How to Deal
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyrights
Dedication
Note to readers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyrights
Dedication
Note to readers
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Acknowledgments
Meet the Author
How to Deal © 2018 by Shey Stahl
Published in the United States
Deal © 2014 by Shey Stahl
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. 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 Shey Stahl.
Cover Photo and Design: Sara Eirew
Interior Design: A Designs
Copy Editing: Hot Tree Editing
This is a work of fiction. All characters and storylines are the property of the author and your support and respect is appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
To my readers.
Thank you for wanting more from this story and pushing me to complete their story.
This one’s for you.
Previously this novel was released as Deal. I’ve since added 30,000 words of material and the ending of Tathan and Amalie. That called for a new name for the book. How to Deal. For a while, I tried to decide how I wanted to do the ending of Amalia and Tathan. It took me what, two years to decide? Thanks for sticking with me.
I decided to give you an updated version of Deal along with How to Deal so you could enjoy fresh editing and bonus material as well.
Enjoy!
“Listen to me. You chew up my shoes, and I will take your food. I will. And you so much as drool on my Christian Louboutin heels and I will make you sleep in the bathroom on the cold floor. How about that?”
I know I shouldn’t be so mean, but the mere thought of Oliver touching those Louboutin heels makes my stomach sick. Physically nauseous. Those heels are mine! I saved for a year for those and the fact the little bastard feels the need to chew them makes me livid.
“What are you doing?” Casey asks, causing me to jump nearly out of my skin and drop the phone in my lap.
Picking up the phone, I turn to face her and slide my finger over the screen to end the call. “Leaving Oliver a message on my answering machine.”
Despite not offering her a seat, Casey sits in the chair beside my desk, crossing her right leg over her left. I don’t care that she’s invading my personal space—the only space I have in this small office I spend most of my time in—no, what I care about it that she’s wearing my black knee-high boots she stole from me last week and paired them with my rag & bone jeans. If it wasn’t for my wardrobe, I’m not sure Casey would have anything to wear to work.
Sadly, they look slightly better on her and not exactly what you would expect the manager of our payroll department to be wearing.
“How is he going to check the message?” she asks, her perfectly waxed and sculpted eyebrows knitting together.
“It plays as you’re leaving it. He hears it, trust me.”
Casey shakes her head as though she can’t believe I’ve resorted to leaving my puppy scolding messages to get him to behave. “So, about Saturday. . . are you coming with me this weekend?”
Crap. I’d almost forgotten about that stupid wedding expo. Almost meaning tried.
“Why do you need me there?”
“Because,” Casey whines, and I hate it when she whines. She sounds strangely similar to Oliver when he has to pee. “You promised you’d go and you’re the maid of honor. It’s kind of, you know, one of your duties.”
I know I promised, but the idea of spending my Saturday at a wedding expo isn’t exactly what I have planned for my weekend. Catching up on the shows I missed throughout the week, that’s in my plan. “I thought Zane was going with you?”
Casey sighs heavily. “He is, but I want you there too. You know Zane. I need someone to help me keep him under control. And I need to find a photographer and a dress. Imagine what Zane would make me choose if you weren’t there to rein him in.”
She has a valid point. Zane—our coworker and flamboyant gay friend—at a wedding expo will be like a kid in a toy store. We’d never get him to leave.
Much like the perfect black dress, every girl needs one amazing gay friend, and Zane Thomas is our BFF with a penis. Where Casey will hold back in fear of hurting my feelings, Zane tells me the way it is. He’s brutally honest with me, and I need that.
Damn it. She wore me down. “What time is it again? I have to work on Saturday.”
Letting out a squeal of delight, Casey claps her hands together. “It starts at ten, but we can be late. I’ll pick you up here at noon.”
Going to a wedding expo frustrates me because every weekend there’s something to do with this damn wedding. Since agreeing
to be her maid of honor, it’s like I have to plan my damn life around Casey and her wedding. Which—if we’re being honest here—I understand. Sort of goes with the territory. She’s getting married, and it should be all about the bride. Casey and Bryan got engaged four months ago; it’s literally been the topic of conversation every day. Now here we are three weeks until the magical June seventh date, and this shit has gotten intense. Think cake samples, dress shopping, looking at every possible flower known to man, and everything else planning a wedding entails.
I should probably backtrack just a bit so you understand why I’d put my life on hold for someone. Casey McDaniel is my best friend in the whole world. No one has been there for me like she has. So in reality, I would most certainly be there for her this weekend and every other weekend for that matter. I’d take a bullet for this chick. I wouldn’t like it, but I’d totally do it for her.
With that said, I understood Casey’s desire to go to the wedding expo because she still hasn’t found a photographer or a dress which is completely unlike her. She’s been more than picky about every minuscule detail with this wedding and the importance of the photographer kind of makes or breaks the wedding. How else are you going to remember the day? And the dress, well, you get it, but still, the fact that she hasn’t found either is not what you’d expect from someone like her.
Getting in my face with that big grin I swear she reserves only for me, Casey kisses my cheek. “Meeting time.” She says this as if I should be thrilled about attending a meeting this early in the morning.
I’m not thrilled about anything before eight in the morning unless it has chocolate and coffee in it.
Stealing a pen and notebook from my desk, Casey takes off down the hall to the meeting room.
Reaching for my notepad, I take a quick glance around my neatly organized desk and double check if anything needs my attention before I disappear into meeting hell for the next hour.
I used to love my job, and now I kind of hate it.
Every morning I stare at my computer and think to myself, who am I and how did I get here?
I think a lot of twenty-three-year-olds find themselves at similar crossroads, not knowing if this is the job they want to spend the next five years at. Hell, even spend the next five minutes, but when I sit at this desk, I think my shelf life is close to its expiration date. I’m an administrative assistant for a construction company called Madsen Construction.
The title seemed important when I applied for it, although I had no idea what an administrative assistant actually did. Casey and Zane—who worked here for the last two years— told me about it and hyped it up like it would be the best job ever.
For the most part, it’s been good. I’ve been working here six months, and I get to work with my two best friends.
Bonus, right?
Yep. I’d like to think so too. Nothing like working with friends. Do you sense my sarcasm there? No really, I do enjoy working with them.
The downside?
The boss man’s son who sits across from me.
I’ll get to him later. We’re not there just yet.
Being an assistant has some downsides. You have to do everything and be willing to help everyone. Even employees who are not your boss. Maybe that’s where I got confused on my actual job title, but apparently, that’s what an administrative assistant does.
In reality—and from what I’ve come to understand—being an administrative assistant is a fancy title for “I’m your bitch and how do you like your fucking coffee?”
I make coffee runs for the office at least three times a day. Three. Who drinks that much coffee without getting an ulcer? Apparently, these assholes who have me as their indentured servant do.
Before taking this job, I thought I had a problem with coffee addiction, but surely my dependence on caffeine is nothing compared to these jerk offs. And the specialty creamers they request, it’s like they think this is Starbucks. Sure, I can make you a triple espresso latte nonfat mochaccino. . . said no administrative assistant ever. What I really want to say is shove that latte up your ass, fuckface.
I’m tempted to offer an IV to them. At least if I did that, my feet wouldn’t hurt so badly, and I wouldn’t be tempted to spit into every cup of coffee I make.
Now here I am, six months into said job and thinking there’s gotta be better jobs out there for a college dropout.
But then again, I’m twenty-three with no idea what I want to do with myself past waking up each day. I leave messages on my answering machine to my dog for crying out loud.
Who does this?
All I know is making coffee for a bunch of lazy-ass construction company employees becomes less and less appealing with each passing week.
I wasn’t always on this never-ending path of intensiveness. In high school, I graduated with honors and had a steady boyfriend. My life was going perfectly. We both went to the same college together and had plans to get married after we graduated. Or maybe that was just in my plans because I’m not sure he felt the same way after high school. We only made it a few months into college and I found him cheating on me with some chick. I’ve since sworn off men. Who needs the added drama and heartbreak?
Not this chick.
The same month my ex ripped my heart out, my dad got sick and eventually passed away. He was all I had left besides a few aunts and uncles, so you can imagine where that left me. Wondering who I was and what I was doing with my life. And let’s not forget having a conversation with my dog over an answering machine.
I was like the crazy cat lady. Only I had a chocolate lab who shit and pissed everywhere and chewed my favorite heels.
After my dad passed away, I thought I would go back to school, but I still haven’t found what some would call a semblance of a life.
Instead, I’m here, taking notes at a meeting and pretending to give a shit about city projects, council meetings, and building permits when in reality, I want to slap myself that I didn’t do anything with my life after my dad passed.
After an hour of sitting in a meeting where our budget manager preached to everyone about cutting marketing costs, Zane—remember my gay friend—calls me, laughing, “Hey, come over to my office.”
Zane is Madsen Construction’s computer programmer, and there’s a good chance this call is another instance where he’s installed spyware on someone’s computer and wants to show me their search history.
The shit people google is just bizarre, and often creepy. If someone comes up missing at this place, there are a few suspects I’ll be pointing my finger to when the police ask questions based on their browser search history is all I’m saying.
“Sorry, dude. I don’t have time for website creeping today.” As I set the receiver down, my eyes catch sight of a tall figure standing in front of me. Glancing up, I find a man standing in front of my desk.
He’s tall, handsome, with dark hair and gorgeous brown eyes, and he’s waiting for me to either acknowledge him, or say something. Only I can’t. My response seems frozen between my lips as I stare into his eyes. They remind me of gold wrapped in chocolate. Like a caramel-filled truffle and they are absolutely beautiful.
After what seems like hours—and in reality is only seconds—I find my words. “Can I help you, sir?”
Or you could help me out. Maybe bend me over my desk and tell me what a naughty girl I’ve been?
Clearly, it’s been a while since I’ve had any action.
Cautiously, I eye the man, praying he can’t read my mind. If he can, I’m totally screwed and will probably lose my job.
“I’m not sure if you can.” Leaning against the partition to my cubicle that’s right at leaning height, he smiles. His long fingers drum against the partition, and I admire his hands. He has nice manly hands. “Are you my new administrative assistant?”
Well, shit.
Remember when I said I hadn’t met my boss yet?
Nope? Well, I haven’t. My bad, must have left that important detail out. Up
until now, I hadn’t actually met my boss, only talked to him on the phone. He’s been out of the country working in Japan. And wouldn’t you know it, here the man is, right in front of me looking like something out of a GQ magazine or Muscle and Fitness.
“Paul Madsen?” I ask in a voice that’s more of a timid whisper.
How the fuck was I going to work with him as a boss? Look at him. He’s beautiful. No way he’s my boss. I know. I’ll buy contacts in the wrong prescription so my vision is impaired, and it’ll make him look like a shitty version of Chris Hemsworth.
Excellent idea.
Mentally, I make myself a note to call my optometrist to see if he would help my sorry ass out. Surely someone has thought of this before. This can’t be a new request.
Standing, I reach my hand out to him. “I’m Amalie Davis,” I manage to say after he stares at me as if something is mentally haywire with me. I can’t blame him at for looking at me like this. I was just thinking of obtaining new contacts to impair my vision. Kind of screams crazy, doesn’t it?
“Well.” Paul smiles softly, tipping his head casually. “Zane didn’t tell me you were so pretty, sweetie.”
Aw, that’s sweet.
“Zane likes men, so my beauty wouldn’t be at the forefront of his mind, but thank you.”
Speak of the devil, Zane comes around the corner, upset I hung up on him. “Hey, get your ass in my office. I wasn’t joking. You need to—”
His words fall short when Paul turns toward Zane, amused, and raises an eyebrow. “She needs to do what?”
Zane has no social civility at all, and I sense he feels comfortable around Paul with what he says next. “She just needs to get her ass in there.”
Paul doesn’t seem fazed by his rudeness at all. If anything, he seems entertained by it.
I’m not sure what provokes me to do what I do next. I’m really not. “Zane!” I fling my tape dispenser right at his head, smacking him in the cheek.
Zane’s hand rubs the bull’s-eye I’d just made out of his face, glaring in my direction. “Was that necessary?”
“Yes.”
Paul chuckles and twists toward the door, but then glances back over his shoulder. “Welcome to Madsen Construction—” He pauses, smirking. “Amalie.”