Office Fling (Manhattan Bad Boys BWWM Interracial Romance) Read online

  Office Fling

  Simone Rivers

  https://www.simonerivers.com

  Copyright © 2019 by Simone Rivers

  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.

  Contents

  1. Ashton

  2. Emily

  3. Ashton

  4. Emily

  5. Ashton

  6. Emily

  7. Ashton

  8. Emily

  9. Ashton

  10. Emily

  11. Ashton

  12. Emily

  13. Ashton

  14. Emily

  15. Ashton

  16. Emily

  17. Ashton

  18. Emily

  19. Ashton

  20. Emily

  21. Emily

  22. Ashton

  23. Emily

  24. Ashton

  25. Emily

  26. Ashton

  27. Emily

  28. Ashton

  29. Emily

  30. Ashton

  31. Jade

  Also by Simone Rivers

  1

  Ashton

  “Not a scratch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Throwing my keys at the valet, I run my fingers down the length of my tie, smoothing down the fabric. A steady flow of people climb up the stairs leading to the building’s main entrance, cocktail dresses and sharply-tailored suits as far as the eye can see. The sound of laughter wafts out from the inside, and I can even hear the sound of champagne bottles being popped open.

  Sighing, I glance at my wristwatch.

  This is a waste of time.

  It can’t he helped, though. Now that Broadstreet Investments has finally turned the New York pension fund contract into a reality, the guys insist on a celebration. I get it. After weeks of protest about handing pension fund money over to three Navy SEALs, it’s only expected that the guys would want to down their weight in champagne and celebrate a hard-earned victory.

  Me? I don’t do celebrations.

  The work’s never over, after all. I might drink a celebratory whisky on my own after a major win, but I don’t dwell on it. There’s always some new battle to be fought, some new enemy to be crushed, and I immediately set my sights on new targets once I’m done. That’s how winning is done.

  For a moment, I think of skipping the whole thing and heading back to the office: I could just grab my Aston back and be back at work in under twenty minutes. With some luck, no one would even notice I was missing.

  “Yeah, right,” I mutter under my breath. As much as I hate corporate functions, I owe it to the guys to be here. Tristan, Chase and Derek have always trusted me to deliver the goods, and they went to bat for me when my law firm wanted to replace me as their counsel. The least I can do is be here for them.

  Stepping into the lobby, I’m immediately directed to the hall where the party is taking place. Waiters waltz through the large room in their penguin suits, balancing platters on their hands, and people whisk out the champagne flutes as they go. Buffet tables have been placed against the far wall, and I don’t even need to see them up close to know they’ll be filled with expensive caviar, truffles, and fashionable sushi rolls.

  “Isn’t that Ashton Deveaux?” I hear someone say to my right, and I glance to the side to see a group of four women talking in hushed tones. They’re wearing skimpy cocktail dresses, all of them so bright the women look like neon billboards, and their fake breasts are straining against the fabric so much I wouldn’t be too surprised to see them pop like balloons.

  One of the women smile at me as she notices me looking, but I just ignore her. As much as I enjoy being polite, I don’t want to give any of them an open invitation for a chat. I’d rather be left alone than have to spend the night talking with vapid twenty-year-somethings whose panties instantly melt the moment they come across someone like me. I didn’t mind the attention when I was younger, a no-name someone trying to make his way to the top, but I quickly learned that long legs, easy smiles, and fake breasts are nothing but a distraction.

  Scanning the room, I immediately spot the long bar that has been set up at the end of the room, near the buffet tables. I make my way toward it, politely smiling and shaking hands as the movers and shakers of New York struggle to get my attention.

  “Macallan, neat,” I tell the bartender as I lean against the counter. Dutifully, he picks the bottle up from the shelves behind me and starts pouring some into the glass. “Actually, make it a double.” It’s Tristan’s firm who’s paying for this, so I might as well indulge myself.

  I take a small sip, enjoying the way the scotch burns its way down my throat, and then I scan the room once more. I spot Tristan in the center, hogging all the attention. The asshole in charge of Broadstreet Investments, he sure knows how to perform when the spotlight’s on him. To his side is Isabel, the gorgeous actress he somehow managed to seduce. His hand rests on her lower back and, each five seconds or so, he glances at her in a kind and sweet way.

  It’s actually quite endearing to see.

  And weird, too.

  Tristan has spent most of his life swimming in a deep, flowing river of pussy, and I never really thought there’d be a woman who’d make him want to come ashore. But here he is now, mad over heels with Isabel. And thank God for that. He’s become a more mature version of himself, and that has allowed Broadstreet Investments to solidify its presence in the market. God knows where they’d be at if Tristan kept on acting like a loose cannon.

  The same can be said of the other two, Chase and Derek.

  It’s a miracle these three managed to gain a foothold in the cutthroat world of hedge funds. Before they decided to settle down, they were too trigger-happy and had egos so big they were probably renting storage space for them in Queens. Now, though, the women in their lives have shaped them up into men I can work with.

  Sometimes I wonder how it would be to have a woman like that in my life. It’d be nice, I figure, but I don’t really need it. Unlike the Broadstreet mavericks, I know how to keep my head above my shoulders at all times. In my case, a woman would be nothing but a distraction. And distractions are something I can’t afford.

  “Mr. Deveaux, I believe?” I hear a smooth voice say right beside me, and I turn to see a voluptuous woman leaning against the counter. Her blonde hair falls down her shoulders in waves, the bangs on her forehead somehow making her expression a welcoming one. She’s wearing a tight white dress, no bra underneath it, and my eyes are immediately drawn to the perfect round curves of her breasts.

  “That’d be me.”

  “Nice to make your acquaintance,” she purrs, offering me her hand. I take it in mine, as politely as I can, and feel her brush her fingers against the palm of my hand. “Did you come here all by yourself?”

  “I have.”

  “Not feeling talkative?” She chuckles softly, running her thumb across the rim of her martini glass. Without taking her eyes off mine, she then drags her teeth over her bottom lip. Sigh. Have women forgotten all about the art of subtlety?

  “Sorry. I’m actually waiting for someone,” I tell her, watching from the corner of my eye as Tristan makes his way toward me. “But it was nice meeting you.”

  “Fair enough,” she laughs. Grabbing her lipstick from inside her tiny purse, she grabs a folded napkin and scribbles her phone number on it. “In case you’re feeling lonely to
night.”

  “What was that about?” Tristan laughs, slapping my back the moment he gets close to me. “Don’t tell me Ashton ‘Lonewolf’ Deveaux is on the prowl tonight.”

  “Not really.” I shrug, reaching for the napkin and scrunching it up. Taking aim at the waste basket behind the counter, I make my throw. Three points.

  “Jesus,” Tristan sighs disapprovingly. “Get me some of what he’s having,” he tells the bartender, then rests both elbows on the counter and turns to me. “You really should start living a little, you know? That chick you just turned down is a Victoria’s Secret model.”

  “So?”

  “Didn’t your parents have the ‘birds and bees’ conversation with you?” He laughs, drinking half of his whisky in a single gulp. “It’s not hard, man, you just have to stick your—”

  “Seriously?”

  “We’ve all started somewhere,” he laughs. “Maybe you just need a little mentoring.”

  “Seriously, Tristan, you keep on needling me about my lack of dates and I’m going to double your retainer,” I say, and he just offers me a smug grin. At least it quieted him down.

  Truth be told, I’ve had my fair share of ‘living it up’ and ‘dating around’, and I know exactly what needs to be done when I’m between the sheets. I’ve just grown tired of wasting my time. You don’t get to be a partner at the largest corporate law office in America by wasting your time like an idiot, after all. In fact, you don’t get anywhere that matters if you don’t value your time.

  I’ve learned that lesson a long time ago, when I was just a kid living in a one room shack in the Everglades. I dreamt of being the best, of a life at the top where the air was so rarified few could survive. And although some are quick to pat me on the back for the things I’ve done, I know I haven’t reached the top just yet.

  I want more.

  I have a hundred dollar bill for every drop of blood, sweat, and tears I’ve shed along the way, and I’ve just gotten started. Why would I need a woman to distract me from my objectives? I want to be a king, and kings...rule alone. What if I don’t understand people very well? What if I’m not good at parties and large gatherings? I don’t care. The only thing I need to understand is the law, and the only place where I need to be good at is the courtroom or the boardroom. All else is noise.

  “Gimme a minute, will ya?” Tristan says suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he looks down at his phone. “I need to take this call.” He moves to the side, phone pressed against his ear, and that’s when I see the blonde model from before sashaying her way back to me.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t left the bar yet,” she chuckles. She stands before me, another full martini in her hands, and I just let out a sigh and focus on my drink.

  “Listen,” I start, “I don’t mean to be rude but—”

  “Ashton,” Tristan says, cutting me short as he lays one hand on my shoulder. “You have to come with me.” His face is a mask of worry and concern, and I immediately forget all about the woman beside me. Who cares about a model when there might be a crisis right around the corner? A crisis that might be another stepping stone for my career?

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got a problem,” Tristan says. “A big fucking problem.”

  2

  Emily

  I always try to leave the majority of my work at the office, and this sleepy evening in my apartment is no different. At the office I breeze through the halls, always in a hurry to get to the next place. There is always some background chatter: a coworker to check in with, an elbow to be rubbed.

  Here it's different.

  I’m lounging on a dark, plush sectional, looking out over a view of the city. It may be busy out there on the streets, but in here it's serene. The only sounds are the wine swirling in my glass, and the soft snores of Jade in my lap.

  There’s nothing to distract me, save a few press releases. However, that’s work I can do while Jade sleeps.

  We’re curled up in the corner of the sectional. A crocheted throw is draped over the couch, within a hand’s reach if either of us get too cold. My legs are tucked under me while Jade’s head rests gently on my thigh. My lips curl upward as I spot an errant streak of flour on her cheek. Leaning down, I rub it away. She must have been in the kitchen again, playing amateur baker; at this rate, she won’t remain an amateur for long. At nine years old, she can already out-cook me. Even more so when it comes to desserts. Thank goodness for take-out.

  She may have to clean up her act a bit before she's allowed her very own kitchen, though. My hand hovers over her hair, a wild briar of tangles. I begin to gently work over the small knots, careful not to wake her.

  I put my glass of pinot down on the end table to free up my fingers. Then I smooth over Jade's hair one last time before settling down to read. My newly freed hands soon find the press releases for the day.

  I enjoy unwinding at the end of the day with something physical to read. Even if it is technically work, it at least feels concrete, like I’m unplugged from technology. Midway through the first sentence of the press release, my phone chirps from the kitchen. So much for being unplugged.

  I cringe at the sound. The kitchen is halfway across the house, and I’m buried under the dead weight of my passed out daughter. I carefully put a hand under her head, using it as a cradle to keep her steady, I slip my legs out from underneath her. My other hand grasps for a pillow. I need something to replace me, to keep her head propped up so that she stays asleep. Not that the ringing phone is helping.

  Once the pillow is in place, I pull the afghan down over her. Then I tiptoe into the kitchen.

  I mutter a half-curse under my breath, followed by a prayer that Jade stays asleep: if she can't sleep, I won't be able to sleep. I reach the kitchen, but right on cue, my phone stops its shrill beeps. Swiping my unlock code, I wonder who would call me after 8pm in the evening.

  It’s Ashton.

  The words ‘missed call’ hang at the top of my screen. I swipe the message away. Of course he didn’t leave a voicemail. He never leaves messages.

  He just assumes that everyone is available to tend to his needs, no matter the hour. Unfortunately for him, after 6pm, the only person I focus on is Jade. I prefer to keep it that way.

  It’s not a personal vendetta, it’s just how I separate my work and home life. Ashton may frustrate me, but I admire his work ethic. It isn’t a far stretch to say he’s the best performer at the firm. While I’m at work, I try to match him stride for stride. I’ve found the best way to impress my colleagues is to overcome Ashton’s records.

  It’s a competition.

  The only way to prove myself is by knocking him down a peg. This isn’t work though. I shake my head as I look away from the phone, trying to dislodge the thoughts of the firm from my mind. I’m at home, my daughter needs me. I refuse to call him back. Not tonight.

  I bring the phone with me into the living room, carefully navigating my surroundings. I round the coffee table, putting my phone face up on its end by my wine. After which, I straighten my press releases before putting them over the armrest of the couch. Sneaking past Jade is the hardest part. I settle into the chaise.

  My legs stretch across its length before I begin to readjust her position. I move the pillow out from under her, pulling her back onto my lap. All while making sure the blanket is still draped over her. We’re back to our quiet evening, curled up and relaxed.

  Jade suddenly flinches in her sleep. My hand weaves its way into her hair. I rub her scalp with my fingers, before combing them through her locks. I always enjoy playing with her hair while I relax. My mother did it for me as a child. Not to forget how much it helps Jade remain asleep. She’s had a rough time sleeping through the night ever since the car crash... From warm milk to chamomile tea, I do whatever I can to help.

  Soundly at peace, I pat her head. My wine and press releases wait for me. I take a sip, starting to read again.

  I begin to get lost in my s
urroundings, our breath in sync. Words swim across my eyes. I’m fighting to stay awake. As I pour over the latest briefing, notes of honeysuckle and pear linger on my tongue.

  Abruptly, the trance is shattered. A high-pitched beep explodes around the room. I stretch over to collect my phone. It’s Ashton again.

  My eyes roll. I turn the volume down until my phone stops buzzing in my hand. I shuffle my papers before settling them back on the coffee table. Whatever he wants, it can wait. If it isn’t important enough for him to leave a voicemail, it isn’t important, period. The damage has been done though, as Jade stirs. She fusses in her sleep before her big eyes slowly blink at me.

  “Mom, what’s going on?” Jade yawns.

  “Nothing, sweetheart. It’s late, let's get you to bed.”

  I heave her up in my arms, cocooned tightly in the blanket. Soon her half-sentences and murmurs fade to nothing. I rock her while we walk to her room. I step around discarded toys and books, left out from earlier play, and smile as I see the unmade bed. We need to have a talk about chores. Seriously. But this time, the cast aside blankets are a blessing.

  I lay her down in bed, before kneeling beside her; my hands busily drag the comforter to her chin. She wiggles her way into the covers as I pet her hair. I hum a lullaby. Immediately she snuggles against her pillow, hugging it close. Once her face relaxes, her breaths give way to snores.

  Content that she’s happy, I plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. As I leave, I make sure to ease the door closed until only a crack remains. The nightlight she uses softly illuminates her sleeping face. I can only hope she’ll sleep soundly tonight.