Wedding Disaster – Costa Crime Family Read Online B.B. Hamel

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Crime, Erotic Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 77309 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 387(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)

Marrying my player boss was not part of the plan.
Conlan Costa screwed up again. He’s rich, gorgeous, powerful, charming, and the man can’t keep it in his pants.
When he bangs the wrong girl and gets in deep trouble, he turns to me for help.
I’ve been Con’s personal assistant for three years, and I’ve seen the worst of him: vain, greedy, self-destructive, and worse.
Yes, he’s got abs like a brick wall and a face that would make a Renaissance painter swoon, but he’s everything I despise in a man.
All he wants is a casual marriage to help soothe some bruised egos. In exchange, he’ll pay off my debt and leave me with an enormous chunk of cash.
I plan on running the first chance I get, except I start to see the man underneath all those cocky jokes: passionate, caring, devoted to his family.
When he touches my wrist and whispers in my ear, my body lights on fire in a way I’ve never felt before.
My new fake husband is a walking red flag.
And if I were smart, I wouldn’t crawl into his bed at night seeking the safety of his arms, definitely wouldn’t kiss him when I wake up in the morning, and sure as heck wouldn’t let his hands roam places I should never let him touch.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter 1


My boss’s front door is open again.

Not as in, unlocked—that would be normal for a fancy, upscale neighborhood like this one—but it’s left slightly ajar. Which should be a surprise but isn’t. I push it all the way and step into the foyer, squinting at the black designer high-heel shoe left tossed near the stairs, at the glittering silver necklace dangling from the banister, and at the pair of black women’s underwear on the top step.

He’s got another guest.

I close the door behind me, hard. I make sure it’s nice and loud so my man-child boss can hear it. If Con cares that I’ve arrived at my normal time, there’s no indication of it. He’s not down here ready to start the day, and definitely not prepared to act like a normal, well-adjusted adult.

I wish this weren’t infuriatingly common.

I head into his expensive kitchen. It’s a wasteland. This place barely gets used. I make coffee in his fancy machine and check the refrigerator, but there are only bottles of French champagne, condiments in the door, and old takeout. I toss the food, sip my coffee, and consider leaving when the stairs creak.

That’s either the man himself or his date sneaking off to drown her shame in a very hot shower.

Con appears in the hallway, yawning as he scratches his head. I lean back against the counter, setting my jaw, as a war of emotions flood through me.

My boss is stupidly attractive.

The sort of attractive that just feels unfair.

He’s actually hard to look at sometimes.

There’s no denying it. I can’t pretend the guy isn’t perfection, there’s a reason he could bring home a new girl every night if he wanted.

He’s tall with an athletic frame. Not too muscular, but not thin. His chest is sculpted and defined, his abs always somehow flexing, without a slab of excess body fat anywhere. Which is a minor miracle, considering the man lives on restaurant food and alcohol. I have no clue how he manages to look like he waltzed out of an underwear ad, but it’s like he was blessed with inhuman genes.

I force myself to meet his gaze. Symmetrical face. Bright eyes. This confident smile that seems to suggest he’s either in love with you or knows someone that wants to fuck you.

I press my knees together.

I hate my boss.

“Good morning, Isabel.” He yawns and nods at the coffee machine. “Is that for me?”

“No, but you can have some.”

“Lovely, thank you.” He brushes past me and pours a cup. “Exactly what I needed.”

“I thought we talked about this.”

“About what?” He glances at me, eyebrows raised. His eyes are light blue, like the color of a pale Caribbean ocean. His jaw is square, his cheekbones are high, and just the right amount of stubble makes him look absurdly masculine.

“About wearing a shirt when I’m coming over.” I nod at his bare chest. “It’s unprofessional.”

He rolls his eyes. “Call HR then.” And moves past me toward the pantry. He roots around, looking for something, and emerges with a pack of peanut butter crackers. “You are in my own house, you know.”

He unwraps the crackers and eats them one at a time.

“Yes, and you also knew I was coming over, like I do every single morning. Half the time, you’re mostly naked.”

“Mostly. I’m not an animal.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“It’s not like I heard you ring the doorbell.”

“You’re right, I didn’t, since you left the door open again last night.”

He looks slightly chagrined. “Well, that’s not ideal.”

“Not like it matters in his neighborhood, but still, you’re practically begging someone to come in here and murder you.” We’re in a nice little section of multi-million-dollar bungalows in Santa Monica. He’s close enough that he could spit on the beach if he wanted—although I’m pretty sure he hates sand and never goes anywhere near it.