The Best Medicine: A Standalone Romantic Comedy

by Kimberly Fox

  But it's not like he'd ever untie me and let me walk out the door...

  Colton

  When I want something I take it. Even if it is the boss' daughter.

  And when you're a hitman the boss is usually not someone to take lightly.

  See if I care. That pussy is worth dying for and it's definitely worth killing for.

  And there's a long line of people to kill for it.

  But now that my baby is in her belly not her father, the Russian mob, the police or the world class assassin on our heels is going to take her from me.

  Standalone. No Cliffhanger. No Cheating. HEA.

  Get it on Amazon Here

  Chapter One of Well Hung Over in Vegas

  Dahlia

  Is that a man’s watch?

  I stare at it in disbelief, but there it is, tick ticking away like a bomb that’s about to go off. There’s a man’s watch lying on my night table.

  Wait a minute. This is not my hotel room.

  The wallpaper is different, and the lamp is not the—Why is my underwear on the lamp?

  My heart is racing as I peek under the covers. Holy shit, I’m naked.

  I’m naked in a stranger’s hotel room. A male stranger from the looks of his watch. A rich male stranger according to the diamond encrusted Rolex logo on it.

  Why am I naked in a stranger’s hotel room? I try to think back to last night, but my head is a blur of spilled shots, wobbly heels, and—oh shit. We had sex.

  It’s all so blurry with my head pounding like a jackhammer at a Metallica concert. I can’t think.

  Yes, I can. Think, Dahlia, think.

  But all I remember is a flash of me arching my back and screaming out as a rich male stranger fucked me like an animal.

  I close my eyes, trying to build up the courage to turn my pounding head to see who is there. Courage isn’t coming. It’s time for a pep talk.

  Okay, Dahlia. It’s time to face whatever fucked up reality you got yourself into. Just do it. You’re a winner. You clawed your way up to the COO position at Hospitech with only a high school degree. In only ten months, you cut the company’s costs by twenty percent and increased their profits by a record thirty-two percent. You can do this. Turn your head.

  I swallow hard, my mouth tasting like a dry sewer, and carefully turn my head to peek over my shoulder.

  Oh, shit!

  I whip my head back around and pull the covers up to my chin, feeling extremely naked.

  Well, there’s definitely a male.

  I couldn’t see his face with it sunken into the pillow, but I did see his body—muscular chest, chiseled abs, arms out of a comic book that are covered in tats.

  He’s naked too. At least we have something in common.

  I peek back over to get another look. My heart is now pounding harder than my head is.

  His muscular thigh is sticking out of the crisp white sheets, and I carefully tilt my head up to see if he’s showing anything else.

  The corner of the sheet is resting over his package, his hard pelvis with the mouth-watering V visible in all of its glory. I let out an audible gulp when I see the tip of his trimmed pubic hair sticking out.

  Shit!

  Too loud.

  I drop my head back down and hold the blankets up to my chin, closing my eyes impossibly tight as he lets out a deep groan and starts moving around.

  What’s the game plan here, Dahlia?

  I always have a game plan. I always have a backup for my game plan and a backup for my backup.

  But this is unexpected. He’s thrown me off my game. I don’t even know what sport we’re playing.

  He gets up with a heavy breath and shuffles to the bathroom like a hungover zombie. Mr. Rich Naked Stranger doesn’t even bother to close the door as he fills the toilet bowl with last night’s beverages.

  I explode out of the bed like my pubic hair is on fire. I have less than ten seconds to get dressed before he comes out and sees my kibbles and bits.

  Pants first. No time for underwear. I yank them up my legs as I keep an eye on the door and an ear on the stream of liquid that’s hitting the water in the toilet bowl like a fire hose.

  Where the fuck is my bra? Arghhhh!

  I leap across the room when I see it hanging off the desk. I yank it on with my pulse racing, already looking around for my shirt as I snap the clasp closed.

  My head is pounding, my stomach churning, and I’m nearly hyperventilating as my bulging eyes dart around the room looking for my shirt.

  I’m on my hands and knees looking under the bed when the toilet flushes and Mr. Rich Naked Stranger walks out.

  “Looking for something?” he asks in a deep groggy voice.

  Yes. My dignity. My self-respect. Have you seen either of them, or are they gone for good?

  “Just my—” The words vanish from my throat when I turn around and see Mr. Rich Naked Stranger in all of his naked glory.

  My eyes are level with his cock that’s hanging down low between his muscular thighs. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of it. That was in me last night. I know because my hoo-ha is still achingly sore.

  With a shake of my head, I pry my eyes off of his dick and drag them up his hard body, my pulse racing dangerously fast with every inch that I climb.

  His abs are a work of art. They look like they should be on a statue of a Greek God in some dusty old museum instead of in front of my blushing face.

  “What are you looking for?” he asks, running a hand through his messy brown hair.

  My eyes follow his hand up, and I swallow hard when our eyes meet. He’s gorgeous—stunning, actually.

  Jade green eyes that bore into me, ripping away any chance of me answering him intelligently. I just stare up at him with my mouth hanging open. “Uhhhh.”

  How can someone look this hot right after crawling out of bed? His hair is messy and disheveled in a perfect way. His face looks like it could grace the cover of magazines with his strong masculine chin that’s dotted with the perfect length of stubble, his sexy lips that are curling up into a smirk, and his tanned, golden skin tone that makes his eyes pop impossibly bright.

  I shake my head, catching myself. How long was I staring?

  “My shirt,” I blurt out, ducking my head under the bed.

  Yes! Thank God!

  I grab my shirt that’s under the bed for some reason and pull it out. “I was just looking for my shirt.”

  Now, I’ll be looking for the door.

  “Are you leaving?” he asks as he walks over to the bed. He drops down onto his back and folds his hands over his flexed abs as he watches me. The sheets are right beside him but he doesn’t bother to cover his naked package.

  Well, I don’t have to look. Maybe one more peek.

  “We can go again if you have some time,” he says, staring at my breasts.

  I quickly put on my shirt with shaking hands and glance at the closed door.

  “I can’t,” I say, trying to sound casual and relaxed, although my voice is unusually high-pitched and tight. “I have an important business meeting.” And it’s true. I do.

  In two hours, I’m meeting with Mack McMillan, the seventy-five-year-old billionaire who just bought the company I work for.

  Why I was out drinking last night to the point where I woke up here and not studying about the acquisition is anyone’s guess. I’ll figure that out later.

  But first things first. I have to graciously get the fuck out of here with what little shred of dignity I have left.

  “That’s too bad,” he says, his cock still in plain view. “I got a stupid thing this morning anyway. Maybe I’ll catch you around.”

  He steps off of the bed and walks over to me, way too naked for eight a.m.

  “Can you please put some underwear on?” I ask, turning away with burning cheeks.

  I can hear his frustrating smirk. “No problem,” he says, walking over to the leather couch. “Although, it didn’t seem to bother you last night when you had
those tight little lips wrapped around it.”

  “Well, that was last night,” I snap back, trying really hard not to take one last look as he steps into his bright red boxer briefs.

  Who the hell wears bright red underwear? It’s so impractical.

  “Okay,” I say with a firm nod. “I’m leaving.”

  “All right,” he says, standing up straight and giving me a sarcastic salute.

  I’m so bad in situations like this. Mainly because I’m never in situations like this.

  How do I end this?

  A wave? No, too awkward.

  A kiss on the cheek? No, too friendly.

  A gentle punch on the shoulder? No, too thirteen-year-old male.

  I go for the old classic handshake and step forward with my hand out.

  He grins as he takes my hand in his, swallowing it whole as he cups it with his other hand. “It was a pleasure to meet you,” he says, leaning in as he locks those dreamy green eyes on mine.

  A flood of warmth flows through me, raising every hair on my arm and causing my skin to tingle. Now I can see why I woke up here.

  Now I get it.

  That sexy heart-stopping look would be enough to get any girl out of her party dress, even a straight-laced, goodie-goodie like me.

  This guy is pure sexual energy wrapped up in a beautiful bad boy package. He’s got it all; the flawless muscles, the sexy tattoos, the handsome face that always seems to have a cocky smile on it that you just want to smack off but end up kissing instead.

  He’d be nothing but trouble.

  And a woman in my position can’t afford to have trouble.

  A clean break is what is needed here. “All right,” I say, sliding my sweaty hand back. “Keep it groovy.”

  I close my eyes before I see him laugh at me. Keep it groovy? Are you fucking serious, Dahlia? Did your grandmother teach you slang?

  I just turn to the door and hurry out without looking back. The opportunity for a graceful exit already passed, and I failed miserably.

  Now, I just want to get into the hall where I’ll be safe. “Okay,” I say, my eyes on the floor as I open the door and rush out. “Bye.”

  He steps forward, smiling. “Keep it groov—”

  I close the door in his face before he can finish and then sprint to the elevators down the hall faster than Usain Bolt on speed.

  “Come on,” I mutter, my finger hitting the lit-up button like a woodpecker. “Let’s go.”

  I glance back at his closed door, praying he doesn’t open it. I made a fool of myself enough for one morning, and I just want to get back to my room.

  It’s then that I realize that I don’t know where I am. The hotel looks familiar but a hotel is a hotel. They all look familiar.

  The Parisian. It’s written on a sign over the elevator.

  Good news and bad news.

  Good news is, I’m in my hotel and don’t have to take a taxi back to my room without any underwear on. Shit! I forgot my underwear on the lamp!

  Bad news is, I might see Mr. Rich Naked Stranger again in the halls. Double shit if I’m with my boss while it happens.

  The elevator dings and the stainless-steel doors slide open. My heart is pounding as I jump in and immediately press the door close button a few dozen times.

  I take a deep breath of relief as the elevator starts moving down to my floor.

  Fucking Las Vegas.

  My coworker Emily warned me that Vegas can turn even the straightest of librarians into a party-crazed slut.

  I didn’t believe her.

  I’ve always been the straightest of the straight.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  I hate being wrong.

  The doors bing open, and I step out onto my floor, leaving a piece of my dignity behind that I’ll never get back.

  I still don’t know what happened last night, but I’m ready to put it behind me. I have an extremely important business meeting to get to, and I’ll just try to get over this hangover and focus on that.

  As long as I don’t see him again, I’ll be fine.

  Chapter Two of Well Hung Over in Vegas

  Dahlia

  “What happened to you last night?” Emily asks as I sit down at the conference table. Our boss is in the corner playing air guitar with his earbuds in. He always listens to Kenny Loggins before a big meeting. He says it pumps him up.

  Mr. Wallace is ignoring us for the moment, and I’m glad he is because I could use as much time as possible to get over this raging hangover of doom.

  The adrenaline of waking up next to Captain America’s body double ran out a long time ago, and all I’m left with is a queasy stomach and a head that won’t stop pounding.

  I’m not in the mood to talk, but Emily is not letting it go. “I turned to get my phone to take a picture when I saw you standing in a fountain, but when I turned back you were gone and I didn’t see you again. What happened to you?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, dropping my head onto the desk with a thud.

  “You look like shit.”

  I close my eyes, enjoying not having the bright lights in the room burning my retinas. “Thank you.”

  “Look at those black rings under your eyes,” she says. “You look like a raccoon who stayed up all night getting high on bath salts.”

  “Okay, Emily,” I groan, wondering why I ever drank anything, ever.

  “Remember the Crypt Keeper?” she asks, ignoring me. “From Tales from the Crypt? You look like him if he got a makeover but then fell into a barrel of acid.”

  “Okay!” I say, raising my pounding head. “I get it. I look horrible.”

  “No,” she says, tilting her head as she examines my face. “Horrifying is the word I would go with. Maybe even soul-crushingly awful. You’re making me want to start a charity for you.”

  “I hate you,” I groan, dropping my head back onto the table. This is going to be my first meeting with the new owner of the company, and I feel like I woke up in a bus station.

  “You look like Gary Busey had a baby with a turtle,” Emily says.

  She pulls her phone out and starts taking pictures. “This is going on the company website,” she says, snapping away. “It’s going to be your new profile picture.”

  I reach up and give her the finger. There. Put that on the company’s homepage.

  “Look at your shirt,” she says, stifling a laugh. “You have sweat stains under your armpits. You look like you just got finished tarring a roof in the middle of July.”

  “All right,” I snap. “I know I look horrifying, but I can’t help it. I don’t know what happened. I had one drink with you guys, and then all hell broke loose.”

  “All hell broke loose on your hair,” she says, cringing as she looks up past my forehead. “Your hair looks like you have a possum living inside of it.”

  She pulls her muffin towards her as she scrunches her nose up. “Does the possum bite?”

  “I hate you,” I say, dropping my head back onto the table.

  I can hear in my boss’s headphones that Footloose is almost over. Two more everybody cuts and I’ll have to start acting professional.

  With a last energetic strum of his air guitar, Mr. Wallace takes off his earbuds and sits down.

  He cringes when he sees my face. So, it’s not just Emily’s normal sarcasm. I do look like shit.

  Great.

  “I was worried we were going to have to bail you out of jail,” he says, sitting across from me. He folds his hands together on the table as he stares me down. “Office cocktail parties are supposed to be professional. It’s not a time for you to get white girl wasted and relive the glory days of Spring Break.”

  “Sir,” I say, dipping my chin. “I can explain.”

  He crosses his arms over his expensive suit and leans back in his chair. “Please do.”

  “Uhhh.” I have nothing. To be honest, I have no idea how I went from classy cocktail to sloppy sloshed. It doesn’t make any sense.

  �
��Some people just can’t handle Vegas,” Emily says, shaking her head as she watches me with a look of pity on her face.

  I glare back at her. If looks could kill, she’d be blowing the devil in hell.

  The intercom beeps on the phone, and Mr. Wallace gives me one last frown before answering it. “Yes.”

  “Mr. McMillan is here.”

  Mr. Wallace exhales long and hard. “We’re ready for him.”

  The three of us stand up as we wait for the new boss to enter. I clasp my hands in front of me to hide the sweat stains that Emily so graciously pointed out.

  Mr. Wallace is nodding his head, his lips moving as he sings under his breath. “Kick off the Sunday shoes,” he whispers, getting himself ready.

  Oh, no.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  He walks in looking as fresh as the bright sun in the Caribbean sky while I feel as fresh as a urinal cake after a Super Bowl party.

  It’s him. The naked guy from this morning.

  He looked good naked, but he looks absolutely delicious in a dark gray suit with a classic white shirt and black tie. The material is tailored to his muscular frame, and I gulp at the size of his broad shoulders and round biceps. His hair is no longer a sexy mess but looks just as good combed and gelled to the side like he had a team of stylists rush into his room the second after I left.

  A sudden coldness grips my core as he ducks under the low doorway and shakes my boss’s hand.

  “Wow,” Emily gasps beside me.

  Wow is fucking right.

  There’s an army of hummingbirds in my stomach fighting for space. I want to crawl under the table and hide. I want to turn invisible or melt through the wall. I want to do anything but stand here in shock with my mouth hanging open, but unfortunately, it’s all I seem to be capable of at the moment.

  Maybe if I stand really still no one will see my cheeks turning as red as my new boss’s boxer briefs.

  “Hi, Mr. Wallace,” Emily says, hopping forward with a big smile on her face. Her chest is thrust out for his visual enjoyment. “I’m Emily.”

  “Hi, Emily,” he says, bowing his head slightly as he smiles back at her. “Please, call me Tyler.”