out.”

  “As much as I would love to leave, Gwendolyn, I have a very important meeting to attend and you’ve delayed me.”

  “You delayed yourself by arguing with me.”

  “You shouldn’t have asked me to take a picture.”

  My voice rises. “Well, excuse me for thinking there are decent people in this world who will take a second of their day to help capture a moment for another human being.” My breathing starts to become labored. “Heaven forbid you ever need a favor or someone to lend a hand. I hope they don’t treat you the same way you treated me, like a giant . . . turd nugget.”

  He doesn’t react. The only reason I know he’s surprised is the small, rapid blinking of his eyes.

  “Are you . . . are you calling me a turd nugget? The dignified Gwendolyn Havershire is calling me, a turd nugget?”

  “Well”—I brush my hand down my pants—“we all have our low moments. Now, if you’ll excuse me, since I’m the head of this convention, I have more important things to do than to stand around arguing with a peon.”

  “A peon?” The corner of his mouth twitches, but I don’t see the rest of that possible smile before I take off, leaving him in my dust.

  Self-righteous turd nugget.

  Pffft. It’s men like him who think they run the world when it’s really the people behind them who are pulling all the strings.

  “Well, at least I have my picture,” I say to myself as I post it to my Instagram feed with some very flavorful hashtags.

  #ConventionCommemoration

  #PenMeccaMadness

  #BeStillMyOrganizationalHeart

  Pleased and attempting to move past Mr. Moody Pants, I keep my phone close in case I need to take any more pictures and walk through the arch into office supply heaven.

  Booths displaying the latest and greatest printers, paper, pens, planners, chairs, desks, pretty much anything you see in an office, are scattered through the large convention center giving me an overwhelming sense of excitement.

  I open my map and scan my highlighted sections. Since I don’t need to look at the printers and computers, I avoid that section and head straight to the planners.

  I’m a sucker for a planner.

  Planners and notebooks.

  Planners with stickers!

  And pens. Oh my goodness, let’s not forget about pens.

  Or Post-it notes.

  Oh God, I need to catch my breath. Just thinking about all the different kinds of Post-its I might see today has my pulse racing at an uncomfortable rate.

  Circles, and squares, and hearts, and cat shapes, and maybe a cactus, because the cacti of the world are trending right now.

  Whoa . . . I feel lightheaded.

  Settle down, deep breaths. You have the entire day to explore and an empty backpack for the swag you’ll pick up along the way.

  The last convention I went to, I brought a wheelie cart to haul my most prized possessions, but I got in trouble for having one because apparently in a crowded space, they don’t want people tripping over wheelie carts.

  So this go around, I decided to keep it simple, not go too crazy on free samples, and to only take what I absolutely needed. The bare essentials.

  And since I’m between jobs at the moment, I have business cards for prospective employers I might run into and I have an envelope of cash, to control the amount of money I spend.

  My last company was bought out in a merger. I received a very nice severance package that has lasted me six months—my old boss loved me—but with my severance dwindling at a rapid rate—thank you, NYC rent—I need to be
conservative and find a job soon. That’s why I decided on a set amount for today that will give me some freedom, but not too much where I’m regretting my decisions later.

  I follow the map around the kitchen supply area, which piques my interest because I can smell free coffee, but I’ll catch up with those booths later. I want to make sure I get to the Daisy and Dot booth first.

  Daisy and Dot has the best planners you will ever use. Efficient, task oriented, with stickers and fun clips to hold down important items, they’re the only planner I ever want to use, and they have a new prototype out today.

  God, I know, how exciting.

  I blow past a few suits, my agenda simple: get the planner then peruse.

  I can see their canary-yellow and white polka-dot branding, with their cute cursive font, and I make a beeline, eyes fixed up ahead—

  Ooof.

  Clunk.

  Boof . . .

  From out of nowhere, I collide with a tall, lean frame sending me flat on my ass. My map scatters to the ground and then is kicked by oncoming traffic.

  Noooo, that was color coordinated.

  On my hands and knees, I crawl to reach for it just as it’s snatched from the ground. I look up in a panic to find kind eyes staring back at me as well as an out-stretched hand.

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you coming.” I take the man’s hand and smile politely.

  He hands me his map and says, “I was so fixed on the new Daisy and Dot planner I completely forgot all social protocol.”

  I chuckle. “Me too. I want to know what this new calendar print is all about.”

  “Their social media posts have been an absolute tease.”