Hot Jerk (Alphalicious Billionaires Book 12) Read online

  Until it’s not.

  Like today.

  Everything usually goes pretty smoothly, but lately, my boss has been even worse than normal. Chris Normandy likes things to be run his way. Okay, so it makes the chances of success greater, and we are a high end, discreet, dating service where people don’t have to go online and do the work themselves. It’s good to be professional, but this is too far.

  Last week I was summoned into Chris’s rather expansive and elaborate office. He called me and literally told me I had five minutes to get to his office. I thought I was getting fired. But nope. Instead, he gave me a job that will either make or break my career.

  Literally.

  If I pull this one off, I get a big bonus. If I don’t, I get, well… I get to look for new employment.

  It wouldn’t be so bad, but after meeting with Sue-Anne Marshall, my make it or break it client’s mother, I’m pretty sure this one is as lost as lost causes get.

  I lean back in my chair and throw my hands up to my face. I drag one down roughly, combing my face the way I would comb through my tangled hair. I narrowly avoid scratching my eyes out. I press hard on my cheeks, making a ridiculous face. I’m sure my skin bears the red imprints of my fingertips for a few minutes after, but hey, no one is going to peep over the top of my cubicle and look at me, so I’m free to make whatever scary, stressed-out faces I want.

  I allow myself to rock forward a second later. My chair lets out a screaming groan of agony. I figure it has about two point eight more days before it falls apart completely. I glance at the neat, handwritten list I have sitting on top of my computer keyboard.

  At the top is a name. Yup, that name is now infamous. At least to me.

  Cliff Marshall.

  Beneath his name, I have a number of different points jotted down. They are keynotes I made from the interview with his mom, which I had two days ago.

  Cliff Marshall.

  His parents have, like, a butt-ton of money. Find out if he cares about material things, and what he truly values. Note to self—matching him with a gold digger WILL GET ME FREAKING FIRED.

  33 years old.

  Had one serious relationship. (It must have been bad, because, seriously, who stays single for that long after a relationship of a few years at a young age? Right… someone who gets wrecked by said relationship.)

  Is avowedly single (Quote unquote). Enjoys the bachelor life far too much (Also quote unquote).

  An only child.

  Graduated with a Business Degree.

  Works at his parent’s company.

  Owns his own house. Has no pets.

  Doesn’t have a ‘type’… at least according to his mother.

  I’m due to meet with the guy in an hour. His mother informed me that she was footing the bill for the whole thing. She gave me the whole sob story about how her son was going to put her into an early grave with worry over his future happiness. She determined that he needs a partner to be happy, and since he’s either in no hurry to find one for himself or incapable of finding one—she wasn’t very specific on what the issue really was—she needed to take drastic measures. Oh, and she’d really, really, really, like grandchildren before she croaks—her exact words.

  Sue-Anne Marshall was a funny lady. I actually enjoyed our meeting. She has that dry, self-deprecating humor that rich people usually either abandon along the way to becoming super-rich or just lack completely from birth and never learn because they’re rich and don’t need to be funny.

  Do I think she’s a little bit desperate? Yes. Do I think Cliff Marshall sounds like a self-entitled brat that no amount of help could actually help? Kind of. Do I think he’s tied on as tight as can be to the apron strings? I guess so. I mean, he works for his parents. Honestly, I feel like he’s one of those kids who was born to rich parents and never had to do anything for himself. It’s probably why no woman can stand him. He hasn’t had a relationship since he was twenty-one, when he and his only girlfriend broke up, according to his mom, at least.

  I can’t say I’ve had many moms pay for their son to get matched, but there have been a few. I’ve been doing this job for five years now, and I’ve seen all sorts of stuff in that time. This isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing when I grew up, but hey. It’s a job. I actually get paid pretty decent with an hourly wage, and I also get huge bonuses now and then, when my boss feels like there’s a real incentive for success.

  As if the guy thinks I don’t try hard on every case. I guess there are just some that are more sensitive than others. Time-sensitive. Reputation-sensitive. All over sensitive. This is one of those. I have a feeling that Sue-Anne Marshall is going to be very disappointed if my three picks don’t work out.

  I’m hoping to get a match with number one. I always hope for that, but my boss made it EXCEPTIONALLY clear that in this case, the three-strike thing isn’t really an option. I mean, it is, but it’s also not. He’d like a 100% success rate on the first try.

  Which is why I’m currently snatching up a fresh notepad, a pen, and my phone. I stuff them into my already overflowing tote bag before I throw on my vintage black velvet jacket. It’s pretty, with beautiful lapels, a narrow waist, and a huge flare with pleats. It’s fun, and I like fun. I also like to look dressy and professional, but not in that office-y kind of way I’ve always secretly detested. I adore retro. I swear half my paycheck goes to my rent and bills, and the other half goes to retro clothes and shoes. I’m a big thrifter, but I’m also guilty of following WAY too many retro shops on just about every social media site I’m on. I’m also kind of addicted to all the little retro boutiques that pop up all over the place. Whenever I travel, I have to go treasure hunting.

  Oh well. At least I have a rockin’ closet. Like a really huge rockin’ closet.

  Which will be difficult to keep affording if I screw up this job.

  I throw my tote on my shoulder and head out the front door. I picked a classy coffee shop that is just twelve blocks from the office. Far enough away to be discreet but close enough for me to walk, which is a huge bonus, because I don’t have a car.

  The day is surprisingly nice for May. Minnesota winters can be really cold and can last well into the time of year that is supposed to be spring, but this year, all the snow has long since melted, and the sun promises warmer days ahead. I actually feel a little bit hot under my coat. I tell myself I’m sweating because of the internal climate going down on the underside of my sweet retro vibe, but really, I know I’m sweating for an entirely different reason.

  Instead of thinking about my chances of failure—which are probably pretty high because I’m already certain that finding Cliff Marshall a match is not going to be an easy task—I try and focus on my chances of success.

  I have a good track record.

  I used to play this game as a kid, where I couldn’t step on the cracks in the sidewalk because it was bad luck. I’m not a superstitious person, but today I focus on dodging the cracks all the way to the coffee shop just to keep my mind occupied.

  I reach the shop with a good fifteen minutes to spare. I have a picture of Cliff Marshall, provided by his mom, but I also looked the guy up online. Of course I did. To be fair, I generally do this with all my clients. A discreet search helps me determine what kind of image they’re putting out there. Potential dates are going to use search engines and social media. They’re going to check what kind of vibe a guy or gal has. I do a pretty thorough search, and I have even made some subtle suggestions in the past about cleaning up the old online presence before dates go down.

  Cliff Marshall is squeaky clean. He doesn’t have any social media account that I could find, and any articles about him are related solely to his parent’s company. I don’t really understand everything they do, but I do know it’s about gardening and seeds and stuff.

  I pull open the door to the coffee shop, which actually isn’t just a coffee shop. I call it a coffee shop, but it’s also my secret sweet spot as far as it goes for the best
places to eat in the city. I wine and dine a lot of clients here, and by wine and dine, I mean fabulous coffee drinks and even better homemade desserts. They also have a selection of soups and salads that are fabulous. I suppose they could be classified as a restaurant of sorts, but I call them a coffee shop for the out-of-this-world drinks that get made here.

  The first thing I notice when I walk in is that Cliff is already sitting at a table. He beat me here, and I’m fifteen minutes early. I’m always early so that I get to see my clients walk in. I like observing them for those first few seconds of unguarded time.

  The second thing I notice is that the guy is way bigger in real life than he is in his photo. I mean in the jacked body, deliciously broad shoulders, narrow waist, epic muscled arms kind of way. Yeah, he’s better looking than his photo too, but I’m just observing that on a professional level, of course.

  The third and probably most important detail I take in is the massive scowl he has on his face. His mom did say he was going to participate in this venture. But she didn’t say he was willing, and I can tell that in no shape or form is Cliff Marshall on board with this.

  Fecking frick. I might as well start packing my desk right now.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cliff

  I do not want to be here. It’s humiliating. It’s frustrating. I’m being forced to go on dates that I don’t want to participate in. Apparently, this is supposed to ensure my future happiness. I’m playing along and playing nice, but only because I have to. It means going on the three shit dates and calling it a day. I’ll put in the time. I’ll make sure she knows. Then I’ll request that a word of this will never be spoken, and my love life is off-limits for life. I’m not sure how much more my poor old nuts can take. If my mom wants grandkids, I’ll suggest to her that she stop trying to castrate me by forcing me to do things that are completely humiliating and on par of getting my balls cut off.

  I have to grind my teeth because all of a sudden, there’s a tall, willowy brunette with sparkly dark eyes and a big smile pasted on naturally coral and full lips, striding my way. She pulls out the chair across from me, drops in effortlessly, and stretches out her hand. I stare at it for a moment before I decide that rudely spurning her is not in my best interest. Reluctantly, I shake her small hand. To my surprise, she has a pretty firm grip for someone with a hand half the size of mine.

  She pulls back and offers me a pretty smile. She blinks furiously, batting long eyelashes. If she thinks it’s charming, she’s wrong.

  Well, okay, so she’s really pretty. She’s beautiful.

  And yes, I notice.

  Yeah, so she’s not wearing any makeup, and she has a nice figure. She’s tall and thin, but she has decent curves, nice sized breasts, and an even nicer ass. Well, I noticed because I have eyes. And no, she doesn’t have any of it on display. She’s wearing a retro-looking green dress that has a high neckline, a nipped-in waist, and a full skirt. She looks like she just stepped straight out of the fifties, minus her long, straight hair. She is wearing no makeup that I can see, but her features don’t need the extra definition.

  Okay, I also notice that she smells good. Not an intrusive perfume, in your face kind of smell, but a subtle, fresh air, fresh laundry kind of scent. There are a few floral notes tucked in there, probably from her deodorant or shampoo. I have to admit it’s nice. She’s put together. I can see why Mom chose the dating company and why she liked this lady.

  I bite back all my rude comments as Miss Matchmaker arranges herself in the chair. She pulls out a notebook and a pen from her tote, and I have to give her props for going old school on this one instead of typing shit right into her phone or her laptop. She maintains eye contact too, which is ballsy. Lady balls. Yes, they’re a thing. And I like them.

  “Hello,” Miss Matchmaker says. She has a pretty voice. Not annoying or over the top. Just… nice. “I’m Rowan. And I already know you’re Cliff, but anything else you tell me is going to be news to me.”

  Great. She doesn’t take forever to get to the point. Directness. I like that too.

  “Do you want a drink? Something to eat? They make amazing desserts, and the drinks are even better,” she continues.

  “No. Thanks. I’m not a sweets kind of person.”

  “Right. Well, they make good soups if you like those.”

  “No, thanks.” I tuck my hands in my lap and decide to be just as frank. I think she can handle it. “Look. I’m only here because I’m pretty much being forced to be here. I’m going to cooperate with you as much as I can stand to do so. But I don’t think this is going to be fun. I don’t think I’m going to like it. I think it’s all going to be a huge waste of time. I actually feel sorry for any potential matches. That’s where I stand.”

  Rowan—what a strange name she has—gives me that disappointed kind of look my mom has perfected. This lady is young… I’d say about mid-twenties. It’s a little disconcerting that she already has those looks down. I wonder if she has kids. If she has a husband. I find my eyes straying to the ring finger of her left hand. It’s bare. I don’t know why my stomach tightens a little at that. I tell myself it’s just because she’s the perfect combination of beautiful and hot, and any guy would be checking for a ring because most guys are loaded up on testosterone and think with their nether regions most of the time.

  “Great. That’s good to know. However, my agency has been hired to do a job, and I plan on doing that job to the best of my ability. I really hope you’ll change the way you’re looking at this. Don’t ruin your dates before you even go on them.”

  “Is that a code for something? Because it came out kind of wrong if you ask me.”

  “No, it’s not a code for anything.” Rowan smiles at me disarmingly, after uttering the most straightforward, no-nonsense, borderline bitchy statement in history. She clicks her pen—one of those multicolored things with the different tabs—to punctuate her words. “Basically, I’m just going to ask you some questions to determine what kind of match would be best. First, though, I’m going to get a coffee. And I’m going to get you one too. I don’t care if you drink it, but it’s nice to have something to do with your hands when you’re nervous. The coffee is good. Good enough to banish almost all bad attitudes. There’s also the added bonus of supporting an amazing small business. So, just give me a second.”

  She sets down her pen, stands, and makes her way to the counter, all before I can get a word in. I watch every move she makes. She’s wearing matching green heels with her dress. Her legs are shapely, and those heels make her calf muscles flex when she walks. I’m not sure why, but noticing it is ridiculously sexy. She has this way of moving that reminds me of something fluid, like water.

  I can’t help it. I think about what those long, gorgeous, shapely legs would feel like wrapped around my waist. I immediately hate myself for it after, so I think that cancels out any of the bad voodoo I just put out into the world.

  By the time Rowan sits down with our coffees, I’m pretty sure I’m composed and free of looks guaranteed to land me in court over sexual harassment. I check my coffee. It’s black, but I spot a stand at the front with sugar and cream. I normally take both, but since Rowan is sipping hers black, I sit there and let mine cool and don’t get up to add anything. Besides, I’m not actually going to drink it. Not when I said I didn’t want anything, and she forced it on me like my mom forced this bullshit dating.

  “So.” Rowan picks up her pen. “Tell me about your ideal date.”

  I glance around the shop. It’s two in the afternoon, so it’s deserted for the most part. We’re at a table tucked into the back corner, where no one, including the employees, is going to hear anything.

  “The perfect date or the perfect date?”

  Rowan shrugs casually, clearly undaunted by my assholelishness if that’s even a word, which I know it isn’t. “Both?”

  “Ha! I don’t have one as far as a perfect date goes. And since I’m being forced into this, I also don’t have any ideas
about a perfect date. I’d honestly prefer one that starts and ends within half an hour.”

  “Good. So, you obviously value humor. The dryer, the better, with a heavy dose of sarcasm.” Rowan slips the notebook off the table and scribbles on her knee, where I can’t see it.

  I wonder what she’s writing. It actually pisses me off a little that I can’t see what she’s jotting down. She’s probably writing about me being an epic asshole at the moment. I wonder if she’d let me see her notes after. She would if she has nothing to hide. I could claim it as professional curiosity. Suddenly, I’m nervous, and I feel overly warm and sweaty. I’m wearing a black t-shirt and jeans—nothing fancy—because I didn’t want to dress up for this shit. Thank goodness I didn’t choose a grey t-shirt because I’m pretty sure I’d have some pretty gross sweat marks going on. At least black hides a lot of that.

  Still, I shift uncomfortably. I reach for my coffee and take a sip just for something to do, and the dark roast floods over my taste buds in a burst of delicious, intoxicating flavors that I didn’t expect. I nearly glower when I realize Rowan was right about the coffee. It is good. And despite not wanting to earlier, I’m now drinking it because I’m nervous.

  “Hobbies?”

  “That’s very broad.”

  Rowan doesn’t look up. “What’s your view on marriage?”

  “Marriage?” I choke. “Isn’t it a little bit soon to be asking about that?”

  This time, her head lifts, and I’m staring into those huge, dark eyes. Her eyes are so dark that they’re like the night sky. Seriously. They’re sparkling and shining with fast wit that echoes in the tilt of her lips as she smirks at me.

  “I’m not asking you to get married, Mr. Marshall. I’m asking what your views are on it. These are standard questions used to help find you a match.”