by Cathryn Fox
Confessions of a Bad Boy CEO
Cathryn Fox
Contents
Copyright
1. Holly
2. Will
3. Holly
4. Will
5. Holly
6. Will
7. Holly
8. Will
9. Holly
10. Will
11. Holly
Afterword
Confessions of a Bad Boy Gamer
About Cathryn Fox
Also by Cathryn Fox
Copyright
Copyright 2018 by Cathryn Fox
Published by Cathryn Fox
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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ISBN: 978-1-928056-98-0
1
Holly
I must be crazy. Out of my freaking mind. A certifiable lunatic at best. What other explanation could there be, because no other human on the planet would be driving in such horrible weather conditions. I should have turned around thirty minutes ago, when my radio could still pick up a signal—when the heavy rain first began to impair my driving, and the ocean to my left started surging and spilling onto the narrow, winding, two-lane road.
But I figured I was so close, and turning around meant an even longer journey back to the city. Not my smartest move, considering the way the twisted and snapped tree branches are pinging off my rain-soaked windshield as I drive slowly, carefully toward my parent’s house, which just happens to be in the middle of butt-fuck nowhere.
My childhood stomping grounds.
Truthfully, it’s nothing short of a miracle that I’d made it this far. The weather was bad the second I packed my car and left Toronto for the long drive to Nova Scotia. Exhaustion should have stopped me long before the heavy hurricane winds touched land, and while I should have drove straight to my hotel in the city—apartment searching would come later—I was anxious to see my folks. I hadn’t been back to Nova Scotia in months, nine to be precise. I usually only made it home for Christmas, but this time I’m back for good. Thanks to my asshole boyfriend.
Correction, asshole ex-boyfriend.
We’d been together for five years now, having met in college, and the two of us had spent many a day making plans for the future. As a junior accountant in one of Toronto’s biggest firms, I worked and put him through law school. In turn, he was supposed to put me through law school when he joined a firm, and together we were going to open our own practice, and become a serious power couple. But then a few months back, after landing his first job, the douche bag fell for one of the firm’s partners, and the rest, you could say, is history.
Could I be any more of a cliché?
In the end, I guess I’m glad it all happened. Did I really want to spend my life with a guy who could so easily dismiss me—especially after all the support I’d given him? And the whole power couple thing, it was more his dream than mine. I’m just an easygoing small town girl who doesn’t need a lot of material things to be happy, and there is a secret part of me that knots up at the thoughts of becoming a lawyer. Wouldn’t that put the final nail into my childhood dream of opening my own bakery! I became an accountant to pay the bills, and my ex always said a bakery was juvenile and ridiculous, and wouldn’t so much as pay the rent on the lease. While I know he’s right, the heart wants what the heart wants, right? But now that I’m on my own again, and have taken a job at a big accounting firm in the city—another junior position that I’m grateful to have, even though rumor has it my boss is an ogre—it’s time to buckle down and face reality.
So much for childhood dreams.
So much for Prince Charming.
Neither exist. Not in my reality anyway.
I reach out and fiddle with the radio dial, needing something, anything to keep me from feeling so alone and afraid as the storm pummels my car, as well as my nerves. I peer through the window as something big and dark enters the road, and when I realize it’s a deer—mesmerized by my headlights—I let loose a yelp and swerve to avoid it. My tire hits the gravel shoulder, and before I can right it, my car veers off course and the next thing I know, I’m headed straight for the muddy, flooded ditch. I topple into it, and jolt forward, but my seatbelt keeps me in place. What it doesn’t do, however, is stop my air bag from punching me in the face with enough force to drive my head back and nearly break my nose. I gasp for air, and work not to panic.
Too late. Panicking.
Okay, pull it together, Holly. You’re a smart girl. You’ve got this.
I take a deep breath, then another, as I struggle to release my seatbelt. Good God, the buckle has no plans of discharging anytime soon, and water is rushing into the car. Reaching out, I fish my purse from the floor, drag it to my lap, and riffle through it until I produce my cell phone. I throw up a silent prayer, hoping I can get service out here in the middle of nowhere, although deep in my gut, I’m guessing I can’t. I squint through watery eyes, and feel a measure of relief when I see one bar.
Yes!
I go to contacts and punch in my parents’ number. I have no doubt they’re worried sick about me, but I didn’t want to take the time to pull over and let them know I was okay, which I’m totally not anymore.
I put the phone to my ear, but then it goes dead. I check the bars again, find none.
Of course, there are none! Why on earth would there be? For the last week, month…year, nothing has been going my way. Why should it start now? Honest to God, I’m a nice girl, a rule follower, always kind to others. I even used to get Mr. Johnson’s groceries for him when he was going through dialysis. Why is karma kicking my ass so hard? All I can figure is I’d done something horrible in another lifetime.
With no time to dwell on that, I toss my phone aside and shift my body, trying to squirm from the seat when a loud cracking sounds reverberates though me. I fight the air bag, and bite back a yelp when my windshield splits, a huge fissure travelling from one side to the other, compliments of the big-assed tree that just landed on it. Okay, enough of this. I need to get out of this car and seek shelter, ASAP. I try my door, and I’m grateful when it opens—the water accumulating in the ditch and filling my car however, not so happy about that.
Fighting off a new wave of panic, I curse, squirm and struggle, but go still when I see a figure emerge from the shadows.
I open my mouth, about to scream, but then stop to give myself a quick consultation. A girl broken down in the ditch, about to drown in her car, versus a deranged killer who escaped from an asylum. Did I mention I have a crazy imagination? I pull my purse to my chest and consider my options. Okay, deranged killer it is.
“Over here,” I scream, just as the man swings my door open wider and does a quick assessment. I look down at my soaked feet and yoga pants, the muddy water rushing in and threatening to engulf the vehicle.
He pulls a knife from his back pocket and I suck in a fast breath, ready to whack him with my purse when he leans over me. Oh God, he is a deranged killer, and I’m a goner. Two seconds later he’s cutting into my seatbelt and pulling me from the driver’s seat. I choke on the fear tightening my throat as he gathers me into his arms.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I…I think so. There was a deer, I swerved,” I say, and blink a fat raindrop from my eyes as I shoulder my purse and snake my hands around his neck to hold on. When my vision clears, I realize I’m being rescued by the hottest guy on the face of the Earth. Although it’s certainly not the time to be thinking about that.
“It’s okay, I got you. No need to talk anymore.”
He continues to hold me to his hard body, and rain slaps against our skin as he darts into the trees, the overhead canopy of leaves providing a modicum of shelter. Heavy wet branches smack our bodies as he zigzags between the trees like he knows the woods better than the back of his hand, which is a strange saying. I don’t think I know the back of my hand at all. Coming down from my adrenaline rush, I lay my head against his flannel shirt, which smells like man, wood, and smoke. It’s not a bad scent. In fact, it’s quite…appealing. I angle my head, take in his intense features, the weekend’s worth of scruff on his face. Good God, have I just been rescued by a lumberjack?
Why does the idea of that excite me?
Oh, probably because lumberjacks are rough and rugged and manly and I haven’t been touched in ages. Although, when I had been touched it was less than stellar—not that I know what great sex is. I only know it took my own hand in the bathroom later to reach orgasm. Or maybe it’s because I just finished an awesome book called WOOD, and have been fantasizing about getting it on with my very own woodsman.
“Who are you?” I manage to get out around a tongue gone thick as we climb higher into the forest.
He casts me a quick look. “Will,” he says and hurries forward, like I weigh nothing. I don’t. Even my curves have curves. I don’t have a problem with that. I like myself the way I am. I’m smart enough to realize guys prefer their girls wafer thin, but I refuse to starve myself to fit some misguided image of the perfect body. If I want a sandwich, I’m going to eat a sandwich, dammit.
His eyes seek mine again, another careful assessment. “You sure you’re okay? You’ve got a hell of a bump on your forehead.”
It’s only then that I realize I have a killer headache. I reach up, not even sure how, or when I banged my head. But when my fingers connect with a goose egg, I wince. Damn, must have hit the steering wheel before the air bag deployed.
“Ouch,” I whimper.
He takes my hand and moves it away. “Don’t,” he commands in a soft voice that does the strangest things to my insides. I never much liked guys who were bossy, but that one word, and the forcefulness behind it, piques my interest and make me a little more curious about that man who’d just saved me from drowning. “We’re almost there. I’ll take care of your head when I get you to safety.”
Safety?
I’m being whisked away by a stranger—albeit a gorgeous one who looks like he knows his way around a woman’s body—and carried so deep into the woods, there’s no way I’ll ever find my way out. Am I really safe? I shift in his arms, my hands loosening on his neck, ready to break free and make a run for it if I have to. I’m pretty sure there is an old granola bar in the bottom of my purse that I can survive on until I find civilization.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, like he can read my mind. “You’re safe with me.”
“I never said—”
“You were thinking it.”
“How do know—”
“Because I do,” he says.
Okay, so apparently, I’ve been rescued by a mind-reading lumberjack. I’d better cool it with erotic thoughts or this is going to get a whole lot more interesting.
Let’s go for interesting, Holly.
I quiet the needy side of me, and work to focus on something other than how good it feels to be in this man’s arms.
“You do know where you’re going, right?” I ask, only because there is no path and every tree looks the same to me.
He scowls at me and I glance up to see a cabin, ribbons of smoke coming from the chimney. Okay, I guess he does. There is a Jeep in the driveway, and a long road that likely leads to civilization. At least I can find my way to the main road if need be. I want to ask if it’s his place, and what he’s doing in these woods alone, but don’t say anything when he opens his door and steps inside. The warmth of the place falls over me, and pushes the chill from my bones.
“We need to see to that bump and get you undressed.” He sets me on the sofa in front of the fire and disappears up a set of stairs. I take that moment to catalogue my surroundings. The log cabin is rustic, but I get the sense it was decorated like this purposely, like someone put a great deal of money into making it look primitive, while still providing its owners with modern conveniences. He comes back in a dry pair of jeans and a t-shirt, holding a clean flannel shirt three times too big for me and a first aid kit. As he approaches, I can’t help but admire the way he moves, the squareness of his broad shoulders, the way his low-slung jeans hug his body to perfection.
Dark eyes meet mine. “Put this on,” he says. “Then I’ll attend to your head.”
I accept the shirt as water drips down my nose and pools on my lips. His gaze leaves mine, heats a few degrees, and that’s when I realize my white t-shirt is soaked to my skin and showcasing my lacey bra. He clears his throat, and his gaze lifts slowly, zeroes in on my mouth as I lick the fat droplets. Good God, how long has this man been in the woods, been around another woman?
Maybe I’m not so safe with him after all.
Halleluiah!
Cut it out, Holly.
“Do you…think you could turn around,” I say, and twirl my finger to draw his attention from my breasts to my face.
His eyes snap to mine, hold for a second, then he tears his gaze away. “I’ll make coffee,” he says gruffly. I stand when he offers me his back and walks into his kitchen. I can see him from my viewpoint in the living room. The main interior of cottage is an open concept, with a loft above for sleeping, and one door off the living room that likely leads to a bathroom. With all the up-to-date conveniences, I’m sure there must be a modern shower in there. The thoughts of climbing under a hot spray sounds perfectly divine.
“Do you have tea?” I ask, not want to sound ungrateful, but I prefer it over coffee.
“No.”
All righty, then.
“Coffee will be fine,” I say. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He grunts something under his breath as I hurry from my wet clothes, a little unstable on my feet. I slide into the warm flannel and bring my arm to my nose to inhale. His shirt smells like fabric softener, not the flames blazing in the hearth, or the delectable man in the kitchen.
“Um, do you have a dryer?”
He points to the one and only inside door, and I walk through it to find the bathroom. I was right, there is a magnificent shower with a dozen nozzles that only a person with an engineering degree could operate. Behind a set of double closet doors, I discover the washer and dryer. I toss my clothes in and set it to delicate dry. I go back into the room in time to see Will carry the coffee into the living room.
“I’m Holly,” I say, and tug on the hem of the shirt. It feels a little weird to be in his clothes wi
thout any panties on. “Thanks for helping me. I had no idea the storm was so bad. I’m moving back from Toronto and was just on my way to my parents’ house.” I jerk my thumb out, although I’m so disorientated, I have no idea which direction their place is. “They’re just a few miles down the road. Whitman’s Lane. Do you know it?” Okay, stop rambling already. “I’ll be out of your way once my clothes dry.”
He hands me my coffee and as I take a small sip, he gives me a look that suggests I’m insane. “What would be the point of drying your clothes just to go back out into the rain?”
Okay, good point.
He moves across the room to toss another log onto the fire and I take in the way he carries himself—with an air of authority—and once again my curiosity is piqued. A lumberjack with stature. Who would have ever thought I’d run into a man like that.
“I don’t want to bother you any longer than need be.” I’m smart enough to realize a man who lives in the middle of nowhere values his privacy, and having me here is interfering with that.
“If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have brought you. Now sit. So, I can take care of you, and try to get that swelling down. Your head must be aching.”
In that instant, as those dark eyes of his lock on mine, my gaze goes to his big, calloused hands, and all I can think about is another area of my body that’s begun aching, and how much it would like to be taken care of by him.
Oh boy!
2
Will
I rub the scruff on my chin and gaze at the woman wearing my flannel shirt as she slowly lowers herself onto my sofa. Women don’t wear my clothes. Ever. Nor do they invade my private space, or see me in such a disheveled state. Not since my college days, anyway. And it’s not only women who must always see me at my best. As the president and CEO of WSC Associates, I’m the face of my business and have a professional image to uphold. But after investing the sound of a car crashing, and finding her stuck behind the wheel, I had no choice but to bring her into my sanctuary, let her invade my much-needed solitude. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a complete asshole.