O Magnet: A Fake Engagement Romantic Workplace Comedy (Titans of Tech Book 2) Read online

  Take that, laughing emoji.

  Joanie swallows a squeak. My mother's mouth drops open, eyes blowing wide and darting between the two of us before narrowing suspiciously.

  "Since last night?" Sloane asks, incredulous, shooting daggers at me.

  Okay, so maybe I should have thought this through a little better. But Penny is the last person my mother would accept into the family, so it's sure to put me off her social calendar for at least six months. Maybe more, if I can string this out longer.

  "Since breakfast, right sweetie?" I say dropping a kiss on the top of Penny's head. Again, the heady, sexual scent of her invades my senses, sending a shock of awareness straight to my balls. Even a sharp elbow to my ribs isn't enough to bank the heat that suddenly flares in my belly. I momentarily lose my train of thought. "It was, err... rather spontaneous, so we... we thought we'd keep it under wraps for a while." I stutter like I'm in junior high asking Margie Wilson to dance. "A-and with our schedule as packed as it's been, we figured we'd wait until things settled down to make an announcement. You know... we didn't want to steal attention."

  Her hand comes to mine at her shoulder, and she digs her slate gray fingernails into the skin right above my wrist. There's going to be hell to pay, all right. But I will endure Penny's wrath over my mother's poor attempts at matchmaking any day.

  "So you could have your cake and eat it too?" Sloane spits. "You... asshole."

  "Language, Sloane," my mother reprimands sharply, not taking her eyes off Penny. She doesn't discriminate when it comes to foul language.

  "My family will be hearing about this. Your name will be mud." Sloane turns so fast, her auburn hair swings out behind her as she stomps out.

  She may be right, but Tokyo doesn't care about my name in social circles. Neither does Amsterdam or Silicon Valley. And there are a half-dozen companies who would beat down the door for our Kansas City Kings apparel contract if her family cancels out of a sense of loyalty. I feel a little bad about Sloane, but I was upfront that I wasn't interested in a relationship. It's my mother's reaction that has me on pins and needles.

  "Do you love him?" she's staring at Penny so hard, I half expect laser beams to come out of her eyes.

  Penny squeaks and clears her throat. A flash of panic rips through me. This will be over before it starts if she doesn't play along. I squeeze her shoulder again and dive in for another hit of whatever intoxicating perfume she's wearing. "Say something," I say barely above a whisper, right behind her ear.

  I pull back, but not before I see goosebumps rising along the column of her neck.

  She clears her throat again with a nod. "Since we first met." Her voice is husky and sweet, with the perfect amount of sincerity. For half a second I wonder if the match I just lit is going to burn down the whole building.

  My mother makes a noise in her throat. "Well, I won't deny that you're not remotely suitable for my son. But sometimes Cupid's arrows land in surprising places." Her eyes glitter as she forces a smile. "If this is the life partner you've chosen, so be it. I expect to see you both at the foundation dinner tonight."

  Wait... what? That's not how this was supposed to go down. She was supposed to give me an ultimatum the way she did when I was in college. Threaten to disown me. Storm off and moan to her bridge group about what a disappointment I am.

  "Seven p.m. sharp." Her gaze sweeps over Penny. "And for the love of all that's holy, tame that carpet on your head." She wheels around without another word. "Come along Joanie."

  As soon as the door snicks shut behind them, Penny turns to me, green eyes flashing. "I don't think so."

  Chapter Two

  Penny

  I glare at the man who's been the bane of my existence these last four years. We're not doing this, whatever this is. I'm supposed to be quitting at four. Cashing out. Taking my money and running. Accepting a job offer to come on board as CTO with a Silicon Valley startup that specializes in gamification of hacking, then flying to the Caribbean for a month. My life is finally on track and I will be free of Stockton's million-dollar megawatt smile, the mischievous twinkle in his eye I can't seem to resist, and sweet cajoling tone of voice filled with promise that always gets me to say yes, no matter how pissed-off he makes me.

  He doesn't believe I'm quitting, but I am.

  I mean it.

  Until he looks at me with those hazel eyes fringed with sinfully thick lashes, and utters the one word that always brings me to my knees. "Penny."

  I resolve to remain strong. I've given four years of my life to Steele Conglomerate, and I'm happy to have done it. Being here saved my life. Literally. But I'm done working twenty-four-seven for a man who will never see me as more than a delinquent teenager - even when those years are long gone. The fact that he noticed my new tatt this morning? Well that's something. I wonder what he'd say if he saw the rest of them. But whatever he says, no matter how hard he begs, it's not enough to get me to stay. Especially now that I've basically admitted my feelings to his mother. Who hates me. There's only one way this can possibly end, and that's badly. So off I go into the sunset.

  "Penny," he repeats, the coaxing note to his voice melting my insides. "It's the only way to get my mother off my back. Don't you want your workday back? She'll finally leave us alone."

  I scoff in the back of my throat. "For a genius, you sure are dumb." He pulls back, a look of confusion flashing across his cheekbones. So I spell it out for him. "Look, Sherlock, your mother is lonely. She loves nothing more than meddling. And now, thanks to this little stunt you've pulled, she'll be in here twice a day - with colors, crystal, and cake choices. All because you thought telling her you were getting married would send her back to bridge and yogalates." I poke him in the chest, emphasizing my point.

  At least he has the class to look sheepish. "Are you sure?"

  I snort, rolling my eyes. Seriously, how can a brilliant man like Stockton be so dumb when it comes to his mother? "Yes. Which is why I'm quitting. At four. I didn't sign up for this shit." I didn't sign up for most of what I do these days, so maybe I'm the dumbass here, but pretending I'm marrying Stockton is my proverbial line in the sand.

  "I know you didn't. But won't it be nice to get back to a point where we're working on what matters?"

  "It would, but be realistic for half-a-second, Stockton. I've been running interference with your mother for close to three years. Because it was easier for you to pay me extra than to have a "Come to Jesus" conversation with her." I choke back a laugh at the look on his face, because god bless him, he looks surprised. Jeezus. I'm going to have to spell it out for him. "I'm not going to be your pretend fiancée, Stockton."

  "Why not? It's the perfect solution."

  "She called my hair a carpet."

  Stockton flashes his megawatt grin, and tugs on my messy bun. "It has seen better days."

  "Yeah. When I've had time to shower and you know... be human? Do you know how many hours I've spent in my bed this last week alone?"

  His expression darkens. "Who were you with last night?" He growls like a possessive lover and not my boss, then gestures toward my arm. "And when did you get that?"

  I bite back a smile. It's so easy to bait him. "None of your business, remember?"

  We have a pact. Neither of us speaks about what we do in our off time. Although, in Stockton's case, I already know. Early on, during a series of denial of service attacks, we agreed that one of us should be close by at all times. So I have the misfortune of knowing his schedule inside and out. I've met every single one of the women he's bedded, and more who would give anything to be bedded. Stockton's prowess in the bedroom is legendary in Kansas City socialite circles, but I have to wonder how much of that talk is just... talk. I mean, seriously, no man can be all that.

  He captures my wrist and lifts my arm, surveying the artwork. A shock of electricity zips up my arm as a hit of adrenaline floods my system. Heat pools between my legs. I hate that even after four years, he still has this effect on me. "It
's my business when the arm belongs to my fiancée," he says silkily, tracing the outside of the design with a finger but taking care not to touch the swollen skin.

  I swallow, heart stuttering in my chest. "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man standing," I say with a saccharine smile.

  His voice drops an octave and he steps into my space. "Is that so? Tell me more."

  There's a note of challenge there that ratchets up my pulse, likely put there for my benefit, because I can't seem to resist an opportunity to take him down a notch, and he knows it. He finds it amusing. I should disengage, stand down. After all, I'm quitting at four. I don't need to do this anymore. I don't like what that says about me, but I can't resist picking up the gauntlet he's thrown like a piece of meat to a starving dog. "For starters, I'm worried you probably don't have a dick. I'm sure it fell off years ago. I mean, do you even use the condoms I have delivered to the office?"

  "Every last one," he rumbles.

  But I'm on a roll and since it's my last day, I'm not holding back. "I don't know what the ladies who parade in and out of here see in you. You're overbearing and an ass to pretty much everyone except Harrison and the cybersquad. The accounting department is terrified of you, as are the interns and everyone in marketing."

  "I save my charm for the bedroom," he interjects.

  I cut him off. "I'm not done. You're a relentless taskmaster, you don't know how to relax, you've worked seven days a week for the last four years - even when you're off doing your rowing thing, and you expect everyone around you to give one-hundred-fifty-percent of their life to this company."

  He lifts an eyebrow. "My rowing thing?"

  I roll my eyes. "Do you even know what day it is?"

  A look of confusion flashes across his face before he flashes his brilliant smile. "It's the day we get my mother off my back."

  An ache pierces my chest. I shouldn't be hurt by this. Stockton doesn't even remember his own birthday, let alone his mother's, mine, or anyone else's. It was foolish of me to think he'd remember today. I pull my arm from his grip before he can see the disappointment on my face and duck around the corner of my desk. Before I can chicken out, I pull the envelope from the drawer. There's no need to wait until four. He can have my resignation now. "Today is freedom day." I fight the lump that's suddenly formed in my throat. "I've fulfilled my four years and I respectfully resign." I step back into his orbit and hold out the envelope.

  "Freedom day?" he chuckles. "That's a good one." His smile quickly disappears when he sees I'm serious. His jaw tightens and the only tell that he's deeply, truly angry, is the rapid pulse at his temple. Stockton's bark is far worse than his bite. When he's really mad, he gets quiet. He opens the envelope slowly, deliberately, not sparing me an extra glance. His face remains painfully neutral as he reads, eyes only widening once - I'm guessing at the part where I mention my new salary and moving to California. When he finishes, he refolds the letter and replaces it in the envelope. "No."

  His voice is razor sharp, weighty in the delivery, and a tremor ripples through me. "You have no say, Stockton."

  "Like hell I don't. You are not leaving me. Us," he corrects, a hint of color flirting with his cheekbones. "You're too important to the company."

  But not to him, not in the way I want. He'll only ever see me as a vessel for my mind. Nothing more. And that's why I have to leave because one more day of watching the revolving door of women when the one who knows him best sits feet away, just might kill me.

  "Penny." His voice softens, and I know this is exactly how he's charmed the panties off so many women. "Don't leave."

  "Stockton, I-"

  "The car is yours. And the condo. Keep them. I'll call Jackson, and he can have the titles switched over to your name by five."

  "That's-"

  His eyes narrow. "Do you know how much rents are in Silicon Valley? Even with that salary - which is crap if you ask me - you'll be sharing a bedroom in a three bedroom apartment."

  "There are stock options."

  "If you go public. Or get bought out. And there are no guarantees of either. Hell, Penny, you want to start a company? I'll give you your own damn division."

  "That's not what I want."

  "What do you want, Penny? It's yours. All you have to do is ask."

  Dangerous words. But they only slice my heart because the one thing I want, I can never have.

  He lowers his voice. "Does your mother know?"

  My stomach sinks. Stockton Forde knows my vulnerabilities. "I was going to write her a letter."

  "Coward."

  "You know how she is."

  "And running away to California isn't going to change that. In fact, it may make things worse."

  He's not wrong. And I hate it. Because the one human thing Stockton has done from the beginning, is insist on driving with me three hours each way every other month to see my mother at the Women's Eastern Reception, Diagnostic and Correctional Center in Vandalia.

  "And you'll have to fly," he points out, knowing that the reason he takes a full day to accompany me is because I refuse to fly in the deathtrap he calls an executive helicopter.

  "I'll suck it up," I say stubbornly, resolve wavering.

  He takes my hand and turns it palm up, thumb caressing my wrist. I can count the number of times we've touched in the last four years on one hand - the day we met, the one and only day I wore a skirt to the office, and today. I practically go dizzy from the sensation. My blood heats, setting my nerve endings and more, tingling.

  "Penny." His voice is warm, hypnotic, and so, so tantalizing. "Don't quit. I know I've been a bear lately, and we've been slammed-"

  "We've been slammed for four years Stockton," I interrupt thickly, blinking back the sudden moisture that arises behind my eyeballs. "I don't think it's going to go away."

  He huffs out a laugh, a baritone rumble that turns my panties liquid, while his thumb continues its seductive pattern across my skin. My nipples pull into tight, aching points. I hate myself for wanting him the way I do.

  "No, probably not," he admits. "But take a few days off. Sleep in. Go to the spa."

  I roll my eyes hard. The fact that he even suggests those things as a possibility just demonstrates how little he knows me. "As if," I mutter as much to myself as to him. I might heap coals on his head for never stopping, but I'm no better. I can't stop, because my brain might explode if I do. I work as much to keep my overactive brain in check as I do because he demands it.

  "So you'll stay?"

  I risk a glance at him. His hazel eyes are soft, pleading. A hopeful smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. Yes. No. The last of my resolve withers. His smile broadens when he sees I've caved and he squeezes my hand.

  "So about my mom."

  I shake my head. "Absolutely not."

  "Penny-"

  I cut him off with a raised hand. "Oh no, don't you dare Penny me. I am not going to be your pretend fiancée."

  "C'mon. It's only for a few months. Just to give us some breathing room."

  "You mean, you some breathing room."

  "You too, you're the one that she bothers every morning." He crosses his arms, giving me that look again. "She'll take you out to lunch a few times, probably hire a wedding planner, and then we cut things off before the invitations get mailed out."

  "I absolutely love that you can bring down parts of the Russian mob, but you can't figure out how to manage your mother."

  He looks downright sheepish, which any other time would make my ovaries explode because it's damn cute. "I have a hard time saying no to her," he confesses.

  I roll my lips together in a futile effort to stop a smile. She's not the only one he can't say no to, and it's time for me to exercise my leverage. Only this time, I'm going to ask for something so outrageous that he'll realize what a ridiculous idea a fake engagement is, and he'll come back to reality. "Okay fine. You want me to play your fiancée? I have conditions."

  His eyes light and he spreads his h
ands. "Lay 'em on me."

  He thinks he's won. I push down a giggle. "For starters, no more work on the weekends - for either of us. It's time to start leveraging the cybersquad."

  He blinks.

  I remind myself Stockton's an expert negotiator and to not take his silence for either agreement or refusal. "Second, we leave no later than six each day, and only come in when the alarm sounds."

  He makes a noncommittal noise.

  I rattle off the rest of my demands before I lose my nerve. "Third, neither of us see other people while this is going on. Fourth, I want the gaudiest, most obnoxious, most expensive ring you can buy. Fifth, you will defend me to your mother at all times. Sixth, you will wire ten-percent of your cash on hand to my bank account this afternoon." His eyes widen briefly, but his face remains neutral. "Seventh, when this is over, you will set me up with my own company in the location of my choosing. And lastly - no kissing, and absolutely no sex."

  There is no way Stockton will agree to all that. None. Any one of those could be a deal breaker, but all of them together? Completely over the top. Outrageous. There's no way he'll agree to not working weekends, let alone a normal workday or delegating more to the cybersquad. And letting go of the revolving door of women? Impossible. Which is my point, because honestly, the guy needs to squirm a bit. Life has been too damned easy for him.

  He stays still, staring at me for a full minute, not saying a word. Then he breaks into a grin that rivals a kid on Christmas morning who just got a new bike. "Great."

  My brows knit together. That wasn't supposed to be his answer. "What do you mean, great?" My pulse takes off to the races. He can't possibly agree to that laundry list. There's no way. He's got enough cash in his bank account he could buy a small country. His assets alone rival the GDP of Luxembourg. Ten percent would allow me to buy a small city. Or four.

  He shrugs. "If that's what it takes, sure."

  I narrow my eyes. He never gives in this easily. "What gives?" I say, suspicion rising at his smug look. "What's the catch? Where's your counteroffer?" I've been in enough negotiations with him to know there's always a counteroffer. He makes a point of it.