Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 60131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 301(@200wpm)___ 241(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
“Holll-low!” “Holll-low!” Charlotte and William screamed.
Olivia rushed toward me, pulling me into a long hug. “Are you really coming back?”
“Yes, but not as your nanny...”
“As my friend?”
“That, too, but as your uncle’s girlfriend.”
She stepped back and tilted her head to the side, then she looked between me and Pierce.
“Has the spicy make-up scene stuff already happened between you two, or is that something you’re planning to do while me and the twins are sleeping tonight?” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m invested in your story, and I deserve to know…”
THE END
PIERCE
Jets Get SWEPT in the Playoffs
Jets Fall in the First Round
Jets Remain TRASH
“Does it bother you that the fans don’t appreciate the fact that the Jets made it further than they ever have this year?” Harlow asked. “Like…This was their first time in the playoffs in forever.”
“They do appreciate it.” I tossed The Sports Times into the trash. “They still want to win, though.”
“So, you think they’ll go further in the playoffs next year?”
“Hell no.” I laughed. “It’ll take at least five years.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“As long as I have other things that are going well in my life.” I picked up one of her red velvet cupcakes. “And you.”
“Put that down, Uncle Brooks!” Olivia snatched it from my hand. “That’s for the pre-testing customers, and you’re not one of them.”
“You let the twins have one.”
“They’re special.”
I leaned against the counter, watching her tie on a pink “Patissier” apron that matched Harlow’s. As the twins played in a booth with “Mary Poppins” (I couldn’t fire her) and my father, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had something that my billions could never buy.
Something that I would never abandon or let go.
THE END.
FOR NOW…
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PROLOGUE
Tara
“Winners never quit, and quitters never win …”
If I had a dollar for every time my mother said those words to me, I would be sipping wine on my own private island off the Amalfi Coast at this very moment.
When I cried about hating ballet, she squished my feet into those ugly pink flats and made me go to practice anyway. When I told her that I wanted to change my major from Business to “something more creative,” she threatened to stop paying my tuition. And when I told her that I was seconds away from telling my first real boss to go fuck himself, she would only sigh and give me her tried and true words of advice.
She insisted that all my late-night emails were “wasteful whining,” that my screams of hatred were “misplaced admiration,” and that all the times he made me work over a hundred hours in a single week were “much-needed character building.”
After two long years of working for him, I’ve finally accepted that none of those things are true.
Preston Parker is a terrible, grumpy boss. That is it. End of discussion.
My mother can call me a “quitter” all she wants, but she’ll never know what it’s like to work for a man like him. A man whose ego is bigger than all of New York and Vegas combined.
Yes, he can make any woman wet by uttering a single syllable from his perfectly molded mouth. Yes, his deep emerald and grey eyes are downright breathtaking, and the way he’s able to make any suit look like it was made explicitly for him, never ceases to amaze me.
But I’ve had more than enough.
I can’t take working for him anymore, and I’m finally drafting the two weeks’ notice I should’ve drafted the very first month we worked together. (No, the very first week we worked together.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I can’t start this story from the bitter end or the miserable middle. I need to start it from the very unfortunate beginning …
ONE
PRESTON
The “very unfortunate” beginning
The best part of my day was always four forty-five in the morning. It was the rare moment when New York City was calm and quiet, when I could take a ride through the streets and admire all the buildings that were lucky enough to bear my last name.
There was the Parker & Rose Collection that owned space on every block of downtown, The Grand Alaskan that hosted top-tier guests in unparalleled privacy, and my favorite hotel of them all. The one that had ousted The Waldorf Astoria from its top spot in luxury hotels for the tenth year in a row: The Grand Rose on Fifth Avenue.
It was my hundredth hotel, my twentieth in this city. It was the very reason why I knew that New York was mine, and it always would be. Every luxury hotel in Manhattan wanted my touch, and the newest listings from Hilton and Marriott were poor imitations. I’d invented the modern twist on the luxury brand. Everyone else was simply borrowing it.