Married to my Boss: A Grumpy Boss/Marriage of Convenience Romantic Comedy (Love is a Mystery Book 2) Read online

  MARRIED TO MY BOSS

  LAURA BURTON

  COPYRIGHT

  The characters and storylines are fictitious, and any resemblance to real-life people and events are purely coincidental. The authors retain all of the rights to this work which may not be copied and distributed online or elsewhere without the written permission of the owners of the rights.

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  All rights reserved by Laura Burton 2022.

  First Edition

  For audiobook, movie and international rights, please contact: [email protected]

  Published by: Burton & Burchell Ltd

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  This book is written in U.S. English

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  Edited by Tochi Biko

  Cover design by: Wynter Designs

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  1. Peyton

  2. Sebastian

  3. Peyton

  4. Sebastian

  5. Peyton

  6. Sebastian

  7. Peyton

  8. Sebastian

  9. Peyton

  10. Sebastian

  11. Peyton

  12. Sebastian

  13. Peyton

  14. Sebastian

  15. Peyton

  16. Sebastian

  17. Peyton

  18. Sebastian

  19. Peyton

  20. Sebastian

  21. Peyton

  22. Sebastian

  23. Peyton

  24. Sebastian

  25. Peyton

  26. Sebastian

  27. Peyton

  28. Sebastian

  29. Peyton

  30. Sebastian

  31. Peyton

  Epilogue

  Preview of The Terrible Personal Shopper

  Acknowledgements

  PEYTON

  My ankle boots are soaked and my socks are wet. It’s been the wettest spring for decades, but not even the endless rain has been able to dull the mood in the city.

  Rival business owners Zane Masters of Got Cake? and Elle Brook of Elle’s Kitchen tied the knot a few months ago. It was a hot topic for weeks. This was after the most ridiculous proposal ever. The whole thing went viral online - the most popular upload has more than five million views. That’s more views than the video of the mine shaft rescue in Columbia involving nineteen children. People are weird.

  The crowd around me surges forward and carries me with it. But people aren’t walking with their heads down and their hands in their pockets today. There’s a lot of chatter. People are talking to one another in excited voices.

  “I haven’t been this excited since that billionaire hotel owner – David Marks, was it? – married his matchmaker.”

  “Emily James?”

  “Yeah, her!”

  The urge to roll my eyes at the conversation behind me is almost overwhelming. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good fairy tale romance. And if some billionaire decides to sweep a woman off her feet, good for her!

  I mean, I have a pile of letters back home to remind me that all my problems could go away if I got hit on by a billionaire.

  But I’m a realist. Normal people like me do not get their happy ending by finding their one true love. I consider it a win if I make it to the end of the day without having to shout at the workmen outside my apartment for cat calling.

  If I make it to the end of the month with enough money to buy some ice cream, I’m ecstatic.

  A man to share said ice cream with would be a bonus. And he wouldn’t even need to be rich.

  Someone who can make me laugh and give a good foot rub. Is that too much to ask? Apparently, the fact that I’m thirty-three and still single doesn’t help with channeling Miss Desirable. To make things worse, I’ve been stuck in the same dead-end job for years. I’m personal assistant to the editor-in-chief of a publishing house and I don’t have the backbone to ask for a raise.

  Anyway, it’s been three months since the Masters wedding at the Plaza hotel, catered by France Perrier, no less. And now there’s a buzz in the air just outside the bakeries.

  Looks like Elle’s Kitchen is unveiling their new display. There’s a huge crowd of photographers and curious people around the window. The scene looks a lot like something out of that 80’s film - The Mannequin.

  I shrug my jacket around me a little tighter, wipe the rain drops from my cheeks, and brace myself to walk through the crowd.

  But just as I’m shouldering through, one of the bakery doors swings open and a revered silence falls. Elle Masters walks out.

  I can’t help staring. The unveiling must be happening right now. Zane Masters appears behind her and the two of them stand by the covered window like proud parents.

  “Thank you all for coming to this special reveal,” Elle calls out. Her hair is swept up in a loose bun. Perfect flyaway hairs frame her pretty face.

  I can’t see past her shoulders over the heads of the people, but I imagine she’s wearing a designer dress that shows off her full figure and Zane has his arm around her waist. I have to strain my ears to catch the rest of the speech.

  “This window is in honor of my mother, Elle Brook, and my grandmother at heart, Joyce Edwards. But it’s not only for them. It’s to remember the family we have loved and lost over the years. We always talk about grief like it’s something to be ashamed of, or to hide from, but with our new angel cake, I want to show the world that grief can be beautiful. It can unite us. Life has many layers. So, I designed this cake with those layers, love, laughter, and loss.” Elle takes a breath. I frown and crane to get a good look as she moves to the black curtain at the window.

  “I present to you... the Angel Cake.” She pulls the curtain back and cameras start to flash like crazy. “This treat is inspired by the angel cake that originated in England in the nineteenth century. There are three colored layers of sponge - pink for love, yellow for laughter, and white for loss. There’s a decadent frosting to bind each layer and a dusting of powdered sugar on top. We hope you enjoy this cake as much as we do and that it reminds you to take time each day to appreciate all that life has to offer. Thank you.”

  Everyone moves forward to get a better look and I almost get jabbed in the stomach. Finally, there’s a break in the crowd and I catch a glimpse of an elegant display of cakes on a small dinner table in the window. Smiling women beam out at me from framed photos, and there’s a delicate gold locket lying on one of the plates.

  I move away from the crowd as soon as I’ve got a good look. The theme is surprisingly deep for a cake shop. A part of me is impressed. I’ve suffered a loss too, but what do people say about the ones they did not love?

  I’m jolted out of my thoughts when my phone buzzes, and I answer the call on autopilot. “Yes, Mr. Rockwood.”

  I didn’t even need to look at the caller ID to know it was my boss.

  “I need to see you immediately,” he says.

  “Now? I was just on my way home-” I begin to say. There’s no use, though. I know what his answer is.

  “Now.”

  Grumbling to myself, I call a cab and do my best to dry off my boots with a tissue. I do a quick makeup fix on the ride back to the office.

  Mr. Rockwood does not like to wait. The urgency in his voice made it clear he’s already in a bad mood.

  It’s the perfect way to end an already terrible day.

  I burst into his office. “Yes, Mr. Rockwood. You wanted me?”

&n
bsp; The leather armchair facing the ceiling-to-floor length windows swivels around and my boss appears. He rests his elbows on his desk and his gray eyes travel north and south as he takes in my soggy appearance. I cross my arms to conceal the damp patches on my blouse.

  “What happened to you? You look like you just climbed out of the Hudson.”

  I grit my teeth. The question is rhetorical. An answer will only irritate him.

  “Sorry, Mr. Rockwood. What do you need?” I pull out my phone and open the Notes app, ready for his list of demands.

  “You,” he says. His voice is curt, and my thumb hovers over my phone as my brain tries to process the word.

  “Me?” He gestures to the leather seat in front of his desk. “Please, take a seat, P…”

  “Peyton,” I remind him.

  Really? I’ve been here almost a decade now, and this man still doesn’t remember my name. “Peyton,” he says, smiling now.

  The man is as stiff as a board. I can’t help noticing the strain in his neck as he frowns and shuffles through a stack of papers.

  “Tell me about yourself, Peyton. Where are you from?”

  My mouth forms an o, but I shut it quickly. I have no idea where Mr. Rockwood is going with this, but the wicked glint in his eye is a tell. He’s cooking up something and I’m 100% sure I’m going to hate it.

  “I was raised in New Jersey, sir. Then I moved to New York for this job. I’ve lived here ever since.” It’s a half-truth, the real reason I left New Jersey was because my foster parents died and I needed a fresh start.

  The thought of them hits me like a punch to the gut. Mr. Rockwood doesn’t seem to notice.

  “Excellent. So, you’re American, yes?”

  “Yes... What is this––”

  “I’ll cut to the chase with you, Peyton,” Mr. Rockwood says abruptly. He leans forward and gives me one of his I mean business stares. That look is usually reserved for difficult clients. “I have a contract here for you to sign. If you’re willing to accept the terms, I shall pay you handsomely.”

  My ears prick up at the mention of payment. “Are you offering me a promotion?” I ask. My heart starts to race as I take the contract from his hand. “Well, it's more of a favor... Strictly professional, of course.”

  I start reading the contract and my face twists in confusion. “You want me to marry you?”

  I look at him quizzically. “I need you to be my wife for one year,” he explains. “When the year is up, I’ll pay you fifty thousand dollars.”

  I almost choke on my own saliva as I splutter. “What?”

  Mr. Rockwood peels off his designer jacket and rises from his seat. He moves to the table at the corner of the room. “Can I fix you a drink?” He holds up a crystal cut glass. I shake my head. The last thing I need right now is alcohol in my system.

  I take another look at the contract to check he’s not kidding. My eyes stretch wide at the zeroes on the page. “But why? And why me?”

  Mr. Rockwood downs a drink and smacks his lips together with a sigh. “As you know, I’m from England. I may have failed to take the immigration process seriously. I’ll save you the unsavory details. The bottom line is, if I want to stay here and keep my job, I need a wife. An American wife.” He raises his empty glass to me. “That’s you.” Then he turns to look out the windows; a tall man with a stiff back. “The immigration office needs evidence to show that this marriage is authentic, which is why I need you to sign up for a year.”

  I gulp. “Are you asking me to commit fraud?”

  Mr. Rockwood turns to look at me and his gaze is so stern, I hold my breath. “Tell me, what would you do with the money?”

  I bite my lip and think about it. If someone offered me one hundred dollars right now, I’d feel like a millionaire. With fifty thousand I could quit my job (and I would have to, after being married to my boss), rent a nice house in the suburbs… Maybe even start my own fashion line.

  Mr. Rockwood is suddenly close enough to plant his hand on the back of my chair. “Can you do this for me?” he asks.

  I swallow. “A year of my life... That’s a long time. What if I have a boyfriend and he proposes to me next week?”

  Mr. Rockwood’s smile fades and he turns serious as he seems to consider this. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  My eyes sting with humiliation. “No.”

  Mr. Rockwood’s face turns gleeful again. “You’re playing a hard bargain. Fifty thousand dollars is a lot of money, you know.”

  “And a year of my life in my thirties is a lot to take,” I shoot back. My mouth seems to be working on its own now. I usually keep my sassy comebacks in my head.

  “Fine. One hundred thousand dollars.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not lying to the immigration office.”

  “Five hundred thousand dollars. Come on, Peyton.” Mr. Rockwood and I are suddenly in an intense staring contest. Then he makes another offer without batting an eyelid. “One million dollars.”

  I gasp. “Surely, with that kind of money you can just buy yourself a visa. You know, by investing the money in a business.”

  Mr. Rockwood bristles and something flashes behind his eyes.

  What is he hiding?

  “What do you say, Peyton? Can you bear to be married to me for one year in exchange for a million dollars? The offer is on the table, but it won’t be there for long.”

  “I need to think about it…”

  “Three…” he cuts in.

  I lift a brow. “Are you counting down?”

  “I need to know now, Peyton. I have more at stake here than you know. Two…”

  I study his face with narrowed eyes. My common sense is yelling at me to run out the door. “One,” he says, and his eyes bore into the depths of my soul.

  One million dollars will change my life. I shut my eyes and suck in a breath. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  SEBASTIAN

  Financial risks aside, there are a number of reasons why I shouldn’t marry my personal assistant.

  I’m honestly not concerned about the financials because she did sign the pre-nup.

  When the marriage comes to its inevitable end, at least she can’t come after me for more money.

  I don’t expect that Peyton would do anything like that, though. She’s never asked for so much as an extra dime in years.

  It’s part of what makes her perfect for the position of my pretend wife.

  I need someone to play the role, answer all of the questions correctly, and keep quiet. There’s no better candidate than my shy, submissive PA who knows just about everything there is to know about me.

  She knows how I like my coffee - black with two sugars.

  She has a sixth sense about my mood. She knows the precise time to interrupt a meeting and bring it to an end with a fake emergency.

  She knows that I'm allergic to two things: Aspirin and authors with big egos.

  And yet, expecting her to masquerade as my wife for a whole year can’t be fair on anyone, let alone Peyton.

  Did I expect her to take the first offer? No. But I like to drive a hard bargain, even if I know what I’m asking is both unconventional and maybe a bit unethical... Actually, it’s completely unethical.

  And when my accountant hears about this, he’ll have a lecture or two to deliver. The guy is as straight as a banana, he won’t be lecturing me about the risk of a ruined reputation. He’ll be more concerned about the number of zeroes I’ve promised Ms. Bishop.

  But what is a million dollars in the grand scheme of things?

  With her help, I’ll have access to billions of dollars.

  Not that I’ll be letting her in on that secret. Sure, she’s not the gold-digging type now, but if she finds out I’m hoping to inherit a multi-billion-pound estate from my grandpa, that might change. After all, they say money changes people.

  I can’t afford any risk of her not going through with the divorce.

  Which is why I need her to believe this
is just a deal for a visa to live in the States permanently.

  I go over all of the reasons why this isn’t a terrible idea one more time, but I know no amount of deep thinking can ease the tension in my stomach.

  At the bottom of my mental pro/con list are three simple facts.

  I need this.

  Peyton needs money.

  It’s a win-win, and when this is all over, we’ll go our separate ways and live our best lives.

  I’m certain that in two years’ time, we’ll look back on this whole thing and laugh. Maybe even feel a sense of gratitude.

  It’s dark and raining when I leave the office. Again.

  Summer feels like a lifetime ago, and it certainly doesn’t feel like spring with all of the terrible weather we’ve been having.

  The smell of wet grass and the sound of wheels splashing into puddles remind me of home.

  And by home, I mean England.

  I grew up in the country, just outside of Reading. It was a great place to be a teenager. A train ride from London, and a cycle into the city, where just about every form of entertainment was available.

  From all-you-can-eat pizza buffets and arcades, to skateboard parks and nature trails. There was never a dull day.

  Except for the days in school, listening to my history professor talking about the Tudors in a mind-numbing drone. Falling asleep during Mr. Marlow’s lectures was a given.

  Boarding school set me up for college life. I went on to Cambridge University, and while the other kids were out partying until sunrise or crying over being away from their parents for the first time; I was managing my days perfectly.