Love to Hate You

by Jo Watson

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Sera is usually a good girl. (Except for one wild night in the backseat of a stranger's car!) But what happens when that bad boy turns out to be her new boss? And what happens when he wants more than one night...and he can be very persuasive...

Release date: February 6, 2018

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 384

Sample

The biggest acknowledgment and thanks really does need to go to my husband.

I said that this story was a bit about my husband and I. Truthfully, a few of the events in this story, and a couple of lines too, were inspired by actual events that took place between the two of us. (NO, not the car thing! I’m far too un-bendy for such shenanigans!)

I fell in love with my husband in less than 30 seconds. True story! We were put into a team together for a game of ‘30 Seconds’ and he was terrible at it. I’d never met anyone so bad at the game in my life, but by the time the sand ran out, for some inexplicable, strange reason, I can say with 100% certainty, that I was in love with him. What was so downright bizarre about this whole thing, was that I had known of him for about two years already, and for that entire time, had disliked him immensely! I thought he was arrogant and odd (not in a good way). When I told friends of my sudden love for him, they all replied with a “but I thought you hated him!”. No one really believed me, or thought it was real. I told him three weeks later how I felt, even though I barely knew him. As it turned out, though, he’d been in love with me for the past two years – hence his strange oddness around me. Still, most of our friends questioned these so-called feelings we had for each other, and I don’t think anyone thought it would work out, or last.

But I knew it would work the day that I moved house. I called a rental agent and told him what I wanted; a two bedroom apartment in Killarney. He told me he had one, it was available immediately and offered to show it to me that afternoon! So I went to see it. And out of all the many, many, many apartment buildings in the suburb of Killarney, all the many, many, many apartments, and out of the 5,200 people who lived in the suburb at the time (according to a census) the apartment he showed me happened to be – by some crazy stroke of fate – next-door to his! Not two doors down, not in the same building, or on the same street . . . but quite literally next-door! We both took this as a sign, and decided to move in with each other right away. I think we had been in a relationship for only a month at this stage, but we did it anyway. Because we knew it was real.

And now, nine years later, one child, three weddings (one elopement in Las Vegas, one celebration for friends and family, and one meeting with a lawyer to sign papers and make it legal) we’re still together. And if it wasn’t for this personal story, I don’t think I would have ever written this book; he’s also in advertising, only wears black, wears sunglasses inside, and yes, I did land up working for him! (But I’ll still vehemently deny anything ever happening in a car!) So thanks husband, Gareth, for coming into my life and making it more interesting. I guess some thanks must also go to Jeff, the estate agent who unknowingly sealed the fate of the relationship.

Now on some practical notes. I’d like to thank Jessica Smit, who I’ve thanked in all my books, because she is the one who always gives them a first edit, like she did for this book too.

I’d like to thank Tamlin, who’s been there since the Killarney days, and who looks after my son as if he was her own, which gives me the time to write!

I’d like to thank my bff Owen, and his bae Lance, they are constant comic inspiration for my books, and have been my proud supporters from day one.

Last, but not least, my editor Kate and everyone at Headline Eternal for believing in me and publishing my books, and my agent Erica.

Thanks for reading this book of mine! I wish you all many strange, inexplicable, fateful love happenings and relationships that work – despite all the odds!

Don’t ask me how the hell it happened . . .

I could blame it on the vodka.

Maybe I could blame it on JJ and Bruce. Maybe it was the strobing lights of the nightclub and the repetitive doof doof of the bass that triggered some kind of chemical reaction in my brain, causing me to go temporarily insane.

Maybe it was my outfit (NOTE: Never let a drag queen dress you for an evening out). I was wearing a sequined blue thing that could barely be described as a dress, and the famous “Marilyn wig” which they’d brought out especially for me, God only knows why? I looked like a crazed, transvestite prostitute with bad taste in wigs. Maybe that’s why it happened?

But what are the chances?

To find a straight guy at a gay nightclub? Possibly the only one. And to find such a ridiculously hot one, who somehow knew my favorite drink and bought it for me all night long. Who kissed me like that on the dance floor and now had me pinned underneath him in the backseat of his car.

I never did this.

Someone else was half naked and sweating and moaning and grabbing at his tattooed shoulders. Someone else was licking Vodka Cranberry cocktails and sweat off his chest and having the best sex of her life—deliciously dirty sex—with possibly the hottest man that had ever walked the planet.

He’d made me feel like the sexiest woman alive, and that, coupled with the fact that I didn’t know his name and would never see him again—all that strong alcohol helped, too—saw all my inhibitions fly right out the back window of his car. I did and said things I didn’t even know I was capable of. With my face pressed into the seat, I told him how I wanted it. And he willingly gave it to me . . .

As well as several variations on the requested activity.

And when it was all over, he lay on top of me gasping for air and sweating beautiful glistening drops (God, even his sweat was sexy). It was easily the hottest experience of my entire life. But then he did something very odd, something that tipped me over the edge. He lifted his head and met my eyes with such intensity that everything around me went silent and blurry. He was looking at me like he knew me. Really, really knew me.

My mouth opened and an almost inaudible whisper came out, “Do I know you?”

He smiled at me. A naughty, skew, sexy smile. “Not yet.” And then he kissed me. No one had kissed me like that before. It was the kind of kiss shared by long-lost lovers.

But when some nosey drag queens knocked on the car window and made loud oohing noises and one of them mimed a comic blowjob gesture, I nearly died. I flung the door open and ran, leaving my Sex God shirtless and with his trousers still around his ankles. While I, the girl that never does stuff like this (I reiterate), had to make an embarrassing run of shame across the now crowded parking lot. I could feel every single dramatically drawn, raised eyebrow watching me as I went.

Before I could get far, I was stopped by a distinctly masculine wolf whistle. Sex God clearly had NO inhibitions.

He was now leaning against his car, zipping up his jeans and doing it completely shirtless—with a very appreciative audience, I might add. He lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly and let the smoke curl out of his mouth.

He was like an advert for cool, in that I-don’t-give-a-flying-fuck-who-cares kind of way. An advert for everything deplorable and lascivious, but downright filthy-sexy in a man. Who the hell was he?

I really had to go!

I climbed into my car and pulled out of the lot, allowing myself one last glance in his direction. The cigarette hung out of his mouth seductively; his wet hair clung to his face; he was leaning across the bonnet in such a way that he looked like a model from an X-rated Calvin Klein billboard. As I sped away, he blew me a kiss and shouted after me.

“I’m in love!”

In my head-pounding, hung-over daze, I rolled, slipped, and fell out of bed, feeling like someone had poured sand into my eyes and pushed me down a steep cliff. I got up and pulled the now very itchy sequin dress off and got the fright of my life when I realized I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I knew I’d left the house with panties on last night. Hadn’t I?

I was already running late for work—I had accidentally pressed the snooze button on my phone way too many times—but I couldn’t rush to work looking like I was.

I grabbed some cotton wool, dunked it in make-up remover and attempted to wipe the thick, chalky layers of black smoky eye make-up off my face. My red lipstick was smudged and one of the false lashes was clinging on like a dry spider. The make-up was coming off, but the glitter was more stubborn. “A highlighter, babe. Fab,” JJ had said as he’d emptied the entire jar onto my face. The glitter was sticking to my face like glue and some bits had even lodged themselves into my hairline. The wig was even worse. The clips holding it in place had twisted so badly that everything was completely stuck—no doubt from rubbing my head back and forth in the backseat of a total stranger’s car. Instant nausea rose as I started to think about it again. Crap, what the hell had I been thinking!

But the wig was my top priority right now, and I was left with no choice but to painfully rip it off. I yelped in pain as tufts of brown hair came out in chunks, then I cursed the wig and tossed it onto the floor. I couldn’t believe I’d actually worn the thing—it looked like a dead Maltese puppy.

I dissed my usual middle part, scraping my hair back into a ponytail. Contact lenses out—after inventing some new yoga poses to pry them from my dried-out eyes—and glasses on. Black pantsuit, white-collar shirt and a pair of semi-high heels. Then one last mirror check before running out.

On my way to grab my laptop bag and a handful of headache pills, I passed JJ and Bruce’s room, but before I could give them a vengeful wake-up knock, my passive aggressive attempt at punishing them for their part in my early morning state, I saw the note.

Sera,

You naughty, naughty girl! We heard you caused quite the parking lot spectacle. Dinner tonight, we want all the juicy details.

XX

J&B

I sighed and, as I went out to my car, my face went red-hot at the thought of telling them what had happened.

My twenty-year-old Toyota had been acting up lately. Another thing to add to the growing to-buy list, along with socks without holes, black pumps with non-peeling soles and now some new undies. But I just couldn’t afford a new car right now—or ever—not between paying back loans and secretly sending money home to my sister Katie.

“Please start, please start, please start,” I pleaded with the hunk of metal junk.

My job was the most important thing in my life. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to help Katie and she’d be at our dad’s mercy. And there was no way I was going to let that happen. I simply couldn’t afford to do anything that would jeopardize it especially since I was one of two interns vying for a permanent position at the company. Being late didn’t exactly scream “hire me.”

I also knew what being late meant. I would surely walk slap bang into an apocalyptic crisis lifted straight from the Book of Revelation. Working at an ad agency means going from one emergency to another. High stakes, lots of money on the line, demanding clients, demanding creatives and deadlines tighter than the skinny jeans they all wear.

My car finally started after a few smoky chugs and I threw a few thank-yous out into the universe. But as soon as I drove out of my apartment complex and turned onto the highway, I was assaulted by bumper-to-bumper Jo’burg traffic, made even worse by minibus taxis and their “creative” driving techniques. Currently I had one only centimeters from my bumper with a painted sign on his back window that read, “What goes surround, Comes surround.” At least something about this morning was vaguely humorous. But the static traffic gave me too much time to think and reflect . . .

What the hell had happened last night? Most of it was a blur, but every now and then an image flashed through my mind.

Vodka. Lots.

“Is this seat taken?” That smooth move and that husky voice . . .

Slowly grinding himself into me on the dance floor of Club Six, running his hands up my thighs, creeping way, way too high for public decency laws, until his hands were . . .

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he’d whispered in my ear, his hands coming up and cupping my face.

“I want you so badly, Sera.” Hang on, how had he known my name?

“I need you.” That was the moment I melted completely and decided to walk outside with him . . .

Fumbling for his car keys . . .

On him . . .

Under him . . .

Windows steaming up . . .

“Fuck, you’re amazing.” More words that made me lose my mind as I writhed on his lap and totally forgot myself in the moment . . .

His tattoos . . . those dark piercing eyes . . .

“I could do this forever,” he’d whispered in my ear seductively.

“Sera.” He rasped as he came on top of me, the weight of his body crushing me into the seat.

Oh. My. God.

Had I really fallen for every lame jackass line in the book? He probably said that to all the girls he had anonymous back-seat sex with. Was I really that stupid, or sex starved, or mad, or drunk, or all of those to have actually bought into his smooth-play-boy moves. Mortified AF. My only consolation was that I’d never see him again.

After a frustrating hour in traffic, I finally arrived at work, but the only parking space I could find was all the way on the other side of the office park, so I was forced to run with a pounding head and lurching stomach.

But when I finally got inside, I was downright shocked. Something was very wrong.

I was expecting to run straight into the usual office chaos: people screaming at each other, screaming into the phone, screaming at the coffee pot or the copy machine. But something bizarre was going on today. People were sitting around lazily . . . chatting?

It was as if someone had come in the night and tranquilized all my co-workers. Had someone put Xanor into the air conditioning system? That was surely the only explanation for this eerie calm. I inched my way to my desk feeling very uneasy—was this the calm before the storm?

Before I had a chance to pull out my chair, Becks slunk up to me and whispered conspiratorially into my ear.

“Have you heard?” she asked.

I half turned to her but she cut me off quickly before I could manage to respond.

“They hired a new Creative Director. Apparently he’s a fucking rock star. Blake something I think—”

At the sound of that name, one of the junior copywriters who happened to be walking past quickly corrected her, “Isn’t it Blade? I heard his name was Blade?”

Next thing I knew, an equally excitable art director joined the conversation, “Blaze? Isn’t it Blaze? Or Slash?” She was practically squealing.

I looked from one glowing face to the other. Their eyes were lit up like firecrackers and their cheeks were flushed a bright shade of pink.

“I heard they offered him a huge financial package to come here,” Becks said with a wild, wide-eye look. Becks, short for Rebecca, always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the office. I think she made it her business to know. She was also my toughest competition for the permanent job here.

The other creatives simultaneously nodded in agreement, declaring that he was probably worth every cent, maybe even more. Yes, he was definitely worth more, they concluded. Then they walked off—no doubt to spread more legends of this creative man-God.

In an ad agency, creativity is king. It’s the currency and the Holy Grail. So when one of these so-called creative geniuses comes around, it whips everyone into a star-struck frenzy. He might as well have been an actual rock star because everyone here at JTS was whipped. I was too hung over to be vaguely interested, but the rest of the office buzzed like the static on a television.

“I heard he doesn’t sleep . . . ever,” the strange pale vampire girl from layout said dreamily.

“He’s going to bring in a lot of new accounts . . . not to mention awards,” two senior managers said as they passed.

“I heard he nailed all the chicks at his last job,” two guys from IT said before a macho fist bump.

I sighed and started to roll my eyes, but they hurt too much. I opened my email and there it was: “Meeting in the Canteen to introduce new CD” (Creative Director). The meeting was in ten minutes. I lay my head on my desk and waited for the headache pills to kick in.

I must have drifted off to sleep though because I thought I heard someone say, “I heard he was raised by wolves.” I opened my eyes and looked around, but no one was there. I glanced at my watch—Crap!

I jumped up and ran to the canteen as fast as I could without tripping and landing on my face. When I finally got there, everyone was already inside and standing around a black-clad figure. I could only see the back of him from where I was. I glanced around looking for Becks and finally saw her standing in the front row with the other starry-eyed women. I carefully pushed my way forward trying not to be seen, but when I got there, he turned and suddenly I couldn’t breathe—

The storm had hit, and it was a fucking hurricane.

He was dressed head to toe in black—the uniform of a Creative Director—but there was nothing else typical about him. He wore dark sunglasses inside, and had a cigarette tucked behind one of his ears. His hair was strangely, unevenly cut and was slicked back and wet looking. He had a beard, obviously—it’s practically a prerequisite in this world—but it wasn’t one of those massive hipster beards that made ordinary men look like axe swinging lumberjacks. It was short and well-groomed and so damn sexy.

He would have been a sight under normal circumstances, but considering that only a few hours before he’d had me bent over his car seat, he was really, really quite a sight.

He wore a full suit, pants, jacket, waistcoat, tie—the works. He even had a black piece of fabric sticking out of his jacket pocket. Who dresses like that? Does he think he’s Don Draper from Mad Men?

He was almost gentlemanly—almost. But the tattoo that popped out from under his cuff and ran the length of the back of his hand and the one peering out from his collar that went up his neck and stopped behind his ear were anything but gentlemanly. He loomed like a dark, mysterious creature. Fortunately, he still hadn’t seen me.

“Oh my God, he’s soooo fucking weird,” Vampire girl said, rubbing her neck. Did she want him to bite her? “Weird” you must understand is a compliment in this world.

And then he looked directly at me and I nearly fainted. I inhaled sharply, so sharply that I started choking on a fleck of saliva. As Becks patted me on the back, his eyes lingered momentarily and then they left me. He showed absolutely no recognition on his face and in that moment I was overcome by two very strong emotions. One, relief. Sleeping with your new boss is not the kind of thing that looks good on anyone’s resume, not to mention the awkwardness it creates around the office. And two . . . I was pissed—“I want you so badly, Sera. I need you, be mine, you’re so hot” . . . and now he didn’t recognize me?

What an asshole! With his unnecessary indoor sunglasses, his oh-so-cool cigarette and his ridiculous black borderline-tuxedo.

I hated him.

Work was painfully slow that day. It seemed that the arrival of Ben—his name was Ben, just plain old Ben, not any of the aforementioned exotic names such as Blaze, Blade, Slade or Xenon . . . Ben—had caused people to forget they had jobs . . . and minds. People were standing around, eagerly waiting for their names to be called. Ben said he was “very hands-on,” a phrase that had caused me to both cringe with disgust and tremble with excitement all at the same time. He explained he was going to be speaking to all the members of his team “one-on-one”—another phrase that brought back images of back-seat bumping and grinding.

Ben had used several phrases that morning that had my panties in a twist—as JJ was so fond of saying. I couldn’t figure out whether he was an innate pervert who tossed around sexual innuendos like salad croutons, or whether I was just being overly sensitive.

“I have a big load for you today,” he’d said before he emphasized how he wanted to “get on top of things.” All the innuendo caused strange feelings to pass through my body, but I almost passed out cold when he said he “wanted to really get his hands dirty and not be a back-seat driver.” The mere mention of his back-seat nearly put me in a coma.

But the worst thing was that my desk was directly across from his glass-walled office, so I had a front row seat and a clear view and—Oh my God, he was sexy . . .

He was calling people in for their one-on-ones, which caused a temporary traffic jam in the bathroom as women slicked on layers of fresh lip-gloss and fiddled with their hair and clothes.

Ben, however, seemed totally cool and calm as he sat at his desk looking devilish. He was the kind of man that your mother always warned you about. In fact, he was the kind of guy that should be made to wear a bright red, flashing warning sign around his neck. His casual, bordering on disinterested, way of leaning back in his chair and running his hands through his hair and—oh God—chewing on the end of his pencil was intoxicating. And not just for me. Every woman that left his office looked like they’d just had the best sex of their lives. They all had a sort of flustered, dazed look to them—even some of the guys. God only knew what he was saying to them.

As the day went on, I tried desperately to remain calm, but it was getting harder and harder as more co-workers came out with titillating stories of him—Vampire girl was especially vocal. He’d glanced over in my direction a few times when he’d called the names of people sitting nearby, but still he’d showed no recognition whatsoever.

The torturous hours dragged on until the day was almost over, and still my name hadn’t been called. At five I got up and started packing, completely thrilled to have been overlooked, but then—

“Sera De La Haye?”

The sound of my name dripping from his lips caused a strange reaction inside. I froze, like a mime artist in mid movement. Then I sat back down in my chair, locked my eyes onto my computer screen and stared straight ahead, unblinking.

“Sera. Sera De La Haye?”

I didn’t move. Out of the corner of my eye I saw his black figure striding towards me and within seconds, he was standing above me.

“Sera?”

I knew I couldn’t keep pretending I hadn’t heard him, so I nonchalantly held up my hand. “Just give me one moment please, I’m in the middle of something very important.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth I imagined being fired on the spot. Not only had I slept with him, my boss, but now I was making him talk to the hand—what a disaster. I pretended to read a few more words on the screen, unnecessarily nodded several times, muttered to myself and wrote something down on a piece of paper for extra effect.

“Done,” I said. Then I stood up and, totally misjudging how close he was, my body bumped into his. I took a quick step backwards but it was already too late, the damage had been done. And OH, how it had been done! His sudden close proximity and the brief feel of him set off an involuntary chain reaction inside my body and I found myself fantasizing about him bending me over the desk and showing me who was boss. I felt sweat beading on my forehead and I tried desperately to drag my eyes away from his mouth—stop staring at his mouth. Stop staring at his mouth.

I could still make out a few pieces of glitter stuck to the side of his face and caught in his beard. I guess I had marked my territory. Ben watched my eyes, and then his lips—which I was still staring at—curled up into a tiny, slight smile.

“Better things to do than meet the new boss?” he asked.

My heart crawled into the back of my throat and lodged itself there. “No . . . no,” I said. I sounded panicked and tried to rein myself in a little. “There was just something very important from a client I had to look at. Very important, in fact, and it needed my immediate and undivided attention.”

“Important?” he sounded amused.

“Yes! So very, very . . .” I paused, wondering how many times would technically be considered too many to utter the word ‘important’ in one sentence. His eyes drifted down to my lips as if he was waiting for me to say it again. “But of course my meeting with you is far more important than the client thing, it can wait and I’ll—”

He held his hand up to stop my rambling, which I was grateful for, but all I could think about was how I’d sucked on his fingers the night before. I’d never sucked a finger before, but he’d obviously done some kind of black magic on me and unleashed my dormant inner porn star. I snapped out of it and willed myself to look up at his eyes, and, when I did, his smile grew.

“I like your dedication,” he said casually, like he was speaking to any other employee. “It’s good to know my staff are so hard working.” There was still no recognition on his part, and a part of me still wanted to bitch slap him into tomorrow.

“Shall we?” he asked, gesturing with his arm toward his office.

When I stepped into his office, I immediately became aware of the smell lingering in the air—the same soapy, spicy, sandalwood smell as the night before—minus the vodka and sweat, of course.

Ben closed . . .