by Whitney G.
“Seriously?” I snatch the sign away from him. “Why are we friends?”
“I have no idea.” He laughs and takes my bag. “How were the last few days of your trip? Please withhold all sex stories until I put on my headphones.”
“They were okay.”
“Okay? That’s it?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened to all the ‘OMG-his cock fits into my mouth’ excitement?”
“Really, David?” I shake my head. “I enjoyed it. We pretty much had sex over and over again. Oh, and we watched a few terrible movies in between him cooking for me.”
He stops walking and puts his hands on my shoulders. “You like him, don’t you?”
“Do not. I barely know him. The sex was just amazing, and we understood each other’s sarcasm.”
A little too well.
“Call him and ask if he can come visit you sometime. It’s not like you have anything else to do on the weekends. Plus, you’re practically homeless and unemployed right now.”
“Am I not staying at your place anymore? We’re not going to hang out on the weekends?”
“Not at night.” He scoffs. “You’ll need to stay on your side of the house whenever I have company. As a matter of fact, I amended one of my resolutions just for you.”
“Your number eleven?”
“You’re not that special. I can’t remember what number, but it said, “Help Paris find female friends to discuss cocks with.” If I don’t make any of the other ones, I‘m going to make that one happen.” He leads me to the parking garage.
Today he’s driving his black Mercedes and I can’t help but think about Blake.
“What are the benefits of having a boyfriend?” Blake kisses my lips.
“I’m the worst person to ask right now. Don’t you think?”
“You said things were great in the beginning. How so?”
I smile as he moves on top of me. “Well, you can talk to that person about any and everything, and he won’t judge you. He’s your shoulder to cry on whenever you need it. He remembers all the little things that make you happy on your worst days and vice versa. You’re completely comfortable with him and you know, there’s unlimited physical stuff.”
“Sex?”
“Kisses.” I roll my eyes. “Yes, sex.”
“It sounds intriguing.”
“Intriguing enough for you to try it one day?”
“Maybe.” He runs his hand across my thighs. “If I found the right woman.”
“Make sure you hide all of your true colors when you first meet.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because if you show her who you truly are, if she knows how blunt you can be and that you don’t have a filter, you might ruin your chances after a first encounter.”
He laughs and grabs a condom from the dresser. “We’ll see.”
“You really do like this guy, huh?” The sound of David’s laughter cuts through my memories, and I realize we’re on the expressway.
“No. The sex was just that good.” I lie. “I’ll be sure to fill you in on all the details later.”
“Please don’t.”
“Whatever. Hey, you didn’t tell me the rest of your resolutions yet. Spill.”
“No, thanks. I’ve repeated them to your mother countless times over the past three days. When you finally decide to call her back, you can ask her all about them.”
I roll my eyes.
“You, however,” he says, “can read me yours so I can pretend like I care.”
Smiling, I pull out my wallet and unfold my list.
I rattle off numbers one through seven—ignoring David’s request to enunciate the word “orgasm” properly, and then I notice that while the next two are the same, the rest of my list has been changed:
* * *
7. Write everyday. I’m supposed to be an aspiring journalist, but this list is the first thing I’ve written in months. MONTHS.
(I called Vanderbilt. One of my old law professors works in admissions. Call them on Tuesday.)
8. Have passionate, hot sex with someone who can give me an ORGASM.
(I think you’ve satisfied this one. More than once.)
9. Start working out. Ha! No. Scratch that. I’ll come back to number nine.
(Start smiling more. You’re too beautiful not to.)
10. And number ten, too.
(Stop worrying about what your mom, your sister, or the rest of your family thinks regarding your decisions. Live your life for you.)
11. And I still need a number eleven.
(Pick Blake up from the Nashville airport in four days. He wants to make sure two of the things on this list are ALWAYS taken care of.)
THE END
Author’s Note + Thank You
Thank you so much for taking a chance on Paris & Blake’s story! This was the very first steamy novella I ever published, and it inspired me to pen the first installment of the Reasonable Doubt trilogy.
Over the years, I’ve learned a lot about this art-form, and I’ve challenged myself to pen more novellas between my novels.
F.L.Y. + Thank you for reading!
Whitney G.
P.S.—I’m leaving the links to my other novella collections below.
* * *
The Empire of Lies trilogy
(An erotic trilogy with twists and turns)
* * *
The Steamy Coffee Reads
(Short & steamy office romance reads)
* * *
Reasonable Doubt trilogy
(A trilogy with a dirty-talking alpha-male)
* * *
The Naughty Bedroom Collection
(A collection with slightly edgier/taboo themes)
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Whitney Gracia Williams.
* * *
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
* * *
Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs.
For my readers.
Thank you for bringing me back to where I belong.
Love & F.L.Y.
Whitney G.
A Note From Whitney G.
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up Two Weeks Notice! This steamy office romance was one of Amazon’s Top Overall bestsellers in 2018! I can’t wait for you to dive in!
If you want to be the first to learn of my upcoming releases, sales, and special things that I only offer to my readers, be sure to sign up for my Exclusive F.L.Y. List. (F.L.Y. = Effin Love You. Because whether you love or hate this story, I still love you for giving it a chance!)
Sincerely,
Prologue
Tara
“Winners never quit, and quitters never win …”
If I had a dollar for every time my mother said those words to me, I would be sipping wine on my own private island off the Amalfi Coast at this very moment.
When I cried about hating ballet, she squished my feet into those ugly pink flats and made me go to practice anyway. When I told her that I wanted to change my major from Business to “something more creative,” she threatened to stop paying my tuition. And when I told her that I was seconds away from telling my first real boss to go fuck himself, she would only sigh and give me her tried and true words of advice.
She insisted that all my late-night emails were “wasteful whining,” that my screams of hatred were “misplaced admiration,” and that all the times he made me work over a hundred hours in a single week were “much-needed character building.”
After two long years of working fo
r him, I’ve finally accepted that none of those things are true.
Preston Parker is an asshole boss. That is it. End of discussion.
My mother can call me a “quitter” all she wants, but she’ll never know what it’s like to work for a man like him. A man whose ego is bigger than all of New York and Vegas combined.
Yes, he can make any woman wet by uttering a single syllable from his perfectly molded mouth. Yes, his deep emerald and grey eyes are downright breathtaking, and the way he’s able to make any suit look like it was made explicitly for him, never ceases to amaze me.
But I’ve had more than enough.
I can’t take working for him anymore, and I’m finally drafting the two weeks’ notice I should’ve drafted the very first month we worked together. (No, the very first week we worked together.)
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. I can’t start this story from the bitter end or the miserable middle. I need to start it from the very unfortunate beginning …
One
Preston
The “very unfortunate” beginning
The best part of my day was always four forty-five in the morning. It was the rare moment when New York City was calm and quiet, when I could take a ride through the streets and admire all the buildings that were lucky enough to bear my last name.
There was the Parker & Rose Collection that owned space on every block of downtown, The Grand Alaskan that hosted top-tier guests in unparalleled privacy, and my favorite hotel of them all. The one that had ousted The Waldorf Astoria from its top spot in luxury hotels for the tenth year in a row: The Grand Rose on Fifth Avenue.
It was my hundredth hotel, my twentieth in this city. It was the very reason why I knew that New York was mine, and it always would be. Every luxury hotel in Manhattan wanted my touch, and the newest listings from Hilton and Marriott were poor imitations. I’d invented the modern twist on the luxury brand. Everyone else was simply borrowing it.
“Your daily papers, sir.” My driver handed them to me as he opened the back door of the town car. “Interesting headlines today.”
“I doubt it.”
I unfolded the stack as he pulled onto the street, groaning as I looked over the bold and black words.
Mister New York—Rumor Report
Preston Parker of Parker Hotels (our very own Mister New York for the eighth year in a row) was caught leaving his penthouse with model Yara Westinghouse. This was days after being seen with Marsha Avery and weeks after being seen with Hanna Bergstrom.
Our reporter stopped him outside of his condo to ask if any of the flings were serious, and he responded with a “Get the fuck off my property.”
As always, we doubt the man will ever settle down with one woman, but he does make our annual October cover look stunning.
Ruthless CEO, Preston Parker, Buys Sonoma Hotel Chain, Fires Top Management
Arrogant and ruthless hotel mogul, Preston Parker, has made his most heartless move yet. Once again, he courted a hotel chain for months—pretending as if there would be a genuine brand merger, but he has (not so shockingly) fired all of the current employees. The Parker Hotel International Press team has revealed that the Sonoma Hotels will soon be luxury hotels.
Mister New York, Preston Parker, Fathers a Secret Child
A mystery woman who claims to have had a one-night stand with Preston Parker is insisting that her two-week-old daughter is his. She’s seeking five hundred thousand a month in child support and is insisting that he pay her hospital bills.
* * *
What the fuck?
I tossed the last paper to the side and focused on the other two, shaking my head at every unverified word. The utter laziness in the headlines was beginning to irk me to my core.
Reporters these days were willing to write anything to sell their papers, and they had yet to send me a check for all the copies I sold for them.
In the past, I was beyond ruthless—gutting hotels for the sake of making sure they never competed with my own and buying properties to make sure no one else would, but those days were long gone. Being at the top of my industry for over a decade meant I didn’t have to be as merciless, and it also meant I didn’t have much to celebrate.
The endless parties on my yachts, the over the top parties on my rooftops had lost their appeal over the years, and the only reason I continued to be seen with supermodels was to distract the media from whatever business deal I was sealing behind the scenes.
If they cared to look a bit closer, they’d see that everything in my life was now a permanent stage of déjà vu, so much so, that I could predict all the conversations I had with people and nothing surprised me anymore. I kept to myself, never made friends, and kept tabs on all my enemies.
Since my relationship with my family was nonexistent, I buried myself in work and expected everyone around me to do the same. If I was capable of working a minimum of one hundred hours a week, they were capable as well. If I didn’t need to sleep, they didn’t need to either.
When I finally arrived at my headquarters, I took a second to admire the silver and grey “P” that was engraved in the center of the marble lobby. I waited to see if my executive assistant would meet me with the required morning reports and my favorite coffee, but three minutes passed, and nothing came.
Of course …
Annoyed, I took the elevator up to my office and was immediately greeted by the floor’s lead receptionist, Cynthia.
“Good morning, Mr. Parker!” She was always too perky for the morning hours. “How are you today?”
“The same as I was yesterday. Do I have any calls waiting?”
She didn’t answer. She just smiled and stared at me, batting her big brown eyes every few seconds.
“Do I have any calls waiting?” I repeated. “Any new files to sign off for morning delivery?”
She still didn’t answer.
“Is there any particular reason why you’re staring at me like that instead of answering my questions?”
“I’ll reply to your questions when you reply to mine.” She lowered her voice. “I texted your personal phone last night. Why didn’t you answer?”
“Because I blocked your number three weeks ago.”
“I was trying to send you a picture that I took on my vacation,” she said. “I wasn’t wearing anything but a bikini bottom.”
“I’m expecting a call from the Rush Estate this morning.” I refused to continue this conversation. “Can you make sure it gets routed to my second line, so I can record it, please?”
“The picture made me look like a supermodel,” she said. “I know you used to date supermodels, right? According to all those Rumor Reports anyway.”
“I’m also expecting a file delivery from the new Berkley team. You have my permission to sign for it.”
“I think it’s time you date a woman who actually eats her French fries instead of a girl who just poses with them on social media, you know?” She swayed her hips and smiled. “I also think you should give someone close to you a chance for a change.”
I gave her a blank stare. We went through this shit every other day. If she wasn’t blatantly flirting with me, she was attempting (and failing) to make me jealous by pretending to talk to numerous men on the phone.
“The call from Rush better be on my line when it’s time,” I said. “And you’re lucky that your work is beyond reproach, Cynthia. Otherwise, I’d be forced to—”
“Punish me?” She smiled. “Can you tell me how you would do it?”
Jesus Christ. I walked away and shut the door to my office. She was the youngest receptionist in my company, and she was also the best. If she had a business degree or any law experience, I might’ve given her a try at being my executive assistant.
Then again, with her flirting becoming more reckless and blatant by the day, keeping her at a distance was probably best for the long term.
I took a seat at my desk and realized that there was no Colombian coffee waiting for me. No wr
itten notes about the meetings I needed to attend. No emails about why. In other words, my assistant was bullshitting, again.
Sighing, I opened my email to ask when I could expect my coffee and notes to arrive, but an email from my chief attorney appeared onscreen.
* * *
Subject: Your Newest Assistant Is in My Office (Again)
Preston,
Please get here. Now.
George Tanner
Chief Attorney, Parker International
* * *
This email from George came like clockwork every other Friday, and the only thing that changed was which “new assistant” he was referring to. I’d gone through so many, that I called them all Taylor, since they never seemed to last long enough for me to learn their real names.
I walked to his office and spotted my latest Taylor sitting on the sofa. Dressed in a baggy blue suit that belonged in the nearest trash can, his eyes were red and puffy, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
“Tell Mr. Parker what you just told me,” George said, handing him a Kleenex. “Go on.”
The latest Taylor looked up at me and let out a long breath. “Mr. Parker, I am overworked and overwhelmed with everything I’m required to do for you, sir. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep, and I feel like this job is consuming my life.”
“You just started working here two weeks ago.”
“Let him finish, Preston,” George warned, then muttered under his breath, “We don’t need any trouble with Human Resources, do we?”