Contents
Books by Jenny Bunting
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright © 2021 by Jenny Bunting
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Editing: Lopt & Cropt Editing
Proofreading: Horus Proofreading
Cover Design: Kari March Designs
Books by Jenny Bunting
Here in Lillyvale
Here (Zoey and Jonathan)
Hustle (Taylor and Malcolm)
Home (Addison and Kirk)
Hubby (Makenna and Dan)
* * *
Stuck in Love
Please Be Seated (Erin and Landon)
In Case of Emergency (Cassie and Smith)
For Your Safety (Raegan and Henry)
For the person who requested to smell my hair in the comments of one of my YouTube videos.
* * *
I’ve never forgotten you.
1
We’re not in the lobby of the Octavo five seconds before we see him.
“Oh no,” Nessa says, with a point. “Um, Cassie?”
I freeze and scan. My “cocky bastard” radar has been pricked. “Where is he?”
“Over there,” Nessa says.
Fury bubbles under my skin.
Smith Kennedy. My former boss and the biggest asshole I’ve ever met. Guarding the elevators like a sexy gargoyle.
I suffered for five years under Mr. Kennedy as his legal assistant. Underappreciated, dismissed. The last time I saw him, he yelled at me from across his mahogany desk and I quit on the spot. It’s been nine months, but I still feel the potent cocktail of pissed and hurt I felt the day I quit.
It would be easier if he wasn’t so damn good-looking.
He’s looking down at his phone, leaning against a wall. His black suit skims his body too perfectly, and his signature graying hair is styled like a Ken doll’s.
“I thought he wasn’t coming,” I say, pulling Nessa in the bathroom. A deep sigh of relief exits my lips as I’m safe in the ladies’.
“I thought he wasn’t either. I didn’t see him at the ceremony,” Nessa says. “Mr. Jones is his best friend so it makes sense. Still, sucks for you.”
“Totally,” I agree.
I was nervous for three days leading up to this wedding, but Nessa assured me there was a good chance he wouldn’t show. Plus, I had to show up for my friend, my gay work husband, Vincent. He and Quentin Jones, one of the other partners in the law firm, fell in love when Vincent was in the legal assistant trenches with me two years ago. When it looked like it was getting serious, Vincent graciously resigned and found a position with a personal injury firm. He offered to slip my resume in when I quit, but I declined.
If all attorneys treated me the way Mr. Kennedy did, I was done with my legal career.
When I still worked at Froman, Jones, and Kennedy, Vincent would patiently and quietly listen to me rant about Mr. Kennedy at brunch, letting me describe in detail the latest thing he did to crumble my cookies.
The week before I quit, Vincent stopped me, mid-rant.
“Are you sure you hate him?” Vincent would ask, pouring more champagne. “Hate sex could be fun.”
“He’s married,” I said, confused that was my first objection. Not that he was my boss, not that I seethed every time I saw him.
“Yeah, well,” Vincent would say, drinking his mimosa in a suspicious way.
“Even if he was single, it would never work. He’s the worst,” I said.
“Uh-huh,” Vincent said.
My hatred of Smith Kennedy reached an epic proportion when he pulled me into his office the day I quit. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.
“I have a mediation today?” Mr. Kennedy asked.
I opened my work phone to his calendar. I nodded once.
“Then why the fuck was no call scheduled with the client?” Mr. Kennedy seethed. He paced behind his desk, running his fingers through his hair. “We’re going to go into it with no communication with the client, no authority to settle and we’ll look like fucking idiots. You know this plaintiff attorney is a giant pain in my ass. Is the client even going to be present?”
Like I always did, I switched to problem-solving mode, scrolling through his calendar, wondering how I’d messed up so badly. I never messed up. Then, I remembered those three days another legal assistant, Mandy, watched my desk while I went to a bachelorette party in Lake Tahoe.
“Mandy must’ve overlooked it when she was covering my desk,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I can get the client on the phone right now. I can salvage this.”
Mr. Kennedy’s cuff links glittered as he jabbed his finger at me. “Don’t blame the girl you trained. You fucked this up. How could you? I trust you to handle my calendar, and I can’t trust you anymore. Don’t you see that?”
His voice raised, and he slammed his fist to the desk.
In the moment, I was frozen, my mouth hung open. Days later, I thought of a million things I could’ve said. How he was the attorney and could watch his own calendar, schedule his own pre-mediation conference, and how it was good client care. How I gave the firm five years of my life, stayed late, smoothed over clients, settled deals for him, all without an ounce of appreciation of my efforts. How this was my first mistake ever in the whole time I’d been working as his assistant.
He never talked to me, but now that I overlooked something, he yelled at me.
I could feel a sob behind my eyes, but I held it together. I spent five years hating my job, hating my boss, and this was the final straw. I was done.
“You know what?” I said, standing up. “I quit.”
He looked stunned. “Cassie, please,” he said. His use of my nickname startled me. He always called me Ms. Gallagher or Cassandra, never Cassie. It felt intimate and confusing to hear it from a man I hated, who didn’t even know my birthday.
Crying started the minute I left with my cardboard box of things, walking down Sacramento Street. Even the homeless people who sometimes blocked my path looking for spare change let me be. The last five years of my life reduced to a flimsy box full of my snarky coffee mugs and a picture of me with my best friends, Sarah and Erin.
All because I let an asshole man get to me. Something I swore I was done doing.
I also said I wouldn’t cower in shame in bathrooms anymore, but here I am again.
Nessa studies me. “You’re really red. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I look up at the mirror to my reflection, sweaty, my angry cheeks overpowering my light pink blush.
Nessa flares her nostrils and covers her nose. “You might want to refresh your deodorant, honey. You’re ripe.”
“I am?” I ask, lifting my armpit to sniff. She is absolutely right.
It’s all Mr. Kennedy’s fault. That man makes me sweat-rage.
“It will all be fine,” Nessa comforts, placing a hand on my shoulder. Her round brown eyes are concerned as she watches me go through bad memories of working for him
. Wonder how I’m going to get through this night being in the same room as him.
“I’m fine. I can survive one night. He won’t even talk to me anyway,” I say. I’ve hated people before, but it was always linked to a healthy dose of ambivalence. I usually forget about people I hate, but I haven’t been able to forget Smith Kennedy.
I don’t know what that means and it bugs me.
“Let’s go back out there,” I say. Nessa follows me as we exit the bathroom and sneak to the corner.
Mr. Kennedy is still pacing the perimeter, acknowledging people with a dismissive head nod.
“Did he get better-looking?” I ask.
“Smith has always looked that good,” Nessa says.
“Oh my God, Cassie!” Arlene, another former co-worker, yells when she sees me, and I shush her in response. After she takes me in a bone-crushing hug, Arlene lowers her voice. “Am I supposed to whisper?”
“Mr. Kennedy is over there,” Nessa whispers, and Arlene joins us around the corner. Arlene sat directly across from me in a cubicle as a fellow legal assistant. She’s saved my ass more than once, interpreting Spanish statements and emails and accompanied me to a crying episode in the bathroom numerous times. A good twenty years older than me, Arlene joined Nessa and Vincent as the best parts of Froman, Jones, and Kennedy.
“He’s disgusting,” I say.
Arlene and Nessa stare at me, their eyes calling me out on my bullshit.
Mr. Kennedy is the opposite of disgusting and we all know it. Objectively handsome, he’s six-three, with broad shoulders and a tapered waist. He must have his tailor on retainer since his pants and shirts are always perfectly fitted.
Days-old scruff constantly shadows his jaw, his full lips always pursed in disapproval. His graying hair adds to his sexiness, although he’s only in his early forties. He is a full twelve years older than me, but I knew if I saw him on a dating app without knowing what I know, I would definitely swipe right.
I’ve always had a thing for older men. The more broken, the better.
My taste is why I’m taking an indefinite break from anyone with a penis.
“Why aren’t you going up to the reception?” Arlene asks.
“He’s blocking the elevators,” I say. “Is he waiting for Daniela or something?”
Nessa and Arlene look at each other before looking at me.
“What?”
“Mr. Kennedy got divorced. He announced it about three months after you left,” Arlene says.
I gasp. Then, I’m smiling. Wait, why am I smiling?
His misery is my joy. That’s it.
“What happened?” I ask, leaning in.
“Well,” Arlene says, leaning in closer. Nessa also leans in, turning her head to hear better. “Daniela left him.”
My mouth breaks into a grin.
“Um-hum, that’s what I heard too,” Nessa says. “Poof, she was gone. Vincent saw her out once, and she’s already with a new man. Mr. Kennedy looked so sad for months.”
“I wonder why Vincent didn’t tell me.” I thought we were besties. Shaking my head, I lean in. “Do you know why they broke up?”
“I think someone cheated,” Arlene whispers. “No one knows which one for sure.”
I’ve met Mr. Kennedy’s now ex-wife, Daniela a handful of times. Her olive skin always glowed, and she created her own wind as she glided between the cubicles. Born in Venezuela, she came to the States and met Mr. Kennedy when he was in law school and she was a cocktail waitress at Everdene, a rooftop bar in the Virgin hotel. They always looked so good together. I didn’t know there was trouble in paradise.
“It had to be his fault,” I whisper. “Because men are trash.”
“Oh honey, has it been a while?” Nessa’s patronizing arm wraps around my shoulders, and I roll my eyes.
“I’m happily single,” I say. Although I do miss sex. Badly.
As of this month, I have been single for three glorious years. My wakeup call was when my last boyfriend cheated on me with a woman who attended protests, no matter the topic. He was the last in a long line of cheaters, ghosts, and gaslighters and I had had enough.
The easy answer is no-strings-attached, casual sex, but there’s nothing casual about me. The minute a man looks at me, I catch feelings and I know I can slip back to where I was three years ago.
Chasing men who don’t want me.
The side of Nessa’s mouth quirks. “If you decide to get back out there, I’m sure you can find an admirer from your YouTube comments.”
I roll my eyes. My YouTube channel, Cassie Whispers, has blown up, and I now make a full-time income off of my sponsorships and ad revenue, doing ASMR videos. ASMR stands for autonomous sensory meridian response, a type of sensation that is deeply relaxing or causes tingles in some people.
It was crazy how fast my channel grew, with its impulsive beginnings. One night after three days of unemployment and too many glasses of Pinot Grigio, I filmed a video and uploaded it. The channel is the whole reason I can still afford my stupidly expensive apartment in the city. Being a YouTuber comes with its own sets of challenges, though. Like men offering ten thousand dollars for a pair of my used underwear.
Vincent talked me out of that one.
“That girlfriend video, talk about a thirst trap,” Nessa says. “I was almost asleep when my husband came in and asked me what I was watching.’”
The video of my latest roleplay, “Your Girlfriend Soothes You to Sleep,” has already gotten over three hundred thousand views. I had to turn off the comments. Too many men requesting to smell my hair.
“It’s a sultry video, Cassie,” Arlene says. “I was even blushing.”
Nessa grabs me around my shoulders and loudly says, “Our own Cassie Gallagher, YouTube star. With over five hundred thousand subscribers!”
“Keep your voice down,” I say. Mr. Kennedy still hovers in front of the elevators, looking around. “And it’s seven hundred thousand fifty-two. As of this morning.”
Nessa grabs my arm. “This is stupid. We should politely say hi, go up to the reception, and then avoid him. With cocktails.”
“Fine,” I say as I step closer to Arlene. She says nothing but reaches into her purse and hands me a stick of deodorant. I should be embarrassed, but I’m just grateful.
“Arlene and I will make sure Mr. Kennedy isn’t blocking the elevator. Go freshen up,” Nessa says.
They leave me, and I go into the bathroom again, use Arlene’s deodorant, and drop it into my purse.
“You can do this,” I tell myself in the mirror.
“You can do this,” a woman from a stall yells. “I believe in you!”
“Thanks!” A stranger’s comment will fuel my perseverance through this night. The best support I’ve received from other women always happens in bathrooms.
As I walk into the lobby, I catch movement in my peripheral vision. I turn to see my nemesis, the face I see when I take kickboxing classes with Erin. Mr. Kennedy, his eyes looking everywhere but at me, bobbing on the balls of his feet.
His left hand free of his expensive platinum band.
Looking way too sexy for how shitty his personality is.
“Hi,” he says, his voice like sandpaper. His eyes look anywhere but at mine.
“Hello, Mr. Kennedy,” I choke out the words.
My body can’t be attracted to this terrible man. Lock it down, vagina.
I cross my arms and stare straight at him. This is my chance to say everything from my revenge fantasies. My golden ticket.
He’s not my boss anymore. He’s just an asshole in a really nice suit.
His lips part, a brief escape of air audible. Are his eyes actually blue? Did my bosom just heave?
This is bad. Really bad.
“Gotta go,” I say. I run for the elevator. I press the up button like my life depends on it.
The doors open, and I tumble in, out of breath from running twenty feet. God, I need to hit the gym more often.
I’m sw
eating again as I wait for an arm with a muscular forearm to stop it. The doors close, and I let out a long sigh. I’m free. I have escaped.
Then the doors open again.
Son of a bitch.
Smith looks up, fixing a cufflink like a model in a fucking men’s wear commercial.
He steps in.
“We really need to talk.”
2
“No, we don’t,” I say, stabbing the button for the fifteenth floor.
Only fifteen floors and I can be at this wedding and can avoid him the rest of the night.
I wedge myself in the sharp corner of the elevator car as it climbs. I’ve had Brazilian waxes more comfortable than this.
Mr. Kennedy shoves his hands in his pockets and looks to the ground.
Suddenly, the elevator jerks and then stills.
Did it just stop?
The doors remain closed, and I look up at the number, which flickers between a four and a five.
Are we…stuck?
“How are you?” he asks, completely oblivious to our situation.
Oh, for the love of pig shit. Seriously? He wants to make small talk when I’m pretty sure this elevator has stopped working?
“I’m great, thanks for asking. Are we moving?” I ask, a touch of panic in my voice. My hands press against the sides. The elevator shifts slightly.
“I’m…not sure,” he says.
We both stare at the number, hoping our brain waves will move this elevator.
No such luck.
We are, for sure, stuck.
This is literally my worst nightmare.
You don’t think you’re claustrophobic until you’re stuck in a small space with the worst boss you’ve ever had. A boss who just happens to be hot, and you’ve spent years denying that your body hums every time he gets within feet of you.
Mr. Kennedy reaches for the open door button and tries it.
In Case of Emergency Page 1