Cover Design: LJ Anderson, Mayhem Cover Creations
Release Day: May 9, 2016
Synopsis
Starr Media Second-Assistant
Survival Guide
1. Don't call your hot boss the
antichrist to his face
2. Don't stare at hot boss's, um,
package or his full sleeve of tattoos. (No. Really. Stop!)
3. Don't get on the malicious first
assistant's bad side.
4. Don't forget to memorize the
300-page employee manual.
5. If you value your cashmere,
steer clear of boss’s dog.
6. Boss’s dimples are
lust-inducing. Do. Not. Give. In.
7. “The elevator ate your clothes”
is not a valid excuse for showing up to important meetings half dressed.
8. Don't break seven of the rules within the first week of
employment if you, ya know, are in dire need of money to support your sick mom.
9. Whatever you do, don’t fall for
the boss. See rule eight about sick mom.
10. Never forget the rules.
http://bit.ly/22sOoIE
Purchase Link
Giveaway
Signed paperbacks of Unethical & Foolproof
Excerpt
I sat down at the table and
unwrapped the Panini and frowned. Breadsticks would have hit the spot.
Although, no amount of breadsticks was worth giving up a steady income, not
even Luigi’s. Still, I gave a spiteful glare to my sandwich.
Just in time to take me out of my
garlic grieving, someone walked into the break room. The first thing I noticed
was his hair. You could tell a lot about someone based off the length and
style. And the clean-cut, lightly-styled golden brown hair that the guy in the
plain black tee sported spoke volumes. It said “I look like I’m not trying too
hard, but I carefully crafted this look of perfection for at least fifteen
minutes this morning.”
The second thing I noticed was this
guy should be reamed for violating the dress code policy. Not that I was
complaining—because, really, those tatted biceps deserved to be on full display
at all times.
I mentally catalogued everyone I’d
spotted during Jackson’s drive-by office tour. He most definitely wasn’t part
of that whirlwind of name-drops, because I’d remember those high cheekbones.
And those tattoos. His arms were covered from each wrist with intricate
markings, disappearing under the sleeve of his T-shirt. Some were words, some
were pictures I couldn’t quite piece together without creepily staring at him.
Decidedly, all were hot as hell.
He smiled at me and walked over to
the water cooler. He procured a teabag from his pocket, plopped it into his
black coffee mug, and filled it with water. The glug glug glug of the
cooler cut through the silence, and I quickly swallowed my bite of turkey
sandwich, preparing myself for if this guy wanted to talk—unlike the last five
people who took one look into the break room, saw evidence of human life, and
booked it to the elevator before I could even manage a hello. For people
working at a social media agency, they were oddly…antisocial.
“You’re new here.” It was a
statement. One that held the suggestion that this happened more often than my
purchases from ShoeBinge.com. I’d deleted the app from my phone the minute I
learned Mom’s diagnosis a month ago and was still thinking about those
rhinestone heels.
“Second day.” I smiled. Finally.
Someone to talk to. Besides Jackson and his awesome ability to give the evil
eye over his computer screen.
“How are you liking it so far?” The
muscles in his bicep bunched together as he took a sip of his tea. Ovaries,
meet arm porn, your new best friend.
I folded the wax paper of my
sandwich wrapper in half and creased the seam with my thumb. “It’s been nice. I
made it through the employee manual…finally.”
“Learn anything good?”
I looked up from the wrapper and
eyed him. “You’re breaking the dress code in at least two ways.”
He looked down at his clothes and
then back at me, smiling. Two dimples indented his cheeks, and I realized how
incredibly unfair it was that someone could be that gorgeous and not airbrushed
by professionals in a magazine.
“Guess I am.”
“You’ve met the boss. What’s he
like? Uptight like that rule book?”
His lips tipped up in one corner as
he regarded me with his piercing brown eyes. “I don’t know if uptight would be
my first choice.”
I chuckled. “Really? I hear he’s
called the Antichrist.”
His brows rose. “Oh, really. That
one’s new to me.”
“Huh.” I fiddled with the wrapper.
“Jackson said it was a pretty well-known nickname around the office.” Maybe the
guy worked in a different department than everyone else. Heck, he was a lot
nicer than all the other employees I’d (not) talked to yesterday and today.
He let out a loud laugh that echoed
throughout the break room. “Very interesting. Thanks for the heads up.” He
grabbed the string to the tea bag and absentmindedly dunked it in the water.
Veins corded deliciously up his arms and my brain went into zombie mode. Except
instead of my inner monologue chanting must eat brains, it was must
touch veeeeeeeins. “What’s your name?” he asked, bringing me out of
my stupor.
I cleared my throat, heat tingeing
my cheeks. “Lainey Taylor. Newly appointed second assistant to the Antichrist.”
Mr. Dimples mashed his lips
together, and I couldn’t tell if the glint in his eyes was because he was
amused or slightly annoyed. Maybe a bit of both. Great, I guess I was back to
square one with making friends here. He backed toward the door and leaned
against the frame. Really odd. Where I came from, people tended to give their
name after someone else introduced themselves. This guy? Nada. I doubted 200
exits up the I-5 corridor were enough to see a shift in social customs.
He bit down on his full bottom lip
and looked like he was really enjoying this awkward silence that had me
squirming in my seat. I balled up the sandwich wrapper just to give my hands
something to do. Really, these people needed to work on their social skills.
Where was the welcoming committee? Mental note: start welcome committee if one
doesn’t exist.
“It’s really nice meeting you,
Lainey,” he said.
He put his hand on the doorframe,
and just before he left the room, I called, “Do I get your name?”
“You can call me the Antichrist.”
And with that, he breezed out into the hallway and disappeared into his office.
My heart screeched to a halt, and
that turkey Panini turned to a solid brick in the bottom of my stomach.
Shit.
About the Author
Jennifer Blackwood is an English
teacher and contemporary romance author. She lives in Oregon with her husband,
son, and poorly behaved black lab puppy. She is the author of The Drexler
University series, the Rule Breaker series (May 2016 and Jan 2017) and an
upcoming Brazen series (July 2016 and early 2017)
Connect with Jennifer
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