His Temporary Assistant: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy (Kensington Square Book 1) Read online

  His Temporary Assistant

  a Grumpy Boss Office Romance

  Taryn Quinn

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  His Temporary Assistant

  © 2021 Taryn Quinn

  Rainbow Rage Publishing

  Cover by Najla Qamber Designs

  Photo by Lindee Robinson Photography

  Models Alyse & David

  All Rights Are Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First ebook edition: March 2021

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  To whom it may concern: I quit.

  Preston Michael Shaw.

  PMS, as I like to call him.

  I don’t need his job. I don’t need his fancy designer suits or his arrogance or his claims that I put a hex on him, because of course a strong, empowered woman needs to put a spell on a man.

  As if I want him.

  Pfft. He should be so lucky.

  I definitely don’t need his irritating demands for caramel-coconut coffee or his fixation on being on time.

  Spoiler—I’m not, ever.

  I certainly don’t appreciate how his touch singes my skin. Literally.

  I need to stop obsessing about him. It’s just hormones.

  One roll in the silk sheets and I’ll be over him.

  But we can’t sleep together until my best friend—his real assistant—comes back from vacation.

  Damn his admirable morals and my flaming panties.

  And now I’ve been cursed, because I can’t resist the hottest, most annoying man I’ve ever known…

  Author’s note: His Temporary Assistant is a standalone office romantic comedy set in our small town Kensington Square, which is near Crescent Cove. It has a happily-ever-after ending and no cliffhanger.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  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

  First Closing Argument

  Epilogue

  Wrong Bed Baby

  Kensington Square

  Crescent Cove

  Taryn Quinn

  Quinn and Elliott

  About Taryn Quinn

  Acknowledgments

  To whom it may concern…Ryan has many typos, but we (and PMS) love her anyway.

  FYI - His Temporary Assistant overlaps with Luna’s story in WRONG BED BABY. So…you know. Spoiler-ish. Though if you know what Crescent Cove is about, you won’t be surprised. *winky face*

  Sometimes we make up fictional places that end up having the same names as actual places. These are our fictional interpretations only. Please grant us leeway if our creative vision isn't true to reality.

  We’ve always had a special place in our hearts for the mystical. Naturally, our favorite place is Salem, MA. We’ve always wanted to play with a little of the other in our world and finally took the leap.

  We hope you love Miss Moon & PMS as much as we did.

  One

  Just when I thought my day—week, month, life—couldn’t get any worse, my assistant said she was taking a vacation.

  In a week.

  Not a year.

  Not a month.

  A week.

  “Look, sir, I’m really sorry. I never expected to get this opportunity. My grandmother was supposed to go to Fiji on her honeymoon, but they broke up, and Biff is taking the Tahoe so she’s taking the vacation.”

  I pressed a fingertip to my aching temple. “Biff? Your grandmother? Fiji?”

  “He’s taking the Tahoe,” my assistant April repeated slowly, leaning forward. Her blond hair fell down around her shoulders, escaping whatever pinned-up thing she’d done in the back. Unless that was the style.

  Must be. April Finley was never anything but perfectly put together.

  Before today, she’d also never been late. Or taken a vacation beyond a standard and reasonable long weekend. She’d called in sick precisely twice and worked from home.

  “We had an agreement.” My voice remained even. “I hired you on the spot approximately eighteen months ago on the condition you realized this was not a position that afforded you—”

  “What, I can’t take some time for myself?” Unlike my own, her voice rose in pitch to match the lifting asymmetrical hem of her dress. Not to indecent levels, mind you, because April was always proper.

  Yet somehow my lack of sleep and brewing tension headache was bringing to mind ocean waters creeping higher on the Titanic.

  The dress was sea blue too. Or hmm, was that more of a blue-green? I never did get why women had so many colors for things.

  Look at my closet. I had black and navy suits. More navy than black because it was less severe for court. My tie collection was more colorful, but I certainly didn’t know the names for the damn shades. Who had time for all that nonsense?

  Not me. I didn’t even have time to complete the work on my plate. I also didn’t have time to further engage in this conversation.

  April was still blathering on about mud masks and self-care and did I realize how long it had been since she’d even slept in?

  No, I could honestly say I didn’t.

  “What exactly does that mean? I rise every day at precisely four.”

  She stopped mid-tirade and stared. “You what—why?” She tapped a glossy pale nail against her mouth. “Actually, that’s better than I assumed. Rising means you sleep.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said under my breath.

  That certainly wasn’t the case this month. My father was on the verge of retirement, which meant we would be looking to hire a new partner soon, and my brother and I were overloaded with work. Well, I was overloaded. Dex was strictly a nine-to-fiver—sometimes a ten-to-twoer if the water looked good. In the winter, he was all about the slopes.

  I wasn’t just talking about skiing. He made just as good use of the lodge as he did the hills. The guy dated more women in a year than I had in my entire life.

  I was too busy working. And that was when I’d had an assistant.

  Dear God, how was I going to get through a week without April? She kept my life running smoothly. Or at least it was less bumpy than it could’ve been without her.

  “You remind me to eat,” I said accusingly.

  She frowned. “No, I don’t. You just saw me with a donut or a sandwich a few times.”

  “Right,
but seeing you with food reminds me I haven’t eaten.”

  “Sir, your growling stomach should do that without my help.”

  As if I paid attention to such physical cues.

  I would soon find out exactly how good I’d had it before.

  Before vacations.

  Before retirements.

  Before I’d succumbed to a life of no meals and no sleep.

  I grunted. “This is not enough notice. How am I supposed to hire a temp in,” I consulted my Apple watch, “six days, eighteen hours and eleven minutes?”

  “I know it’s short notice.”

  “Short? Try miniscule.”

  “But I have the perfect solution.”

  My shoulders unknotted for the first time since she’d walked into my office. “You’ve decided to cancel?”

  April scowled. Until today, I’d never seen anything but a serene, unruffled expression on my assistant’s face. That was one reason I appreciated her so much. She wasn’t prone to mood swings.

  Mood swings were a good part of why I was single. My mother had enough of them to change the weather from across town.

  I didn’t need any additional stress in my life. The calmer a woman was, the better. That went for men too, although that was a different dynamic because I didn’t get naked with them.

  For that matter, I didn’t get naked with women much recently either.

  Moving on.

  “I can’t cancel. My grandmother needs me. She and Biff were together for two years.”

  It took everything I possessed not to give a mock shudder. “I’m grievously sorry for her loss, but why does her misfortune have to become mine?”

  April huffed out a breath. “Biff isn’t dead. Have you been listening at all?”

  “Of course I have.” I adjusted my cuff links. “You’re cruising to Alaska?”

  “Seriously?”

  “Look, I have back-to-back meetings this afternoon.” Normally, at this point in a conversation I did not want to have, I would text my assistant to call me with a made-up appointment. That was hard to do when she was the one seated across from me.

  One more reason I hated unplanned, unnecessary vacations.

  “Not according to your Daytimer.”

  “There were a few last minute additions.”

  “Mmm-hmm. You know, I’m beginning to rethink my backup plan.”

  Hope bloomed inside me like a daisy in spring. “You are?”

  “I always thought you were a fair, equitable boss who didn’t play power games.”

  “I do not. Ever.”

  “You never so much as pinched my ass—rump,” she corrected, thereby putting the image of an ass-rump in my head—luckily, not hers.

  I had never so much as glimpsed her backside. I wasn’t that sort of employer.

  “Of course not.”

  “You don’t take advantage of your position, and you see everyone as equals.”

  I couldn’t help preening. Slightly. “I am careful to do exactly that.”

  “So, naturally, I figured Ryan would be the perfect choice to assist you while I’m away. I would never introduce you to a friend if I didn’t believe you were fair-minded. Some look at having an assistant as an opportunity to lord their elevated status over them.”

  Why did it sound as if she was lecturing me? “I have never done such and I never will.”

  She rose. “Good. It’s settled. Ryan will start for you next Monday at nine. Possibly nine-fifteen. No more than nine-thirty. Mornings are iffy.” She crossed the office to the door. “Oh, and thanks! I’ll bring you back a souvenir.”

  The door clicked shut on my curses.

  I stalked over to the coffeemaker and discovered I was down to five pods—inhumane considering my current level of tension.

  I popped one in the brewer and returned to my desk to stab the intercom button on the phone.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m almost out of coffee. Can you kindly place an order before your vacation?” The question held the same level of wrath as a death threat.

  Preston Michael Shaw was not someone to tangle with without his caffeine.

  “Already taken care of two days ago. Tracking says it should arrive by Monday afternoon. Your preferred flavor of Columbian coconut-caramel was backordered.”

  “Of course.” I had no reason to feel ashamed I enjoyed coconut and caramel. Those were extremely manly flavors.

  And Monday afternoon meant I would have to deal with April’s friend who was “iffy about mornings” without the benefit of my early morning pick-me-up unless I grabbed one on the way in. My own kitchen at home was stocked with an assortment of possibilities that I rarely took time to actually make there, other than my restorative Friday night meal. For the most part, I only used my place to shower and sleep.

  “I actually paid for rushed shipping.”

  “Why, does Ryan enjoy coffee too?” There was no keeping the edge of sarcasm out of my voice.

  “Hardly. Tea is much more Ryan’s speed. Coffee is a dangerous stimulant and can lead to hallucinations.”

  “Such as fantasizing about murdering someone when you don’t have any?”

  “You have five pods left,” April said crisply. “Ration.”

  She hung up before I could reply.

  In the old days before vacation, April never hung up without making sure I had everything I needed. Now she seemed dismissive. Perhaps this was her way of weaning me off the teat of capable assistantship before she took her leave.

  It was hard to imagine Ryan, with his inconsistent start times and love of tea, could measure up.

  Maybe I was being unfairly judgmental. Usually, water seeking its own level was a factor in friendships, but I had no idea if this was a former ex of April’s or someone she merely had an acquaintance with. Many people today called everyone their friend, from the mailman to the barista who made their latte. I was far more selective.

  My old school buddy, Bishop, counted as a close friend. I also had numerous acquaintances. I wasn’t looking to add to the roster.

  I grabbed my coffee from the brewer and disposed of the pod before sitting at my desk. I slipped on my glasses then typed a missive to April.

  Memo: Ryan Moon

  Ms. Finley,

  Upon further reflection, while your effort to provide someone in your stead while you are vacationing is commendable, I need more information before I blindly accept someone into my employ, even temporarily. Does this individual have a CV? A work history? Applicable skills? References? I will need to see these materials before I hire anyone.

  Yours,

  Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire

  Addressing her as Ms. Finley was a bit much, as was signing my full name and using Esquire. I was annoyed on multiple levels and needed an outlet.

  I didn’t believe in gyms—communal sweating had never been my kink—so I’d be going for a nice long run tonight to get out my frustrations. God knows I didn’t have any other healthy outlets, other than playing Mario Kart on my ancient Super Nintendo system.

  Vintage. Not ancient. I needed to learn the lingo so I didn’t sound like someone caught in the past.

  I drank a mouthful of hot coffee and flicked through screens until I came to my notes about one of my biggest cases, Terrance vs. Yorn, a multi-million dollar divorce with drama worthy of Judge Judy. I did not do drama. I also didn’t relish reviewing notes that amounted to little more than a record of personal attacks rather than anything based on legal precedent.

  I had pulled up my email program to dash off another email, this time to Donald Terrance, when said program dinged.

  I frowned. I had turned off all notifications. How had one gotten through?

  The frown grew as the most recent email in my box seemed to loom larger than all of the others. The sender? Ryan Moon.

  Mental note: tell Ms. Finley not to share my email address with outsiders before asking.

  Narrowing my eyes, I clicked it open.

  To w
hom it may concern:

  I have attached my resume. References are at the bottom. The first one is the person who got me this gig.

  Sincerely,

  Ryan G. Moon

  I cocked a brow. Gig? That was a new one.

  Rather than reply to Ryan G. Moon, I opened my email to send another memo to April.

  Ms. Finley,

  I just received correspondence from one Ryan G. Moon. Kindly do not share my email with strangers in the future. Also, did you make clear what sort of position this is? Your friend referred to it as a “gig.”

  Yours,

  Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire

  I’d barely hit send and sat back to drink smugly from my rapidly disappearing coffee when my email dinged.

  Yet again it had bypassed my no notifications setting. How was this happening? I did not want unanticipated noises interrupting my blessed silence.

  To whom it may concern:

  I am well aware what kind of position this is, as April (Ms. Finley to you) has told me all about her job many, many times. I am also well-versed in the likes of you.