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  Stud is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept Ebook Original

  Copyright © 2017 by Jamie S. Kleinkauf-Schmidt

  Excerpt from Hard Cover by Jamie K. Schmidt copyright © 2017 by Jamie S. Kleinkauf-Schmidt

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Hard Cover by Jamie K. Schmidt. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399594045

  Cover design: Okay Creations

  Cover illustration: Cara-Foto/Shutterstock

  randomhousebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1: Terri

  Chapter 2: Mick

  Chapter 3: Terri

  Chapter 4: Terri

  Chapter 5: Mick

  Chapter 6: Terri

  Chapter 7: Terri

  Chapter 8: Mick

  Chapter 9: Terri

  Chapter 10: Terri

  Chapter 11: Mick

  Chapter 12: Terri

  Chapter 13: Terri

  Chapter 14: Mick

  Chapter 15: Terri

  Chapter 16: Mick

  Chapter 17: Terri

  Chapter 18: Terri

  Chapter 19: Mick

  Chapter 20: Terri

  Chapter 21: Mick

  Chapter 22: Terri

  Chapter 23: Mick

  Epilogue: Terri

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Jamie K. Schmidt

  About the Author

  Excerpt from Hard Cover

  Chapter 1

  Terri

  8:57 A.M.

  Like clockwork. I wonder if his chauffeur gets disciplined if he’s ever off by a minute. How the heck can you even plan that with Manhattan traffic?

  I hate Mondays. If I was the Queen of the World, I’d declare them part of the weekend. Although, Tuesday would step up to be a suckfest in that case. This Monday was no different. I was tired, bored, and irritable. The only thing keeping me going is the smell of coffee and that the customers haven’t pissed me off yet.

  That’s about to change.

  Here he comes, walking into the place like he owned it. Maybe he did. That would explain why Elaine practically got on her knees for him. Sure, he was a regular customer, but a seven-dollar coffee every morning didn’t warrant the subservience she gave him.

  I almost got fired my first day because this jackhole refused to get off his phone to place his order. When he snapped his fingers at me and waved them in my face, I did it right back to him. His expression had been worth it.

  What hadn’t been worth it? Listening to Elaine shrieking about how she had given me flexible hours against her better judgment and this was how I repaid her? Mr. Wentworth was a very important person and baristas like me were a dime a dozen. Of course, Elaine gave him a free blueberry muffin for the affront—and made me pay for it out of my tips.

  I hate this job. But I needed something to pay the bills while I looked for another ad agency that would let me telecommute or work really flexible hours.

  I love coffee, and slinging lattes isn’t so bad. But I didn’t go to four years of evil marketing school so I could tamp ground espresso beans and refill the creamers. I sighed. I was here because of Billy. My brother needed me more than I needed my dream job on Madison Avenue that I’d had to quit.

  Still, it was hard to be treated like a non-person just because I worked at a register.

  Mr. Wentworth, VIP and SOB, wore a charcoal gray suit today with crisp lines that wouldn’t dare wrinkle. A honker of a diamond shone in his ear, and I tried not to roll my eyes. On anyone else it would make them look like a hipster douche, but on him it somehow worked. It sparkled in the fluorescent lights of the coffee shop and distracted me. That tiny piece of jewelry would probably pay for Billy’s medical bills, at least for this year. I tamped down the envy along with the coffee grounds.

  Mr. Wentworth was a big guy, like he tossed weights around in his spare time, but he smelled like he just stepped out of the shower. The hint of sandalwood made my nose twitch and the underlying scent of leather made me a little wet. What can I say? I like good cologne. We did this dance every time I worked a day shift for the past five months. We’d glare at each other until our eyes started roaming all over each other’s bodies and then we’d eye fuck each other until he turned to leave. It was the best sex I’ve had all year. Granted, I don’t get out much.

  He’d shaved this morning. My fingers itched to either slap him or caress his smooth cheek. Saturday night, his face had been shaggy and he had two beautiful women cuddled next to him, one in each arm. I bet they weren’t working today this early in the morning. I hadn’t been invited to the ultra-cool party with the lobster hors d’oeuvres and the hundred-dollar bottles of champagne. I had been the waitstaff. It was an easy C-note under the table, plus tips. I even got to sample the bubbly.

  Pissed me off, though, that he hadn’t even acknowledged me when he first saw me. He had looked right at me, given me a slow once-over that curled my toes, and then went back to his conversation. He definitely had recognized me. Would it have killed him to say hello?

  Snob.

  I should have tossed the tray of champagne all over him.

  Instead, I spent the entire evening watching him. It wasn’t a hardship. He was eye candy, in the way he moved and smiled. I had passed by him several times just so I could smell that cologne and finally hear what his voice sounded like.

  It had been worth the wait. His rough, low grumble of a laugh had made me stumble, but I managed not to drop the tray of beer bottles and empty glasses. On my next pass, his hazel eyes had been glassy as he pretended to listen to the woman hanging on him chattering about some dude named Rory who was trying to shut down a bookstore. Sounded like another rich dickhead. Maybe there was a club for them.

  Mr. Wentworth’s eyes had narrowed on me when I offered chatty Cathy some foie gras. I had lifted my chin and dared him to acknowledge me, but he just popped an appetizer in his mouth and fucked me with his eyes.

  I wished I hadn’t liked it so much.

  I made it a point to brush against him two more times, still daring him to say something to me. But while he leaned into my body both times, he didn’t say a word. And as far as I could tell, I was the only one getting hot and bothered by the contact.

  I don’t know why I torture myself, but I really want to get into his Armani pants.

  He had started the night off wearing an expensive three-piece suit. But by the end of it, the jacket and tie had been tossed aside and his pristine white shirt had been rolled up to show off a sexy tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm.

  I wish I had the balls to ask him about it. He didn’t seem the tattoo type.

  I did finally find out that his first name was Mick, because the girlies this weekend cooed it at him.

  “Oh, Mick!”

  “Mick, you’re so funny!”

  “Mick, can you get me a drink?”

  I handed him a glass full of pink champagne before he could even respond to her. What can I say? He had me trained. That and if he fucking snapped his fingers at me, I would have emptied the tray over his head.

  Of
course, one of the girls hanging around him didn’t say anything. She had flung herself at him with a focused determination that I had to admire. After watching her rub her breasts up and down his arm and grind her ass into his crotch when she thought no one was looking, I saw that Mick took her back into the VIP lounge area where she had slipped under the table with practiced ease. He caught me watching him, and smirked at me as if to say, What are you going to do about it?

  I had tanked a glass of champagne and given him back the same look.

  He had thrown his head back and laughed. And then the smile wiped from his face and the look he gave me could have melted the titanium in my belly button ring. His jaw had tightened. His nostrils had flared and then his body jerked. I almost dropped my tray. Then, some bigwig from one of the radio stations stepped in between us and I didn’t get to see anything else. My face must have been bright red and I had been a little unsteady on my feet. It had been pretty hot to watch him, and of course my imagination had to wonder if he’d look like that if he pressed me up against the wall and took care of the irritating tingles between my legs.

  I didn’t want to be attracted to him. Mick Wentworth was an entitled jerk who, in addition to getting a public blow job that night, left with two of the three other women he was kissing on Saturday night.

  What did I do on Saturday night? After cleaning up the party, I soaked my aching feet in the tub until my whole body resembled a raisin. Then, I wore out the batteries in my vibrator reading erotic romances on my Nook. On Sunday, while he was probably sleeping in late and going to brunch, I did laundry and paid bills before heading over to my call center job. I also worked part-time taking orders for that cheap shit those infomercials hawked until you felt you couldn’t live without them. After work, I played a videogame with my brother until I fell asleep.

  Life wasn’t fair.

  It was even worse on a Monday.

  Mick walked to the front of the line, ignoring a woman squinting at the menu above my head and a man fumbling for his loyalty card.

  I held out the large, iced decaf, soy milk and sugar with extra whip because I hated it when he snapped his fingers at me for it when I was too slow.

  I hated it almost as much as the pussy drink itself.

  He should be drinking a black, dark roast to match his soul. Mick’s eyes dipped to my chest, like they always did. I didn’t react. So, he liked boobs. A lot of men did. No other reaction. Not even a conspiratorial wink to acknowledge that I watched him get off on Saturday night.

  “Have a nice day…Mick.”

  Frowning, he tossed me a ten like he always did. Then without a word, he turned around and walked away. I stuffed the change in my tip jar and tried not to stare at his ass on the way out.

  “Did I miss Mr. Wentworth?” Elaine said, bustling out of the back room with an armful of cups.

  I glanced at the clock. Nine a.m. Right on schedule.

  Chapter 2

  Mick

  I placed Janet’s coffee on her desk, pretending to be on a call so I didn’t have to talk to her. I didn’t have time to be nice. She tried to get my attention, but I couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t care about her weekend. I didn’t want to tell her about mine, which involved fantasies about the mouthy coffee girl being bent over my desk. Then, I opened my door and saw my younger brother sitting in my chair.

  I glared over my shoulder at my secretary. Janet could have tried harder to warn me. She shrugged, and sipped that ridiculous drink.

  “Where’s my coffee?” Simon swiveled in my chair, twirling around in it like he was a five-year-old.

  “Have you checked your office?” I closed the door so Janet wouldn’t be able to hear us if this got ugly—unless, of course, it got really ugly and I threw him through the door. That might be a nice way of starting the week, especially since the busty barista with the mouth made for sin wasn’t here to call me Mick again. Or moan it when I fingered her. Or scream it when I…I didn’t even know her name. Elaine should make her employees wear name tags.

  I pulled my attention to the here and now. Simon wanted something and I wanted him out of my office. “Why are you here?”

  Simon pouted. “You took my favorite secretary away.”

  Like Janet was one of his toys that he left lying around the playroom.

  “Yeah, after you knocked her up.”

  “I didn’t.” He straightened in the chair, his eyes darting around nervously. Was he afraid his wife had my office bugged? “Is that what that bitch said?” Simon glared at the door.

  “Get up.” I tossed my briefcase at him and he tried to scramble out of the way. It hit him square in the chest and then fell to the floor with a thump. The lock on the case opened and my papers spilled onto the floor.

  I sighed. At least my laptop hadn’t been in it. Flopping into my chair, I took a look around. It was obvious Simon had been snooping around and equally obvious he didn’t find anything.

  Do I look like an amateur, motherfucker?

  “I can’t believe you dropped the dime on Dad,” Simon said, heading straight for the bar in the corner of my office.

  I don’t tell him it was nine-thirty in the morning. Just like I didn’t tell him that the good stuff was in the locked cabinet. He poured himself a large glass of the whiskey I give to the clients I don’t like.

  “No one drops a dime anymore.” I reluctantly reached down to grab the receipts I needed to turn in. Stuffing the rest of the mess back into my case, I slammed it shut and leaned it against my desk. “It’s more like a quarter and in this day and age, if I was trying to covertly call in a tip that would lead to an arrest, I’d use a burner phone.” I turned on my computer and, after making sure Simon wasn’t looking, typed in my password. I should have left it at that, but some stupid part of me that wanted to explain myself forced the next words out. “I gave Dad two weeks to make it right. I offered him a payment plan.”

  “Only if he resigned.” Simon slung back the whiskey. It was amusing to watch him try to keep a straight face as the rotgut burned its way down his throat. “He’s the CEO of this company.”

  “He was stealing.”

  “It’s his company, Mick.”

  “No, Simon. It’s our company.” Or at least it should be. Everyone aside from me in this family was doing their damnedest to see it crash and burn. They were waiting to file bankruptcy to get the creditors off their backs and then start up with another company. I looked at my grandfather’s picture on the wall and shook my head. Papa had tried to warn me away, but the Wentworth Agency had been his life. And since my own father didn’t give a damn about anything but himself, I grew up with Papa and this company. I had to force my hand to unclench. This was old news.

  “Mom spent the entire weekend crying.”

  I shrugged. She had been pissed off when I left her on Friday night. I wore her freaking handprint on my face for a few hours. “They took him away quietly,” I said. “I made sure the press stayed away from the house. He embezzled close to a million dollars.”

  “Maybe he spent that on gifts for us?” Simon sneered.

  I smirked. “More likely he spent it on his mistresses and exotic vacations.” Because he sure as hell didn’t have any of it left. “Why are you in my office? You’re not stealing too, are you?” I was only half serious with the question.

  “Christ, Mick. No.”

  He didn’t convince me. I made a note to go over his accounts with a fine-tooth comb later.

  “It’s about Mom,” Simon said, his eyes casting low and to the left. “She’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

  Shit.

  I tried to ignore the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “Her assistant, Jackson? Filed sexual harassment charges against her. Said she told him that massages were a part of his duties. And she might have sent him to the store to buy…” Simon coughed and turned beet red. “Lingerie and stuff.”

  There was not enough brain bleach in the world for me to even conside
r what the “and stuff” was.

  “She says she was just kidding and that Jackson is blowing it all out of proportion. It’s not like she actually put her hands on him, you know.”

  Or got a secretary pregnant.

  I pinched the bridge of my nose, hoping to stave off the headache. I was going to have to fire my mother the week after I sent my father to prison. Ashton Kutcher had to be hiding in the john waiting to bust out and tell me I was being punked. It was only by a sheer miracle that Janet hadn’t filed her own harassment claim. Or maybe she was hoping that Simon would leave his wife and kids for her if she just waited long enough.

  It was like my mother and brother were in a race to see who would get dragged through the tabloids the quickest. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about their reputations, but I did care what it would do to the company and how it would affect business if word got out that the Wentworths couldn’t keep it in their pants. It was bad enough we stopped being old money and got our hands dirty working for a living. Our only saving grace is that we are really good at what we do, and if we gave special consideration to our friends’ personal charities, well, it kept Mom and Dad invited to the balls and parties of the wealthy and famous.

  Rich and vapid.

  “You’ll talk to HR about it, right?” Simon asked.

  I nodded. “Oh, yeah.” We’ll have to come up with a settlement that wouldn’t completely break us. Maybe I could ask Mom to sell off some jewelry or stocks, since she got us into this mess. That would probably make her crack me across the face again.

  “Cool. I knew you’d handle it.” Simon made for the door but stopped and turned back. “Janet didn’t say I was the father, did she?”

  I shook my head. “No.” She hadn’t needed to. I almost walked in on the two of them while they were screwing in Simon’s office a few months ago. After asking around, I found out they did it like rabbits for most of last year. It was common knowledge and the most whispered about story around the watercooler.