Two Nights with a Heartthrob (Playboy Billionaire Club, Book 2)
Two Nights with a Heartthrob (Playboy Billionaire Club, Book 2)
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Hollywood heartthrob Micah James was happy enough partying his life away, sleeping with a beautiful woman every night, until he met Kylie Daines.
Too bad the feisty woman couldn’t get rid of him fast enough the morning after their one-night stand. To make matters worse, Kylie claims she doesn’t remember the sordid details of their time together.
Kylie wants to try and forget the night that she drank too much, took off her catering server uniform to burn it in front of party guests, and ended up in bed with a man she just met. She does, however, need another job, and fast, if she’s going to make rent. Her preference would be a position that utilizes her degree in creative writing and doesn’t involve serving food.
When Kylie shows up to interview with Micah for his personal assistant position, he assumes she’s there to pick up where they left off. Instead, she’s just desperate for a steady job with decent pay, and plenty of downtime so she can write.
While Micah doesn’t have many rules for himself, there is one that he refuses to break after it once wreaked havoc on his life – no sleeping with employees.
Kylie is relieved when Micah offers her the job. She’s confident that she will never end up in his bed again and still insists that the first time was a huge mistake they should both forget.
But when Micah and Kylie suddenly find themselves trapped together during a snowstorm, the professional boundary lines they once agreed upon may slowly start to melt away.
Main Tropes
- Bosshole
- Enemies-to-Lovers
- Opposites Attract
CLICK HERE TO READ AN EXCERPT
CLICK HERE TO READ AN EXCERPT
Kylie
A man is heading toward the door
like he’s leaving. There’s a dark coat or jacket thrown over his arm.
That’s when I do something
incredibly stupid.
I step in front of the door,
blocking his exit, and get hit with the full force of the man’s glaring baby blue eyes and scowl, along with his intoxicating cologne that smells like cedarand citrus.
His eyes cut to my tray and then to
mine. “No, thanks. I’m on my way out.”
“No!” I exclaim as I spin around
and put my tray down on the entry table to face the man again before he can leave. “Could you do me a huge favor?”
“Depends. What is it? You want an
autograph or something?”
“Ah, no,” I reply with a frown. Why
would I want his autograph? Is he famous or something and I just don’t
recognize him? “Can I borrow that jacket of yours?”
“You…want to borrow my jacket?” he
asks slowly. He’s so wide that he takes up the width of the hall like grandpa’s walker, so I stand on my tiptoes and lean to the right to look around him.
Thankfully, the asshole is still at the edge of the sitting room, saying his
goodbyes or congrats to the other odd couple.
“Yes, I need your coat. Please.
Like right now.”
Without waiting for him to
deliberate any further, I yank the jacket from his arm and put it on to cover up my white server dress shirt, drowning in his rich scent as it surrounds me.
The sleeves are a little long as well as the hem, but at least the black
leather looks expensive. Then, I quickly unsnap the bow tie around my neck and shove it down into one of the coat pockets. That’s when my fingers brush something that crinkles loudly. I pull out and hold up the handful between me
and the jacket owner.
“A pocket full of condoms. Really?”
I ask him. It’s not just your usual condoms either. No, it’s those special, gold foil ones made for men with big dicks. Someone was awfully optimistic tonight. “Were you planning to hook up with every woman here?”
And okay, the man is really fucking
hot with his wavy brown hair styled perfectly and his blue eyes that are more
prominent thanks to the same color button-down shirt he’s wearing. His
shoulders are wider than most doorframes, so they are stretching the fabric to the max. And the hint of dark tattoos peeking out from under his rolled-up sleeves is just the icing on top of this very fine cake.
No one is this pretty in real life
except for actors and models. He must be an actor, which is why he thought I wanted an autograph.
“It’s always good to be prepared.
And if you’re going to be a bitch about it, you can give me my jacket back now,” he says, but he doesn’t sound or look as annoyed as he did a few moments before.
“Sorry,” I say as I tuck the
contraceptives for the well-endowed man back where they all came from.
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