by Liv Morris
BOSSY NIGHTS
LIV MORRIS
Kiki Press
Contents
Welcome
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
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Hard Luck
Copyright
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Books By Liv Morris
Bossy Nights Outtake
BOSSY NIGHTS.
Copyright © 2018 Liv Morris
Editing by Word Nerd Editing
Proofreading by Proofing Style
Faye Howe
Tracy S.
Cover Design by RBS Design
Photograph by Scott Hoover
Cover Model Stuart Reardon
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 the above author of this book.
This book 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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1
Tessa
As soon as my hotel door closes behind the bellhop, I throw my purse on the bed, walk to the window, and push the sheer curtain to the side. Manhattan’s office buildings rise to meet the sunset sky in manmade majesty. I glance down at the sidewalk, seeing people hustling along the concrete in all directions. Add a million cabs flying by, and the entire scene has a crazed energy that makes it feel alive, like it has a pulse.
And to think, I almost didn’t make it here.
I have one goal during my week here in the city: find a position that will provide enough money for me to live here permanently. It’s likely a pipedream, since I just graduated from college and have limited work experience.
My best friend, Magnolia, a name that shouts born-in-the-south, which happens to be the case for us both, plans on joining me if I do indeed secure employment this week, so failure isn’t an option. We’ve planned for years to take this city by storm, even if it means cutting each other’s hair and living on ramen noodles to afford an apartment.
Leaning against the glass, I utter a quiet prayer that somewhere in this gritty, concrete jungle, my newbie résumé lands in the right hands.
I reach for my bag and pull out my cell phone along with a strip of foil packs—aka condoms. What the hell?
“Maggie,” I mutter under my breath.
I drop the foil packs into a small trashcan by the dresser, bring up Maggie’s number on my phone, and press call. We need to talk.
“Finally, Tessa! Are you there?” Maggie says in her usual high-octane speed.
“I found the condoms,” I huff, though I’m not surprised. “What if my bag was searched at the airport and a TSA guy saw them?”
“He probably would’ve asked for your number. Loosen up, okay? What are your plans tonight?” she asks, skipping over the part where she needs to say she’s sorry.
“I don’t know.” I wasn’t crazy about venturing out for the first time alone as night settles over the city. There’s a room service folder on the desk beside me, and I flip the cover over. “Maybe I’ll order in.” A quick glance at the prices makes me cringe and reconsider this choice.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Tessa, it’s your first time by yourself in New York City! You need to do three things tonight.”
“Give them to me.” I sigh, knowing where she’s heading. Nothing changes in her demands.
Maggie’s been trying to get my cherry popped since high school. And for once, I have to agree with her. But I’m a realistic girl, and have watched every episode of Sex and the City, so I know finding a real love match in this place of non-committal relationships isn’t going to be easy. I have to be open to the options, even ones I haven’t considered before. However, one-night stands as a virgin are complicated. It’s hard to hide those pesky hymens.
“Here’s the plan,” Maggie pipes in. “One: I want you to go downstairs to the hotel restaurant for dinner. No hiding upstairs with room service. Two: actually make conversation with a man, preferably the hot kind. Three: bring him upstairs and have awesome hotel sex.”
I hear the glee in Maggie’s voice. She must be picturing me calling her tomorrow morning to tell her I’d been plucked by some guy at the bar. So not happening. Ever.
“One, yes. Two … maybe. Three, you’re hilarious and crazy.” I end with a laugh while shaking my head. “I’ve never had a random kiss, so why would you think I’d bring some random guy up to my room?”
“Live a little. No harm. No foul,” Maggie singsongs her life’s motto into my ear.
She’s right. I should live, but does that mean grabbing the first willing and able guy by the Gucci tie and dragging him upstairs?
“Believe me. I’ve been more than ready for a long time. But I have yet to meet a guy who measures up to being my V-card conqueror.”
“You still have PTSD from those jerks at Montevallo,” she says, mentioning the college we graduated from in Alabama a week ago. “Forget them. You’re starting over in a new place. No one knows about your sex handicap or that your family’s filled with policemen all over six feet tall.”
“New city. New me,” I say with all the enthusiasm I can muster, which isn’t much considering the trauma I dealt with during college.
Once word circulated that I was still a virgin during my sophomore year, an invisible bull’s-eye was placed between my legs. For three long years, I went out on a lot of first dates full of sweet talk and eager hands. No one wanted me for just me. They wanted bragging rights that they’d been my first. I shudder at the memories and pray they’re buried back at the university. At times, I feel like the Eighth Wonder of the World. Someone has their work cut out with me … I hope.
“Change out of your jeans, put on some lipstick, and go downstairs. Do not stay in your room. Okay?”
“All right.” After all, I didn’t blow a hefty portion of my savings just to sit here on this bed and watch reruns of Friends. I came to New York City to try to find myself, and I need to walk out of this room to make it happen.
Ending the call with Maggie, I decide my Taylor Swift T-shirt and skinny jeans make me look like a fourteen-year-old fan
girl, not a twenty-three-year-old woman. Determined to make myself presentable, I open my suitcase and find a pink dress with off-the-shoulder ruffle sleeves.
After quickly changing, I slip on a pair of nude pumps, coat my lips in a sheer pink lip gloss, and grab my bag. It’s time to face my dreams head-on, even if they scare me more than I care to admit.
2
Tessa
Walking through the lobby, I take a deep breath as I approach the restaurant. The hostess is dressed in all black, making me second-guess my pink attire.
“Good evening. I’d like a table for dinner, if one’s available,” I say in a smooth, I-have-it-all-figured-out way. No need to expose my anxiety for being by myself in a city where I don’t know a soul.
“Sure thing, miss,” she says with a slight hiss. It stings a bit, but I brush it off. “Will your family be joining you?”
Ouch. That one hurt.
“No. Just me,” I say, defeated by her words and feeling like a fifteen-year-old runaway.
After rolling her eyes at me, the bitchy hostess grabs a menu from under her stand, then leads me to a small square table.
“Your server will be with you shortly,” she says, looking down her nose at me before turning away. Good riddance.
After settling into my seat, I glance around the restaurant. It has a definite Old World-meets-hipster vibe with its worn, polished tables and brick walls. Muted lights are strung high overhead, giving the space a dark ambiance. I picked Hammond Hotel because it was rated high on the trendy scale, and it definitely lives up to it.
I peruse the wine list, which consists of several pages, and concentrate on the reds served by the glass. I don’t see a pinot noir or merlot anywhere, so I move to the sparkling wines, finally finding one that’s familiar: my beloved prosecco. It’s my version of champagne on a budget. A thirty-something man in a long-sleeved white shirt and black pants stops at my table.
“Good evening. My name is Jeffrey and I’ll be your server.” I give him a welcoming smile, which he returns. “Would you care for something to drink tonight?”
“Yes. May I please have a prosecco?” I respond, closing the catalog list of wines.
“Certainly,” he answers, bending closer to me. “But I’ll need to see your I.D.”
At least he whispers the last part. Though, I should’ve expected it after the comments from the hostess. Seriously, it’s surprising she gave me the wine list at all.
I pull my wallet from my purse and hand Jeffrey my Alabama driver’s license. He scans it over, then appraises me, and finally smiles. Whew.
“I knew you were Southern, Contessa Holly,” he says, giving me my license back. I don’t miss the mischievous and flirty spark in his eye either. “And you have a beautiful first name. Fitting for a beautiful young woman.”
“Thanks.” I turn my eyes down toward my lap, feeling a flush spread across my face. I wonder if all men here are this forward.
“Do you go by Contessa?” he continues, though I wish he would go fetch my drink already.
“Just Tessa,” I say, looking up at him once again.
Maybe in my thirties I’ll try the older sounding version. I’ve always felt I needed to be more accomplished to wear my first name properly. Perhaps after I make senior executive, or get married and have a couple of kids. Though, at my pace, I’ll be lucky to snag a first date.
“Tessa suits you. Be right back with a prosecco for the pretty lady in pink.” He taps the table and gives me a not so subtle smirk before walking toward the bar.
I open the dinner menu and browse over the choices. My eyes go wide at the prices. All the entrees are over twenty-five dollars, even the usually less expensive pasta and chicken dishes.
The fact that I’m not in Alabama anymore hits me hard, and I realize a sobering truth: I need to land a job where I make some serious bank to survive here. I finally decide on one of the least expensive things: lentil soup. It should be filling and might include some bread, if I’m lucky.
As I wait for the server to return, an older man dressed in a rich dark suit enters the restaurant by himself, catching my attention. A suited man always turns my eye. It’s my version of male lingerie.
His shoulders are broad and his stance is commanding. All eyes watch him stride through the restaurant like he owns the place. His thick, wavy hair is ink black with a glossy shine any woman would die for—myself included.
Forget the simple act of wearing clothes. His suit moves like it’s upholstered to his form. Lucky suit. His pace slows as he approaches the bar, which happens to be close to my table. Lucky me.
His thick biceps flex as he pulls out a barstool and takes a seat. Dammit. Now his back is all I can see—not that I’m complaining. He has a really nice backside.
“Sorry for your wait, miss. Here’s your drink.” Jeffery seems out of breath as he places a champagne glass full of bubbling liquid in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say before taking a sip.
As the cool liquid hits my tongue and quickly disappears, the handsome businessman twists on his barstool. He scans the room, stopping when his eyes land on me, meeting mine dead on.
Whoa …
His piercing dark eyes regard me without expression. I freeze in place, my glass still touching my lips, finding it difficult to breathe. Good lord, he’s the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen, aside from movies or magazines, and even then, I can’t think of a guy hotter than him.
I turn in my chair and look behind me, fully expecting to find someone else standing there, like a beautiful woman worthy of his handsomeness. But the space is empty. I face forward again, my eyes reconnecting with this gorgeous stranger, overwhelmed he’s giving me his full attention.
He shakes his head, and I notice a small rise at the corner of his full lips. The next thing I know, he gives me a dazzling smile, and a strange rush washes over me.
I think I just swooned and had my Jake Ryan “yeah, you” moment. Except the hot guy isn’t a high school senior leaning against a sports car; he’s a thirty-something suited sex god sitting at a bar in freaking New York City.
Glancing down at my dress, I grimace. The ruffle top reminds me of Molly Ringwald’s bridesmaid dress in Sixteen Candles. Maybe it’s time to upgrade my pretty-in-pink look.
I give him a weak smile in return, and consider this a monumental feat since I can’t remember my own name. He brings a glass of amber liquid to his lips. His eyes never leave mine as he takes a sip, showing off his practiced seduction skills.
He licks his lips, and that devastating smile aimed right at me returns. My nipples react, trying to cut through the cotton of my thin dress. They’ve never met a man like this, or really any man, because he’s nothing like the boys from college. He’s a lethal and way-too-old-for-me man. Maybe …
“Excuse me, miss. Have you decided on what to order?”
Jeffrey stands in front of me with a pen in his hand, blocking the eye candy who was eyeing me, thus destroying my swoony high.
“Oh yeah, order,” I sputter as Jeffery waits for an answer.
“Yes, I’m assuming you’re here for dinner, or maybe you’re waiting on someone to join you?” His eyebrows rise in question.
“I’m sorry,” I manage while sitting up in my chair. “May I please have the lentil soup?”
“And for your main course?” Jeffrey asks.
“Just the soup.” Ugh. I need to find a place where I can eat a meal for less than fifty dollars.
“Another prosecco?” he asks, but I surely don’t need more with my current brain buzz. Besides, I need to hit the sidewalks tomorrow morning in search of a job, not a hangover cure.
“No thanks. Just water.”
With a quick nod, Jeffery slides my dinner menu under his arm and walks toward the back of the crowded restaurant.
Unable to resist the gorgeous man magnet, I turn back to find him still sitting sideways on the barstool turned toward me. He’s focused on his phone, his long, capable fin
gers dwarfing it. Maggie has this crazy theory. She believes a man’s penis is roughly double the size of his thumb, which would make this man extremely blessed below the belt.
His killer jawline has more stubble than a five o’clock shadow, but he doesn’t have a full beard. It would be a crime against Mother Nature and the humans in his presence to fully cover a jaw like his.
After a few minutes, he sets his phone down on the bar. With a slight smile, he picks up his drink and raises it in a toast … to me. I can’t believe he’s still looking my way. What universe am I in?
I raise my glass to match his and take a sip, but nothing meets my lips. I pull my glass away and eye it. Empty. He laughs at my situation, and I join him. He holds up a finger, asking me to wait, and swivels forward on his seat, signaling the bartender over to him.
During his conversation, he points to me, and the bartender nods before turning away. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome gives me a big thumbs-up, so I guess he’s buying me a drink? I can’t believe this is happening. I owe Maggie for insisting I leave my room tonight. I never thought I’d make it past her first suggestion. Well, I haven’t actually spoken to him, but buying me a drink is like saying hello in adult dating talk.