The Faker: A Marriage of Convenience Hockey Romance (Boston Hawks Hockey), Gina Azzi [pocket ebook reader .TXT] 📗

I snort. “She’s pregnant, Claire.”

“I know, I know. But still…”

“I’m going to try to make it,” I promise. “I’m going to the office right now.” I pull my seat belt across my chest. “I’ll message you as soon as I know what’s going on.”

“All right. You know, you can always accidentally drop a coffee on Stu’s crotch...”

I laugh. “You have no idea how many times I’ve considered it.”

“See you soon.”

I disconnect the call and point my car in the direction of my office.

Stu Sanders has been running, and ruining, my life for nearly a year now. He better be summoning me for something good because my patience is on thin ice.

I’m not going to drop this scalding hot coffee on Stu Sanders’ crotch because that would be immature.

He’s my boss. I’m supposed to respect him. I’m supposed to learn from him.

Even though right now he’s leering at me like a fucking perv.

Deep breath. I need this job. I need the money. I have bills. Loans.

Stu’s eyes drink in my hips and linger on my breasts in the most unprofessional and repulsive manner.

I place down the mug near his elbow, which is casually resting on his desk. It makes a thud and a few droplets of coffee splatter his desk blotter.

The noise catches his attention and he lifts his beady eyes to mine.

My lips are pressed tightly together so I don’t actually say the thoughts screaming in my head. “What do we need to go over that is so urgent?”

Stu licks his lips and lets his eyes linger on mine for a beat too long. “Why? You got plans tonight?”

“Yeah, Stu. I do and I’m already late.” I shuffle back and cross my arms over my chest. I raise my eyebrows at him, waiting for him to get to the point where he explains why he summoned me here.

He clears his throat and tilts his head. “A date?”

I mash my lips together and don’t respond.

“Have you ever been with an older, more mature man, Rielle? Someone who would know what to do with a woman like you in bed?”

I gasp. Is he fucking kidding me? My skin crawls when I note the hunger in his eyes, as if he’s imagining me, right now, laid out beneath him. Vomit in my mouth. My flash of anger is quickly doused with a healthy dose of fear. I need to get the hell out of here.

I begin to turn away, when Stu’s hand wraps around the back of my thigh. The moment his fleshy fingers hold my leg, I startle and stumble back, my heel catching on the carpet.

He lunges for me, his other arm wrapping around my waist to keep me from falling.

“No need to fall at my feet, honey.” His breath, stale cigarettes, washes over my face. He’s too close, practically panting, and panic rises in my chest.

I step backwards, trying to put space between us but he tightens his hold.

“Nowhere to go now, Rielle. We’re the only ones here and I know you want this.” His hand slides to my ass.

What the fuck? I lay both hands on his chest and push. “Get away from me, Stu. I’m not interested.” My voice is clear but it wavers at the end, giving away just how nervous I am.

His hands clamp down in retaliation. “Don’t be like this, Rielle. I know you need this job. Need me.”

Fear snakes through my stomach as I struggle against his grip. He’s holding my arms so tightly that his fingertips will leave bruises. “I don’t fucking need you. Get your hands off me.” I snarl, thrashing. My knee connects with his groin and he wheezes out, folding over.

I slip from his hold and back away slowly. I know I should run. I need to get the hell out of here. But… “Stu, this isn’t going—”

“You’re fired, Rielle,” Stu bellows, righting himself. “For ten fucking months, you teased me with those sexy skirts and high heels. And now, you don’t want to play?” He shakes his head. “I’m not paying for this shit when I can have an assistant who’s willing to do the work I need.”

My mouth drops open. I’m more shocked than I’ve ever been before. Even more so than the night my father informed me I would major in pre-med or he was cutting me off financially. “Are you kidding me right now?” My anger flares and it feels good to release it. To let my resentment toward Stu seep out instead of keeping it bottled at the back of my throat, like a gag. “I’m not your assistant, Stu. I’m a marketing associate.”

He waves a hand dismissively, his eyes narrowed into slits.

“And I don’t need to put up with this shit.” I throw my hand out at him, feeling bolder now that the office space is between us. “I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last man on Earth and Homo sapiens were going extinct.” I turn sharply on my heel and stride from his office.

The moment I clear the threshold, it dawns on me that we may be the only two people in the entire building. My hands begin to tremble and my anger recedes as fear skates down my spine. I swipe my coat and purse from my desk and book it to the elevators, jabbing at the down arrow.

It isn’t until I’m in my car with the doors locked, that reality sinks in. Oh, God. Bile crawls up my throat and my hands shake. I feel jittery, off-balanced, and nauseous. What am I going to do? I need this job. I need the money.

My second—or maybe third?—eviction notice, a flimsy pink slip of paper I ripped off my apartment door and clenched in my fist just six weeks ago when hockey heartthrob Torsten Hansen escorted me home blinks in my mind. I was drunk. And rambling. I was starting to crack.

But now, I’m