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

  Sincerely,

  Ryan G. Moon

  I set my coffee mug down with a snap. My gaze narrowed on the jaunty saying on the side of the cup, a gift from my last secretary right before I’d fired her.

  Lawyers do it in their briefs.

  She’d laughed uproariously upon handing me this item at the company Christmas party. Then she’d pinched my ass. I’d been quite certain she’d dipped into the punch, but I couldn’t have the other employees thinking I’d crossed a line.

  As if I’d willingly have sex with a woman with nails as long as tongue depressors.

  I begun to type again. Forget Ms. Finley. Evidently, Ryan G. Moon and I were meant to communicate solely with each other.

  Ryan G. Moon,

  What do you mean by ‘the likes of me’? If you have formed a bias against me due to Ms. Finley’s description of her workplace, perhaps you would like to seek employment elsewhere. Ms. Finley should also discuss any concerns she may have with me herself rather than through a questionable intermediary.

  With all due respect,

  Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire

  I wasn’t even surprised when the reply came through before I’d managed to finish even half my email to Donald. At this point, the resulting ding was also non-climactic.

  Clearly, my notifications setting had gone as rogue as my obviously displeased assistant.

  To whom it may concern:

  April actually loves her job. I find it hard to believe, since my interactions with lawyers over the years haven’t led to a feeling warmer than luke at best, but she is more generous than I. She has no concerns. I just read between the lines.

  So, have you checked out my resume or what?

  Sincerely,

  Ryan G. Moon

  What kind of feeling was luke? The word lukewarm was not meant to be split as if the first half counted as an adjective on its own.

  I rubbed the knot in my forehead. If this was an example of Ryan’s grammatical skills, I was nearly giddy with anticipation.

  Also, I had forgotten to download Ryan’s résumé. But I had one other salient point to attend to first.

  Ryan G. Moon,

  The word is resumé with the accent mark over the e. Without it, the word is simply resume. Which the dictionary defines as: to take up or go on with again after interruption; continue. Example: to resume a journey.

  Sincerely,

  Preston Michael Shaw, Esquire

  Her response took all of three-point-five minutes.

  To whom it may concern:

  You forgot the accent mark on the first e. It should be résumé.

  Insincerely,

  Ryan G. Moon

  This time, I did not answer her missive. Instead, I summoned Ms. Finley via the phone’s intercom. “My office, please.”

  That please constricted my throat.

  She knocked and appeared in my doorway, without seeming the slightest bit contrite. “Yes?”

  “Sit.”

  She sat. Waited. Blinked innocently.

  “Do you have some rapid-fire system that allows you to forward my emails to your friend in an instant? I’ve never seen anyone reply so quickly.”

  April’s lips twitched. “She’s very conscientious.”

  Now there was no doubting my throat was tight. “She?”

  “Why, yes. Didn’t you realize? Ryan is a woman.” Now she did smile, widely. “She can’t wait to meet you.”

  Two

  “Are you sure you won’t take a kitten?”

  I forced myself to smile for Tracy, one of the head volunteers at Kitten Around, one of our local cat shelters. “You know my lifestyle isn’t conducive to pets, unfortunately.”

  That didn’t seem likely to change.

  It had been four days since April’s surprise vacation announcement and my introduction to Miss Moon—I still hadn’t gotten over the fact she was female, which said something about me I didn’t care to entertain—and subsequent email exchange.

  Since then, April had not decided to cancel her vacation. She hadn’t decided to select another, likely more suitable friend to fill in for her.

  All she’d done was clock out for the week with a jaunty smile, a wave, and a promise to send a postcard. Yippee.

  And Ryan was still coming to work for me on Monday. Assuming she could make it in eventually, since mornings were so iffy and all.

  “I know, since you’re so busy. You have so many high-powered cases. So much responsibility and influence.” Tracy’s smile turned feral at the edges, accompanied by a lot of blinking her clearly faux eyelashes. “No time for a wife either?”

  If I’d had a tie, she might’ve reached out and stroked it. Not the first time from her or others. My tie seemed to be a magnet for wandering female hands. Probably because I tended to wear ones in bright colors that drew the eye.

  I’d pocketed today’s tie on the walk in from my car. I’d had a very long day, and the shelter was about to close. If I’d been thinking sensibly, I would’ve just gone home for a burger on the grill and my requisite single glass of Maker’s Mark every Friday evening. Never two. Always just one, no matter how arduous the week had been.

  Or the year.

  “I don’t date.”

  “Really? Never?”

  “No.”

  She exhaled. “Wow,” she said under her breath.

  Every time, the response was the same. Wide eyes. A hand lifted to the chest. Then sympathy, oozing out around a smile.

  Did you get your heart broken? Poor thing.

  No. You have to have one for it to break.

  In my case, I was fairly certain the fluid in my veins was a mix of ice water and coconut-caramel coffee.

  With what I dealt with day in and day out, who could blame me? Saying I witnessed love gone wrong was putting a positive spin on it. In truth, many of our clients had never loved each other at all. They married for lots of reasons, but affection wasn’t at the top of the list. Or if it had been once, the feeling had dissipated quickly.

  Some said love and hate were opposite sides of the same coin. So were infatuation and love. And it was far too easy to confuse one for the other.

  Before Tracy started the usual spate of questions, I whipped out my platinum card and slapped it on the counter. Her eyes widened for an entirely different reason.

  We’d done this dance before, minus the dating questions. But she’d just started volunteering a few months ago and had been tiptoeing to this point all this time.

  “I’d like to make a donation.” I named a figure ten percent higher than my usual and her throat bobbed. “The wing probably needs improvements.”

  In truth, I didn’t care what they used the donation for. The wing that bore my name was new and they used it to care for the most critical cases. It seemed improbable that it would require anything this soon. But the shelter always needed supplies. Food, medication, incubators for the ill kittens, stuffed mama cats with soothing heartbeats, toys. The list was endless. Donations also went toward the cost of spaying and neutering and vaccines so when they had low-cost adoption events, the kittens were ready to go to their new homes right away.

  “Oh, we appreciate this so much. You have no idea how many kittens you’re helping. How many families will gain treasured pets because of your kindness.” She couldn’t swipe and type fast enough. “We have coffee and donuts,” she added hastily. “Take anything you’d like.”

  Probably leftover from earlier in the day. My mouth watered just the same. I did enjoy the occasional sugary treat, and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. I’d avoided April all week so I hadn’t had much opportunity to be tempted by her lunches.

  That perfectly grilled burger and glass of Scotch would go down smooth.

  I signed the credit card slip and made small talk for a few more minutes before I went out to my Lexus. Slipping behind the wheel into the cool air-conditioned silence normally soothed me. Eased some of the jagged edges of a tedious work week dealing with ira
te spouses and innumerable facets of marital law.

  Add in a good bit of disgust at how humans treated other humans they’d once claimed to care about, and it was no surprise I made no time for relationships.

  I’d wanted to go into entertainment law once upon a time. Preferably on the west coast where the sun never set and winter was rarely any colder than light jacket weather. LA had once lured me, the home of the fascinating world of the music and film industry.

  Instead, I’d ended up working in my father’s firm handling cases where I made more money the more I screwed over the other client. Meanwhile, my carefree younger brother did the bare minimum and lived his own sun-soaked life no matter the season in central New York. Dex never seemed to notice the rain or the cold. In fact, he loved both. Loved every damn thing.

  I was the grump tapping my thumbs on the steering wheel as I sat at a light on another lonely Friday night in my silent, barely driven car. I didn’t have time for leisurely drives anymore. I spent my life shackled to a desk.

  And that was quite enough of my morose thoughts. I was free—for two days at least.

  A short while later, I parked at the end of the long driveway of my home on the outskirts of Crescent Cove. On a clear night, I could see the glimmer of the lake from the second-floor balcony. I had a telescope out there and liked to check out the stars before bed. Sometimes I’d lower the scope and study the flickering lights in homes around the lake, wondering who lived there. What they were doing.

  If anyone was looking out at me.

  Blowing out a breath, I loosened the top couple buttons on my shirt and climbed out to walk up to my big, quiet house, looming in the near darkness with lights glowing against the glass. Every lamp in the place was lit, thanks to timers. I couldn’t stand coming back to a dark place.

  I stepped onto the huge wraparound porch and debated sitting on the swing for a few minutes before heading in. It was a gorgeous August night, with the hint of chill in the air that reminded the summer-weary the sweetness of fall would soon be here.

  And after that, the isolation of a frigid winter. The lake would be a gleam of ice then, deceptively beautiful.

  My stomach growled as I gave the swing one last long look as it drifted in the slight breeze.

  Later, I promised myself.

  Dinner and Scotch first. A shower after that. Then I’d come out here and hope the creak of the swing could drown out my restless thoughts.

  I went inside and poured my drink before heading out to grill on the back half of the porch. Soon, the scent of sizzling meat and vegetables filled the air, and the Scotch settled warmly in my belly.

  Everything seemed a little easier when the edges disappeared.

  When I’d sated my hunger and cleaned the kitchen—God knows I didn’t ever leave a dirty dish behind—I finally found my way to the swing. That shower was sounding better and better, but I needed the crisp breeze against my skin. The air was tinged with a hint of woodsmoke now.

  Finally, I could fully unwind in peace.

  So, why did I pull out my phone and scroll to a document I had deliberately not looked at all week?

  Possibly boredom. Maybe self-destruction. Or my endless desire to prepare for what lay ahead.

  As if I even could.

  There wasn’t much on the page. Three references on the bottom, starting with April Finley. Her name and address on top.

  Ryan Goddess Moon.

  Alone in the darkness, I laughed out loud. I’d wondered if her last name was fictitious before. Now I knew it had to be.

  Or my name was really Preston Lovechild Shaw.

  The apartment she listed was a couple miles from here, closer to Syracuse and just outside Kensington Square, where my office was located. Well, wasn’t that handy?

  Yet April had warned me she probably wouldn’t be on time. How late would she be if she lived farther away?

  Luckily, not my problem. I had enough of them.

  Her job history was sparse. She had some experience at an insurance agency. A brief position as the front desk greeter for some hotel. A few lines about her past as a “curator of crystals and metaphysical goods” for an eclectic shop.

  Currently, she was part of a podcasting duo. But it got even better. Her show was about “exploring your inner earth goddess through Tarot, palmistry, auras, and astrology.”

  The name? Tarot Tramps.

  I laughed again, hard enough my side cramped.

  Then I zeroed in on the cell number listed beneath her address. A quick check of my phone said it was nearing ten pm. Way past a reasonable time for a work-related text.

  Or any sort of text with a woman who’d pissed me off so much with her additional accent mark rejoinder that I hadn’t deigned to reply all week. Mainly because I was impressed. She’d sent volley after volley back at me when normally, people deferred to whatever I said.

  I was used to that treatment. Expected it.

  Ryan Goddess Moon did not give one good crap what I expected.

  I typed in the number and a quick text. The time, the method of delivery, and maybe even the message was inappropriate for a future associate. But she’d inadvertently made me laugh on a night when it seemed out of reach. So, I owed her my kind of thank you.

  PMS: Where did you come up with the name Tarot Tramps?

  I’d grown so used to her rapid-fire email responses that I figured she would text the same way. Then again, it was late in the evening on a Friday.

  Some people had social lives. She might be on a date. With her boyfriend. Or husband.

  My shoulders tightened. So what? I was just asking a simple question. She could respond if and when she chose.

  Which apparently wasn’t right now.

  I jerked the swing into motion and tipped back my head as it creaked and squeaked. It probably needed WD-40 or whatever one did to aging porch swings. I could get someone out here to fix it, but this was my sanctuary. I didn’t want to deal with more people.

  Except, oddly enough, the one I’d just voluntarily texted during my free time. But that was different. She was going to be working for me.

  Sure, I’d demanded her work history and not looked at it for four days. That seemed illogical. Wholly unlike me. As if it hadn’t mattered if she was competent, because she’d intrigued me.

  But I didn’t operate that way. Besides, I’d been busy.

  Right.

  The vibration in my hand broke into my thoughts. I glanced down and swiped to see the full message.

  Miss Moon: Who this?

  This was going to be my assistant for a week? Her command of the English language concerned me. Then again, maybe she was in a hurry. In the middle of…something.

  What I wasn’t going to dwell on.

  PMS: This is Preston Shaw. Your new boss.

  Another delay, this one longer than the last. I tapped my foot while I waited.

  Miss Moon: Did you lose your watch? You’re past business hours.

  PMS: I am, unavoidably so. Are you engaged?

  Miss Moon: Like to be married? Hell no. Why?

  There was no stopping my smirk. Or my sense of relief. Wasn’t going to try to explain that one.

  Some things defied all sense.

  PMS: I meant are you currently engaged in an activity that precludes you from speaking to me.

  Miss Moon: Yes.

  That was it. Just yes. No explanation. No apology. I hadn’t apologized for texting so late either.

  We were just a pair of unapologetic, inappropriate individuals.

  Was that why I’d sought her out tonight? Because I was tired of coloring within the lines, and I could already tell Ryan Goddess Moon did not let anything stop her, let alone rules.

  But apparently, she wasn’t going to talk to me now. And if I was disappointed, I would just turn off my damn phone and go take a shower.

  I certainly wasn’t going to swallow hard when an audio file appeared on my screen some ten minutes later. I still hadn’t moved.
r />   I pressed play and sinuous, sexy music started to play. After about thirty seconds, feminine laughter rolled over the track.

  Hey there, gods and goddesses. It’s time for another episode of the Tarot Tramps. Featuring me, la-la-Luna, and…

  My forearm tensed where it rested on the arm of the swing. Husky laughter joined the lighter, frothier version from la-la-Luna.

  Ryan Moon, goddess of all things creative, sexual and free.

  I wasn’t smirking now. Her voice on the podcast was a seductive tease. Low, deep, with a bit of a rasp as if she’d smoked a full pack of Camels and followed them up with a whisky chaser.

  I pushed a hand through my hair. Shifted on the swing. Wanted to turn off the damn audio because it was getting hot out here and not even the chilly breeze could cool me off.

  How did April think a woman who sounded like this could work for me? It wasn’t right.

  I wasn’t supposed to notice her voice. In fact, I’d felt a hell of a lot more comfortable when Ryan had been a man.

  Or so I’d believed.

  I gripped the back of my neck to keep myself from hitting pause. And possibly setting my phone on fire so I wasn’t tempted to ever listen to this again.

  She continued talking and I found myself leaning toward her voice. Desperate for more even as I knew I should turn it off.

  So, what’s new with you, baby? Tell us all about your new job.

  La-la-Luna—that could not be her real name—laughed and tapped her mic.

  Is this thing on?

  You know it is. Stop stalling.

  Okay, okay, the new job is fab. I forgot how much I liked retail. People are so fun, you know?