Praise for Tailored for Trouble
“Swoony, sexy, and laugh-out-loud funny! Bennett Wade is an absolutely delicious hero—and this book left me wanting more.”
—New York Times bestselling author Laura Kaye
“Smart, heart-wrenching, and wonderfully sexy, this is contemporary romance at its finest. Mimi Jean Pamfiloff pulls expertly at the heartstrings with a sassy heroine and the most compelling hero I’ve read in years.”
—USA Today bestselling author Lauren Layne
“Smart, funny, and undeniably sexy, Tailored for Trouble is the perfect summer read. You’ll be smiling on one page, fuming at the next, and swooning throughout. Bennett Wade is the quintessential silver-tongued bad boy in need of a strong-willed, no-nonsense heroine to whip him into shape. Taylor Reed is definitely that and more! This book is a dynamic, addictive ride that will surely have you glued to the pages until the very end.”
—New York Times bestselling author S. L. Jennings
“Tailored for Trouble is fast-paced romantic comedy at its best. Laugh-out-loud moments, sizzling chemistry, and a rollicking journey around the world with a sexy billionaire who’s so much more than the size of his…wallet.”
—USA Today bestselling author Kylie Gilmore
“Pamfiloff’s skilled pacing ramps up the tension and attraction between Bennett and Taylor as they crisscross the globe together, and their consummation feels like a well-deserved payoff for them and the reader.”
—Publishers Weekly
Tailored for Trouble is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2016 by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BALLANTINE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: Pamfiloff, Mimi Jean, author.
Title: Tailored for trouble: the happy pants series /
Mimi Jean Pamfiloff.
Description: New York : Ballantine Books, [2016] | Series: Happy pants
Identifiers: LCCN 2016010502 (print) | LCCN 2016018525 (ebook) | ISBN
9781101967225 (paperback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781101967232 (ebook)
Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Romance / Contemporary. |
FICTION / Contemporary Women. | GSAFD: Love stories.
Classification: LCC PS3616.A3575 T35 2016 (print) |
LCC PS3616.A3575 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at lccn.loc.gov/2016010502
ebook ISBN 9781101967232
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Caroline Teagle
Cover images: © Claudio Marinesco
v4.1
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Author’s Note
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Mimi Jean Pamfiloff
About the Author
Happy Pants Café
Attn: Ms. Luci Leon-Parker
St. Helena, CA 94574
Dear Ms. Luci,
I am writing on behalf of my son who is in desperate need of a kick in the pants. Bennett, who has been a serious soul since the day he was born, is now thirty-one years old and has dedicated one third of his life to running our family company. And though he has done extremely well for himself and has taken good care of me since his father passed over a decade ago, I fear his focus on building our company into an empire has robbed him of something far more important. Bennett, despite all of the brains inside that thick skull of his, is still single, and believes that the women who pursue him are “gold diggers looking for a handout.” Yes, he’s had his bumps in the road, but it’s still a bunch of hogwash!
Luci, I know that one cannot believe everything they read in the paper, but the recent article in the San Francisco Tribune, hailing you to be a real live Cupid, must have some truth to it. This is why I hope you will help my mule-headed Bennett. I know if he could find the right woman, it would open his eyes before it is too late.
As I am now sick and have a few months to live, I hope you’ll be able to turn him around before I kick the bucket. Bennett could do so much for the world if he would stop being such a cold-hearted ass.
God Bless,
Linda Johnson Wade
Dearest Linda,
First, I would like to offer my deepest sympathies for your tragic news. As a widow myself and a mother of three, I know the need to see Bennett settled before you move on must weigh heavily on your soul. Ay, Dios. Our children are all we really have in the end, sí?
I am, however, so deeply sorry to tell you that my gifts have been greatly exaggerated by the press. I am simply an old woman from Mexico who runs a bakery. Now, is it true that some have eaten my sugar cookies and found their soul mate in seven days? Sí. Is it because of my cookies? Heavens, no. A cookie is just a cookie. However, I have been known to play matchmaker from time to time. In fact, at this very moment, I am preparing to help a very special woman catch her Mr. Right—a project that has consumed much of my time these past months. But by no means am I a foolproof lucky charm as some suggest.
All that said, my dear Linda, I want to help you any way I can. I will invite your Bennett to my annual fiesta in July and ensure he receives not only the kick in the pantalones you’ve requested, but that he is introduced to several potential matches. The party will not occur for another four months, but if anything should happen to you—God forbid—you may rest assured that I will make every effort to see to his mule-headedness.
In the meantime, I’ve included a delicious cookie for Bennett. Can’t hurt.
With All My Love,
Ms. Luci Leon-Parker
Proprietor, The Happy Pants Café
CHAPTER 1
Twenty-eight-year-old Taylor Reed stepped out of the downtown Seattle office building into the pouring rain, thankful for having forgotten her umbrella. This way, no one would notice the tears streaming down her face.
I’m ruined. Completely ruined, she thought. And it wasn’t an exaggeration. Over the last three months, Taylor had maxed out her credit cards, borrowed every last dime from her 401(k), and depleted her emergency savings account, all to start her own highly specialized executive training company. Fifteen sales pitches and fifteen rejections later, including today’s very polite “Thanks, but no thanks,” she was at the end of her rope.
This is all his fault. That smug, cold-hearted bastard who’d gotten her fired from a nice steady job. Okay, she’d technically quit, but still. The
re had been no other choice after that humiliating disaster. All because he was “the customer.” All because he had money and thought he could treat people like garbage. All because—
Ugh. Shut up. It’s your fault. You let him get to you.
An image of those unfeeling, icy blue eyes flashed in her mind. She’d never forget them. Just like she’d never forget the glib smirk on his disarmingly handsome face, a face that might have you believing a real human being existed somewhere inside.
Asshole. Hope he chokes on one of his designer ties.
Not having a clue what she would do next, Taylor looked up at the sky, allowing the giant sloppy drops to cool her face. She would have to get another job. Start over. But starting over meant flying back to Phoenix, packing up her apartment, and praying one of her older brothers, who lived near San Francisco, would take her in without giving her thirty lashes—verbal, of course. Then there’d be facing her father. In his mind, people either paid their own way or they were a waste of good clean air.
Oh, God. The humiliation. Taylor buttoned up her black coat and grabbed her extra-large rolling laptop case to go flag down a taxi. With this rain, it would probably be a while, which meant she’d probably miss her flight. The perfect ending to a perfect shit day.
Taylor stopped on the corner just in time to see two empty cabs sail by. “Oh, come on!”
She dug her phone from her pocket, deciding it might be better to call a taxi directly, when the device buzzed in her hand. It was a San Francisco number. Maybe one of the companies who’d rejected her had changed their minds?
“Hello?” she said, trying not to sound too hopeful.
“Is this Miss Reed?” said a perky, sweet voice.
“Yes. This is Ms. Reed.”
“One moment please, I have a call for you.”
Just then a large white and blue bus with a loud rumbling engine pulled up. For crying out loud.
“Could you hold on, please? I can’t quite hear you.” She stepped into the doorway of a small café with a cheerful red awning and a sign in the window that read “Happy Pants. Now Available Here!”
Weird.
“Sorry about that. Go ahead,” she said, covering her exposed ear and noting her sad reflection in the glass. Her long wet brown hair and the mascara streaming down her pale face made her look like a cast member from The Walking Dead.
Rarrr…fabulous.
“Miss Reed, Bennett Wade here.” His deep, silky, unhurried voice instantly made her entire body tense up and her adrenaline kick in. “I’d like to speak to you. In person if you can make the time.”
How the hell did he get my cell number?
“What do you want?” she growled.
He made a sound that was half-chuckle, half-throat-clearing. “To speak. Didn’t I just say that?”
SOB thinks he can just call me? After what he did? “There isn’t anything you could possibly say, Mr. Wade, that I—”
“I want to hire you.”
Ha! Funny. “What? It wasn’t enough to ruin my—”
“Miss Reed.” She could hear the impatience in his voice now. “I’m a busy man, so—”
“Ms. It’s Ms. Reed,” she corrected sharply.
“Fine. Ms. Reed, I’d like to discuss an offer, but not over the phone. I prefer doing business in person.”
Business with me? Maybe his brain has been polluted with too many supplements. She seemed to remember he looked like one of those guys who obsessed over his body as much as he did the cut of his suits to show it all off. Although, it was hard to tell with all that pious condescension oozing from his general direction.
“Sorry,” she said in the bitchiest tone possible, “but my schedule is booked, and I’m on my way to a meeting. I’ll have to call you back next lifetime….” As she spoke, Taylor turned toward the street, noticing the long, gleaming black limo now parked against the curb. She couldn’t see past the tinted windows, but…
“You’re sitting right there, aren’t you?” she said into the phone.
The back window lowered and those pale blue eyes, edged with annoyingly thick dark brown lashes, stared back, just as void of warmth as she remembered. But this time, his handsome face—with its chiseled cheekbones, cleft chin, and a strong jaw covered in a charcoal black five o’clock shadow—was missing that patronizing smirk. The man actually looked pissed.
Four Months Earlier
Taylor pulled into the crowded parking lot of HRTech Solutions, sweating bullets and cursing like a sailor—a habit she’d sworn off for New Year’s but had just decided was completely impractical.
This can’t fucking be happening. She was now thirty—Nope. Make that thirty-one—minutes late for her big presentation to the CEO of Wade Enterprises—the man who had a reputation for lacking a soul and for having an unfailing ability to see the world as his personal mound of dirt meant for bulldozing. The man who had announced, last minute, that he’d be flying in from his San Francisco headquarters to hear about their managerial recruiting services.
The request was strange to say the least, considering she and her team usually went to the client, not the other way around. In any case, Taylor had been trying to snag a meeting with Mr. Wade ever since she’d landed contracts with several of his golfing buddies, who were all CEOs of various companies themselves.
The Prius in front of her suddenly spotted an open space. Shit. Dammit. No! She hit her brakes and watched the driver take his sweet time pulling in as she dug her nails into her steering wheel. Then, almost out of the way, the Prius driver began backing out, deciding he wasn’t positioned just right.
Sonofabitch! Come on! She sighed and then focused her frustration on the A/C button of her red Audi TTS, poking it ten times. But all the poking in the world wouldn’t magically make that Prius go any faster, just like it wouldn’t make the temperature go any lower.
It was nine-thirty on this fine February morning and already five-hundred-hell-in-a-hand-basket degrees outside. Not even the devil would let his nuts live in this inferno.
She checked her makeup in the mirror to ensure it hadn’t melted down her face and noticed the incredibly attractive ring of red encircling her brown eyes. The result of having had two and a half hours of sleep.
Wonderful. I look like I’m stoned. Her phone buzzed on the passenger seat. It was her VP texting again.
VERA: Where are you now?
TAYLOR: Pulling into the lot. Is he there yet?
VERA: No. Hurry!
Taylor couldn’t believe her luck. This day might be saved after all.
“Take your sweet fucking time, buddy!” She pounded on the steering wheel as the Prius driver once again took his time edging back into the parking space. “Come on!” She honked the horn.
The driver slammed on the brakes and flashed her the middle finger.
“Great. Just great.” I’m about to lose my job, so fuck you back.
Why oh why had she taken this position to begin with? She wasn’t a pitchman, but her old college friend Rina, who also worked at HRTech, had talked her into it five years ago when Taylor had been fresh out of grad school and in desperate need of a paycheck. “You were born to work with people, Taylor,” she’d said. “You just smile and the room lights up.”
What a joke.
Yes, she enjoyed working with people and had a master’s in human resource management, but so many of the executives in these big companies, the ones who used HRTech’s recruitment services, didn’t have a clue about how to treat the people they spent thousands to find and hire. It was always about the bottom line and shareholder value—never about creating a workplace that employees genuinely looked forward to coming to each day. Didn’t they get that happy employees were more productive employees? It drove her crazy. But unfortunately, Rina had been right. Soon after starting at HRTech, Taylor had begun landing big clients and making good money—something she couldn’t easily walk away from given her student loans.
Yeah. Well, those are all paid off no
w. As soon as she was able, she’d start looking for a new job, something more meaningful, back in the Bay Area. Kissing up to men like Bennett Wade, who she’d never met but couldn’t stand because she knew his type, was not her calling.
The Prius finally got out of the way, and she zoomed past, taking the little road that led to the back of the building where luckily she found an empty spot.
Now thirty-five—Nope. Make that thirty-six—minutes late, Taylor ran in her black heels, clutching her laptop case in one hand and oversized brown leather purse in the other. Once inside the twenty-story glass-and-steel rectangle, Taylor made it to the elevator just in time to watch the doors slide shut in her face.
“Sonofabitch!” She jabbed at the elevator button and looked down at her watch, suddenly noticing several strange spots on the lapel of her black blazer. Oh, no. She must’ve missed a few drops of bleach when she’d spritzed the kitchen counters last night before bed. Cleaning helped her unwind and feel in control, especially when her crazy job made her head spin from the constant juggling. She had laid her blazer on the counter this morning while she’d been looking for her keys.
As she waited for the elevator, she freed her hair from its ponytail and finger combed the length of it over her lapel to cover the spots. The elevator chimed, and she jumped in. Moments later, Taylor arrived at the top floor and sprinted for the executive conference room where Vera waited, along with six senior managers, all of whom reported to Taylor.
“Hi, everyone. Sorry I’m late,” she threw her bag down on the long gray table that stretched the length of the room, “but I was stuck in traffic and then some jerk in a Prius was blocking the—”
“I assure you,” said a deep, cold voice, “that my poor driving was a direct result of a man my height trying to maneuver a vehicle meant for one of those emaciated, tree-hugging vegetarians.”
Tailored for Trouble: A Romantic Comedy (Happy Pants) Page 1