My Boss's Forbidden Daughter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Heartbreakers Book 3) by Lindsey Hart

Author:Lindsey Hart [Hart, Lindsey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Passion House Publishing
Published: 2020-05-31T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 12

Cassie

I have no idea why I’m here. At his house, doing my best not to appear nervous or sweaty, when in reality, I’m both of those things. I barely refrain from raising my arm and trying to bring my face close to the pit area to make sure I don’t smell weird. Okay, so apparently, I’m a wreck.

I have no idea why I’m wearing a dress I’d term so-so, which is code for somewhere in between something fancy and jeans. I hurried to get home after work and basically spent the entire time rushing around, emptying my closet and throwing clothes all over my bed and the floor in disgust.

I have no idea why I actually tried to put on some makeup. It was a disaster, and I ended up just washing it all off and settling for a light layer of mascara and some tinted lip balm like I normally do.

I have no idea why I just drove like a crazy person to try and be on time since I took too long with the clothes and the makeup.

I have no idea why I took the stupid jar of pickles home and put it on the kitchen counter like a freaking prize I should be proud of.

Actually, I do have an idea. I do know why I’m here. I do know why I went through my closet like an angry tornado. I know why I made a horrible attempt at makeup, and I know why I wanted to be on time. I know all about the pickles. It all boils down to one horrible, simple fact. I want Johnathan Thatcher’s pickle. Which is wrong. And horrible. And ridiculous. And…and a thousand other things that aren’t good.

I’m seriously debating turning around and running back to the car, but then the door opens like John was waiting and watching for me, and now I’m trapped. A cloud of bluish-grey smoke drifts out the door behind him, but I’m too busy staring at him to pay attention to it. He’s in jeans. Jeans. Jeans that are stupidly hot on him. And a t-shirt.

I’m one of those women who thinks a guy is hotter in casual clothes than he is in a suit, because—because seriously. I think John could sway the opinion of every single suit-loving woman out there. Whatever brand the clothing is, I should write to the company and inform them what a service John is doing by wearing their stuff. They should be paying him to be an influencer or put him in an ad. Whatever he’s selling, I’m buying.

I feel like I’ve sunk to a brand new low, and this is coming from someone who had poop and pickle particles spattered all over her face a few days ago.

“Um—there seems to be some—uh—smoke…” I finally realize I should say something—something that doesn’t give away the fact that I’m basically standing here and rehashing pornographic thoughts in my head.

John curses, glances behind him, and runs. He takes off, leaving the door open.

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