Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 24043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 24043 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)
Alice
Running late is my cardio, but I didn't expect my morning workout to include baptizing a stranger with a venti latte. He was rude, he was growly, and unfortunately, he was gorgeous. I thought I’d seen the last of him until I stepped into the elevator that evening—and saw him hit the button for the penthouse. Just my luck. But the real nightmare began Monday morning when I walked into the boardroom at The Mercer Group. That grumpy penthouse resident? He’s Gabriel Mercer. My boss’s boss’s boss. I should be worried about getting fired, but the way he stares at me across the conference table doesn't feel like termination. It feels like trouble.
Gabriel
I don’t do distractions. I run a billion-dollar empire and I live a disciplined life—until a chaotic woman in a gray business suit soaked my favorite shirt in coffee. I should have been furious. Instead, I haven’t slept a wink since, because she’s the only thing haunting my dreams. When I find out she works for me, the game changes. She thinks I’m going to fire her for the spill. She’s wrong. I’m going to make sure she never runs away from me again. Alice Stone belongs with me, and I’m ready to break every HR rule in the book to prove it.
Nestled in the heart of charming Worthington Hills, this quaint apartment building is more than just brick and mortar—it's a hotbed of budding romances and steamy encounters.
So pull up a chair, order your favorite latte, and get ready to fall head over heels for the lovable residents of #1 Love Place. In this building, love isn't just knocking on doors—it's kicking them down!
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER ONE
ALICE
Monday morning rolls around, and I’m rushing through my apartment but still already ten minutes behind schedule. Shoot. I really wanted to stop by Gobble Me Up, the coffee shop in the lobby, for my usual start of the week Caramel Macchiato, but there’s no way I’ll have time. I guess I’ll have to make do with a regular old cup of coffee. Darn.
A few minutes later, I make my way to the door, juggling my purse, laptop bag, and travel mug.
As I make my way down the hall, I realize my right high heel shoe is slowly eviscerating my pinky toe. I make a mental note to dig out my emergency diaper rash cream and apply it to the spot before it breaks the skin.
Things get worse from there. I step into the stainless steel-lined elevator and wince when I see my hair already escaping the bun I hastily pulled it up into. Darn. I really shouldn’t have hit the snooze alarm that one little extra time.
I stake out a spot near the elevator control panel, my fingers clutching the polished metal rail as I silently pray we don't stop on every freaking floor on the way down. Of course, my Monday morning luck sucks spectacularly—the elevator lurches to a halt on six, where a woman in a floral perfume cloud squeezes in beside me, then again on five, where three suited men with identical leather briefcases pile in.
By the time we reach the ground floor, the claustrophobic silence has overwritten my worry about making it to work on time. I've been pushed to the very back of the tight space, sandwiched between the three businessmen and the cold, mirrored wall.
I wait impatiently for everyone to step off. When it’s finally my turn to escape from the tiny metal box, I’m so focused on keeping my coffee from sloshing onto my laptop that I never see the impending doom.
A wall of muscle steps into my path just as I clear the elevator threshold, and I slam into it with the force of a one-woman stampede. There’s a crunching sound, like Styrofoam dying, then the unmistakable splat of my coffee detonating. I watch in horror as it launches a spectacular arc of breakfast blend mixed with my favorite caramel creamer across my gray suit, and squarely onto the chest of the man I’ve just body-checked.
Time stops. Every molecule of air in the lobby freezes. I manage to look up—way up—into a face that’s at once terrifying and absurdly attractive. Dark brown eyes, the kind that probably glare holes through subordinates for fun. Short, dark, and perfectly styled hair that looks damp at the temples. His formerly bright white T-shirt now clings to him, tie-dyed in an icky shade of muddy brown coffee. My lungs forget what oxygen is. The only saving grace is that my disposable travel cup made sure my coffee rapidly cooled on the elevator ride down.
“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he growls, voice deep enough to vibrate the floor tiles. My eyes automatically roam down his smoking hot body. Wow. This guy isn’t just hot; he’s a walking billboard for expensive workout wear. His shirt is one of those ultra-fancy, vacuum-sealed things that look painted onto every muscle. It’s drenched now, clinging to ridges and valleys that I didn’t know existed on normal humans.
His fancy athletic shorts are a tailored, dark navy that scream luxury, cut to show off tree-trunk thighs. His calves flex as he shifts, probably annoyed at having peasant brew splattered on his workout gear. And don’t even get me started on the watch. It’s the kind of watch you’d have to mortgage a kidney for.
Wow. I wish I looked this good when I work out.
“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I stammer, words escaping in a frantic squeak. “I didn’t see you. I’m running late and couldn’t go to Gobble Me Up. So, I made coffee at home. Mondays suck—” God. Why am I blabbing on like this?
He stares at me silently. And the humiliation blasts off into outer space when I try to hand him a fistful of napkins from my purse, but in my panic, I also upend the bag’s contents. Lip balm, a tampon, and the diaper rash cream I use when my high heels hurt my feet. The man looks at the diaper rash cream. Looks at me. Back to the cream.
A dark look breaks out across his face for a second, and I automatically jump in to explain.
“It helps keep my high heels from rubbing blisters,” I squeak. My face is on fire.
“Uh-huh.” He lets out his breath like he’s relieved I’ve finally stopped trying to explain. The hottest man I’ve ever seen swipes at his shirt, but it’s no use. That stain is definitely permanent. His eyes flick over my suit. The muddy brown coffee has pooled right in the center of my chest, creating a large, vaguely obscene bullseye. Of course. “That will probably stain.”