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Cocky Client (Steamy Coffee Collection #3)
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Today is officially the worst day of my life…
I woke up five hours late after a reckless one-night stand with the sexiest, cockiest, and most arrogant man I’ve ever met. (And this asshole actually left a note: “I think you were lying to me about being “experienced” last night. You orgasmed three times, and that was before we made it to your bedroom. I also find it hard to believe you “usually wear silk or lingerie.” Your drawers are all full of cotton granny panties–The best man you’ve ever fucked… )
My top two PR clients left me for my number one competitor, my roommate accidentally bleached my best suit, and my favorite coffee shop was shut down for “health concerns.”
Still, none of those things dimmed my excitement for what was supposed to be the best four o’clock signing session of my career. I was on the verge of signing the highest paying client in my company’s history, taking on a so-called “impossible” job that no publicist had been able to handle.
But at four o’clock, there was no athlete, television personality, or celebrity who showed up. Instead, that sexy, arrogant one-night stand stepped into my office with his familiar panty-wetting smirk and introduced himself as my new, cocky client…
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There was an art to being a perfect client—a delicate balance between getting what I needed, and ensuring that I was “progressing” behind closed doors in whatever way the publicist needed. Or, so I’d heard.
Today marked the two-month term for my current publicist and she was glaring at me from across my desk—looking as if she was struggling to get a single word to fall out of her mouth.
“Is your throat dry, Heather?” I pointed to the glass of water between us. “Is that why you keep clearing it?”
“I keep clearing it because I’m hoping that what I’m about to ask you isn’t true.” She picked up the glass and drank half of it in one gulp. “A reporter from The New York Times called me at three o’ clock this morning to inform me that someone you used to date—”
“I’ve never dated anyone.” I interrupted her.
“Fine.” She held up her hands. “Someone you used to screw. Better?”
“Anyway,” she said, “she apparently is sitting down with one of his colleagues to do an expose piece on you, the man who still refuses to sit down and do interviews with reporters himself.”
“I highly doubt she has any valuable information.” I leaned back in my chair. “I don’t typically talk about my personal life with whoever I happen to be fucking.”
“Well, that’s good to know.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “This expose piece is a deeply personal one, and she’s using it to let the public see what type of man you really are behind closed doors. She’s provided them with some of the text messages you’ve sent her in the past.” She put on her reading glasses and looked at her notebook. “Here are the top four messages: One, I’m looking forward to fucking your mouth this weekend. Two, How wet is your pussy right now? Three, I’m impressed by the way you swallow. Four, Tell me how wet your pussy is right now.”
I smiled. “What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that your company is hoping to launch a global initiative within the next two years. You can’t afford anymore press like this, so I’ve alerted your CFO and he’s agreed to pay them a sum to kill the story.”
“So, once again, what is the problem?”
“You need a new publicist.” She stood to her feet. “I’m done as of right now. Thank you very much for hiring my firm and taking a chance on me and my vision for you.”
“You’re very welcome.” I stood up to shake her hand. I’d been in this position far too many times before to ask her any further questions, to wonder if something could’ve been done differently, or to even care about her abrupt resignation. The second she left my office, I’d have another publicist walking into the building to take her place.
“I wish you all the best, Mr. Dalton. I truly do,” she said. “I hope you find the right firm who’ll be better equipped to handle your account and your huge—” She glanced at the crotch of my pants and blushed. “Ego.”
“I will.” I let her hand go. “Best of luck to you, Heather.”
Still blushing, she glanced at my pants one last time before walking out of my office. The second the doors shut behind her, I picked up my phone and called my personal assistant and secretary, Linda.
“Yes, Mr. Dalton?” she answered. “What do you need?”
“I need you to get me a new publicist. Heather just quit.”
“What did you just say?”
“Nothing at all!” She changed her tone. “I’ll go through your requirements and get you someone new right away.”
Four months later…
Subject: A “Pleasure” + My Resignation
Dear Mr. Dalton,
I would love to say that it’s been a “pleasure” working for you, but that would be a lie. You are without a doubt, the worst client I’ve ever had.
I honestly find it quite sad that women in this city flock to you like flies and act as if you’re some type of God. (You’re not.) And after your most recent scandal (that I unfortunately cannot deal with at all) I highly doubt any publicist in this city will want to work with you.
Two months later…
Subject: A Notice & Your Most Recent Interview
Dear Mr. Dalton,
We appreciate the “experience” we’ve had during our past few months of working with you, but to be quite blunt: We can’t take this shit anymore.
The live Today Show interview you did Saturday morning was the last straw. (Do you have any idea how long it will take the American viewing public to forget you saying that “fucking” is your favorite hobby? Hint: FOREVER.)
We are done.
Veronica & Michael
Six months later…
Subject: I QUIT.
THAT. IS. ALL.
I debated whether I should respond to the latest publicist’s email, but I was slightly pre-occupied by the sight of my brother Leo frantically pacing around my office like a lunatic. It was moments like this that made me wonder how the hell we were related, how the hell he ever became my “calm and collected” CFO.