Copyright © 2021 by Joslyn Westbrook

All rights reserved.

Jameson

Jaw dropped, I stopped in my tracks, my eyes on her: Ms. Hot Shot Magazine journalist from hell.

“I’m sure I left my phone in her office,” she yapped on and on to Charles. “It’s rose gold with a hot-pink glitter case.”

Fucking. Great.

The stupid phone I’d found belonged to the one person I wanted no contact with whatsoever, the bat-shit-crazy woman who smeared my name in an article she wrote months ago.

Chloe. York.

One glance at her—regardless of how ridiculously hot she was with those mile-long lashes, ebony locks down to her waist, endless legs, and delicious curves—made my blood boil.

“I’m sorry,” said Charles, “no one has turned in a phone yet, but let me ring Blakely and—”

I cleared my throat, and both flicked their attention to me. “I’ve got it right here, Charles.” Lips hiked up to the side, I plucked the phone out of my pants pocket, gaze stuck on the petite, blue-eyed devil in a sexy-as-fuck dress. “Is this what you’re looking for, Ms. York?”

“Yes.” She stepped closer, hate gleaming in her eyes as she glared up at all six-foot-two of me. In one swift move, she swiped the cell phone out of my hand, then shoved it into her purse. “How did you get it?”

“You left it in Blakely’s office.” My gaze drank her in, down, then back up, and when my cock twitched, I mentally strangled the traitor for reacting to someone I loathed. “You’ve joined Luv Bytes?”

“Only to do a story.”

“A story?” My jaw ticked. “Care to elaborate, Ms. York?”

“Why do you say my name like that?” She scoffed at my insolent raised-brow reply. “As if you’re dragging it through the mud.”

“Oh, like the way you dragged my name through the mud, then smeared it all over New York with your last story?”

She huffed, shaking her head in denial.

I huffed right back; this woman wasn’t about to win the war that brewed between us. “I’m only going to ask you one more time: What’s your Luv Bytes story about, Ms. York?” My choice to over-enunciate Ms. to annoy the fuck out of her was the highlight of my freaking day.

“About my experience.” A devious little smirk pulled at her lips. “Does that bother you, Mr. Wright?”

The unruly spitfire—albeit sexy as all get-out—needed to be spanked; no one, not a single fucking person, spoke to me that way.

“I stand by my app one-hundred percent, Ms. Wannabe Journalist. In fact,” I added with a sneer, “as of today, I’m also a member. So, no, it doesn’t bother me that you plan to write a story about your experience with my app.” I paused to rub the scruff on my chin. “But I do feel sorry for the guy you’ll be matched with. Sure hope you’ve disclosed that ill-tempered snark and how your nostrils flare when you’re in the middle of a tantrum. Then again”—I slayed the gap between us, narrow-eyed gaze locked and loaded on hers—“Bitchy Attitude may be a characteristic your would-be match is into.”

“Fuck off, Jameson Wright,” she said through gritted teeth, then turned on her sky-high heels click-clacking her way out of Luv Bytes without a single glance back.

My attention snapped to Charles who had a goofy look pinned to his face. Honestly, I was so lost in that brouhaha, I’d forgotten I was in Reception right in front of his desk. “Why do you have a wide smile on your face?”

Charles pursed his lips. “Hot damn, boss. That was totally like one of those movies where the heroine and hero meet, nothing but hate crackling between them.” His brows traveled north, eyes lit with make-me-wanna-gag cheer. “Very similar to a Hallmark movie—sans Bitchy Attitude and Fuck Off of course—and at the end, they fall madly in love.”

“Trust me, this guy will never fall in love with Chloe York, even if his life depended on it,” I growled, so caught up by what just happened, I referred to myself in the third person.

“Though, you have got to admit, it would be kind of funny if Cupid matches the two of you together?”

The glare I fed him was lethal. “If that happens, I promise to come back here and fire you for speaking that disaster into existence.”