My Boss's Forbidden Daughter: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy (Heartbreakers Book 3) Read online

  My Boss’s Forbidden Daughter

  Heartbreakers #3

  Lindsey Hart

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands.

  Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Graphics used inside the book are from pngtree and pixabay.

  Edits by Charmaine Tan. Cover by Cosmic Letterz.

  You can contact Lindsey Hart at [email protected].

  CHAPTER 1

  Cassie

  My mom and Bill have finally gone and done it. They’ve completely lost their minds.

  It’s the only thing that could explain the new guy. He’s here to replace my stepbrother, Lucas, who shacked up with his archnemesis. She just happened to be one-third of our besties’ trio. They took themselves off on a grand adventure to start their own company. They want to make a difference in the world by doing fair-trade and helping artisans who don’t come from much, get their product out there. It’s a great calling. Aria and Lucas—they’re making a difference.

  My mom and my stepdad own this giant chain of grocery stores, and we keep acquiring more all the time. I started working for them around the same time I bought shares. I didn’t want anything handed to me, especially because my parents have worked their butts off to get where they are. After college and sporting a fresh degree in Business, they gave me a job.

  It’s not glamourous doing accounting all day. Lucas had the fun position. He was the one who got to broker all our merger deals and takeovers. He was a rock star at it. I just put my share of work in with the books. Thanks to a collective effort, my shares are doing well. I’m thirty-one, and I think I could actually retire by forty. That kind of well.

  But then this.

  My mom and Bill decided to hire this.

  This happens to be Johnathan Thatcher. We just had our first round of introductions with the rest of the staff, and now he’s doing what every other employee here does shortly after nine. Hit up the break room to get a second or maybe a third cup of coffee to try and stay awake.

  I round the corner and find him there, standing in front of the industrial coffee maker like a break room god.

  No one should be this handsome. Seriously, it’s a crime against humanity and female reproductive organs. My mom is worried that since I’m over thirty now, my ovaries are rapidly drying up. I almost wanted to find her after our orientation this morning and tell her that thanks to their new hire and the hour I just spent in a small meeting room in close proximity to him, I now have active proof that my ovaries are functioning perfectly. They’re actually on overdrive, thank you very much. Zero to sixty in two point three seconds. Pedal to the metal.

  No one that hot should have a normal name like Johnathan Thatcher. John. That’s what he told us to call him. I feel like he should have an exotic name to match his exterior. Like Rico, or Luigio, or Devritzi or something. Okay, okay, so we don’t all have parents who like to give their children really difficult to pronounce and even harder to spell names. His mom took mercy on the rest of us.

  He looks like someone went into a museum and cast a spell on one of those bronze statues that was carved two thousand years ago or whatever, but then again, I’m not a history expert. Or maybe that same magically inclined person went into the wilderness and used their magic wand to bring a tree or a mountain, or something equally as fresh scented and hard, to life.

  The guy is jacked. He makes pouring a cup of coffee look like office porn. I’d like to see him in action with a stapler.

  He’s broad. Like an inverted mountain. Huge shoulders, nice chest—especially defined in a crisp white dress shirt—trim waist, long legs, and an ass made of steel like it truly was magicked into being. I’m not, for the record, a flirty girl. I’m still single, half because I’ve had shit luck with guys, and half because I like being independent. I’m normally quiet and shy. I’m not the kind of girl who checks out her coworker’s ass.

  Not normally.

  I did not, during orientation this morning, imagine doing dirty things with that ass. For the record, we live in Miami. Winter is a thing I don’t fully understand. My other bestie, she moved to freaking Colorado, so I do get a taste of it now and then when I visit her. She told me this hilarious story about it getting so cold that things freeze to metal. Hands. Tongues. Other exposed appendages. I didn’t believe it at first, but apparently, it happens.

  Okay, I’ll confess. I sat in that meeting this morning, at our perfectly prim and proper boardroom, probably looking prim and proper myself, and freaking imagined John Thatcher’s butt being freezing cold and my tongue sticking to it. Just the cheek. I swear. It was just the cheek.

  Mr. Granite Bottom keeps pouring coffee. I stop in my tracks, hanging back behind the corner wall like a stalker, and watch his muscles ripple under that white dress shirt. It’s neatly tucked into a set of black pants that do wonders for his already wonderful rear end. It really isn’t fair. My mom and Bill clearly weren’t thinking when they hired him. He’s like straight lawsuit bait. No one around here is going to get any work done with a distraction like this in the office.

  He finally fills up the cup and moves off to the side, and I realize I can’t just stand out in the hall forever. He’s going to pass me and find me there. I have to make a move. Now.

  I force myself forward on wooden legs. My hands tremble, but I hope I manage to breeze in like I’m unaffected. I reach up into the cupboard, which isn’t hard because I’m pretty tall, and my heels give me an extra few inches. I take down a mug, grab the pot of coffee, and…

  And get extremely distracted by the aroma in the break room. It’s him. It smells all woodsy and amazing. It lights up all the spots in me that have been pretty dark and dormant for a long time. Spots that are—erm—below my belly button and above my thighs.

  A set of incredible blue eyes swivel in my direction. Full lips pull back from sparkly white teeth. His square jawline, chiseled to artistic perfection, reflects that smile. His sharp cheekbones—the kind that will come
in handy in a burglary since they can probably cut right through a glass display case—also complete the grin.

  “Whoa there,” he says, and his grin turns into a grimace.

  I don’t know what he’s talking about until his eyes swivel downwards, and I realize my mug is overflowing. I’m literally standing here and pouring coffee all over the freaking place.

  “Shaster master,” I mutter. I’ve made it a habit to not swear at work or pretty much anywhere else. I think it gives the company a bad image, and I realize I’m sort of a walking, talking representative of my parent’s empire.

  I jerk the coffee pot hard. Annnnddddd since it’s still pretty full, my nervous knee-jerk reaction sends a wave of scorching hot brown liquid rumbling through the pot. It erupts over the side, explodes out the spout of the pot like an avenging volcano, and splashes directly all over the white-clad granite chest directly in front of me.

  “Oh, no!” I slap my free hand over my mouth. “Oh, crap. I’m so sorry! Crap! Do I need to call for an ambulance? Are you burned? Crap. Crap, crap, crapper, crap-crap.”

  “That’s a lot of crap.” John’s full lips waver into an ironic smile.

  I watch as his eyes track downward, down to his shirt, which is wetly clinging to a very muscular chest. Since the white basically turned a brown sort of translucent, I can make out the vague outline of a dark nipple, a hard pec, and some sort of muscle right above where the abs start. It’s like he has a twelve-pack that extends all the way up to his pecs. Kind of like a muscular version of grandpa pants.

  God, this guy could probably wear a fanny pack and still be hot.

  My mouth dries up, which is odd because, at the same time, I feel decidedly moist in other areas. Yeah. I heard that moist is one of the most hated words in the English language, but there really isn’t any other word to describe what’s happening to me—a very inappropriate dampening that I don’t like.

  “Relax,” he says as he walks calmly over to the sink, grabs the smelly old dishcloth hanging off the tap, wets it, and dabs at his shirt like it’s actually going to help.

  “I’m really sorry!” I tuck the coffee pot back where it belongs. “I–uh–I can pay for your dry cleaning. Or buy you a new shirt. Sorry. I’m not normally clumsy like that. I was thinking about uh–a–a tough accounting problem, and I lost my mind.” I glance at the floor, which has little puddles of coffee all over the place. Somehow, I managed not to get a drop on myself. “I’m going to get a mop to clean this up.”

  “It’s fine. The shirt I mean,” he tries to assure me. I stay stuck to the spot like I just poured glue all over the place and stepped in it instead of coffee. “Don’t worry about it. I wanted to make a good first impression, so I chose white. It’s not a shirt I’d wear again by choice.”

  “Uh–well, I still feel bad. Please. Let me pay for it. Or at least for the dry cleaning.”

  “It’s fine. Really. It was on sale. I’m honestly happy to get rid of it.”

  My hands are still shaking when I reach for my overfull mug. It’s a mistake. I’m so nervous, and I feel John’s crazy blue eyes following me. My hand shakes a little harder, and all of a sudden, the mug, which is pretty slippery all around, slips right out of my hands. It hits the floor hard and goes off like a freaking bomb in the kitchen.

  I let out an undignified sounding gasp as coffee sprays all over the walls, the counters, the coffee machine, the sugar and cream container, the fruit basket with the fresh fruit, the microwave, and the table and chairs. Right. The ceiling as well. Literally, everything in the entire kitchen is covered.

  “Okay,” John says in a resigned voice. “I’ll let you get the dry cleaning tab after all.”

  He walks off, holding his coffee, as calm as can be. He doesn’t even act like he just got a coffee shower. My face burning, I slink off to get the mop and as many cleaning supplies that my arms can hold.

  CHAPTER 2

  John

  First days are always the worst. Second days are never that great either. By the time Friday rolls around, though, I’m feeling pretty confident that I made the right choice in taking this job.

  I haven’t had a kitchen mishap since the first day; when Cassie Dawson spilled coffee all over me. Although spilled might be too kind a word. I know she’s the daughter of the owners, Bill and Betty Dawson. The entire world knows that. I also know I’m taking over for her stepbrother. This is a temporary position—twelve months with the possibility of an extension. I know I’m filling legendary shoes. I managed to get over that by the first hour of day one since everyone was down to earth.

  And then the coffee disaster.

  Since then, Cassie Dawson has gone out of her way to ignore me completely. She doesn’t really have a reason to talk to me, and I have no business feeling anything about that. I’m here to do a job, not hit on the owner’s daughter, who just happens to also be my coworker.

  Even if she’s goddess style gorgeous, she’s also harassment lawsuit style off-limits.

  She’s the kind of flawless beauty that doesn’t seem to exist in an age of selfies and artificial enhancements. Cassie’s long black hair hangs nearly to her waist. She has huge brown eyes that shine with intelligence, and full, coral lips. She’s model tall, but still curvy in a streamlined way. I know. I’ve looked. I can’t seem to stop looking at her, so maybe it’s a good thing she’s stayed away after she spilled half a coffee pot on me and detonated a coffee bomb in the kitchen.

  I caught her cleaning up the mess when I snuck by ten minutes after the incident, on my way to the bathroom to wash up. The image of her working that mop will be with me for a looooong time. I’m not a perv. It’s not like I’m filing it away to use as spank-bank material. She just looked so graceful while mopping; her bottom lip tucked between her teeth in concentration. She cleaned up her own mess and didn’t call anyone to help her. She might be the owner’s daughter and probably crazy rich too, but she’s no princess. That’s what’s going to stick with me.

  There’s a soft knock at my door, so soft that I almost miss it. While I push back my desk chair, it comes again. “Come in.” I feel awkward about shutting my door at all, but there’s a hum that always hangs in the office, the noise of thirty-odd people working, and I find it easier to concentrate if I can block some of that out.

  The door creaks open, and my heart stutters to a stop and restarts violently at the sight of Cassie in a red dress. It’s nothing fancy. It goes beyond knee length. It is fitted in the bust area—not too tight and on a bust that is absolutely perfect—and tucks in a little at a very narrow waist before it flares out at her flowing hips and narrows further at the knee. She has matching red heels on. Her raven hair, which is a medieval kind of long and lush, is done up in some sort of fancy braid that hangs over her left shoulder. The end nearly brushes her waist.

  “You’re not carrying coffee, are you? Should I duck for cover?”

  She stares at me, a blank expression on her face. Clearly, she didn’t appreciate the reminder, and I curse myself in my head for being so tactless. Lame jokes apparently aren’t her thing.

  “Betty wanted me to discuss the little grocery store bakery combo over on the other side of town. They’ve been looking at it for a while. They like the model.” Cassie’s eyes sweep around the barren office uncomfortably. “She’s not trying to check up on you,” she mutters. “They’re not. Honestly. They hired you, so they know you’re capable. She wanted me to make that clear.”

  “Alright.”

  “I just—Lucas and I talked a lot about what he was doing or what decision he was considering. We talked to our parents a lot about it too. It’s different now, and I think Betty and Bill are having a harder time with that. They sent me in here like a messenger, and I don’t like it, but I think they expect that I can sit down and talk with you like I talked with Lucas.”

  I feel my brows shoot up an inch at her honesty. “You feel like you can’t? Talk to me?”

  Her eyes do the crazy sweep of my offi
ce again. “Uh—well—I guess that came out awkward.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Is it?”

  Things get on a whole different level of awkwardness when Cassie pulls out the chair in front of the desk and sits down. She arranges her legs artfully, but I can’t help but peek at them. They’re long, with shapely calves. Her skin is creamy and smooth, a lighter tone than one would expect to be paired with such dark hair.

  When I sit down, I can tell she knows I just checked out her legs, and my face heats up. I’m probably scarlet, and there’s nothing I can do to hide it.

  “You’re not my brother, that’s for sure,” Cassie mutters.

  Right. There’s no way she’s letting me get away with being unprofessional. I lift my eyes to her as a form of unspoken apology. Her lips twist.

  “No, I’m not. But…” I pick up a stack of papers for no reason at all, shuffle them, and tuck them back far less neatly onto the desk than they were before I lifted them up. “I’m still capable of doing this job.”

  “I just said that.”

  Yes. She did just say that. “Let’s discuss the store then.”

  “Alright. My thoughts are that they’re a small mom and pop shop. We love those. They’ve been struggling against the bigger corporate stores. They actually bring in a lot of stuff made by local artisans, and everything in their bakery is made in-house. They have their own butcher shop at the back. It’s very wholesome and old-fashioned, and people like that. But it doesn’t pay the bills.”

  “So, you want me to talk to them?” It’s not the first time I’ve heard about it. I know exactly which store she’s talking about because an anonymous folder with the store’s name and all their information appeared on my desk this morning. It was there when I got to work.

  “I think it would be a good opportunity to see where they’re at. We don’t just swallow stores whole. We don’t believe in that. My parents are good people who truly care about the people working for them.”