Title: Mister McHottie
Author: Pippa Grant
Genre: Sexy Romantic Comedy
Release Date: October 30, 2017
Blurb
Chase
I’ve just bought the woman of my nightmares.
Technically, I bought the company she works
for. Point is, she cost me my two best friends ten years ago. It’s payback
time, and I’m going to make her life hell.
When I’m not banging her silly and myself
stupid.
I need to get my head back in business,
because getting off is great, but He was a man who had sex, and lots of it,
and in the worst locations, with the woman of his nightmares isn’t the
inscription I want on my tombstone.
Even if it’s true.
Ambrosia
There are three things I hate:
Bratwurst in any form, my neighbors boinking
loudly like farm animals at 3 AM, and Chase Jett.
Mostly I hate Chase Jett. It’s been ten years
since he took my virginity—I’d make a bratwurst joke, but the unfortunate truth
is that it would have to be a bratbest joke, which also pisses me off—and now
he’s not only a billionaire, he’s also my new boss.
Turns out our hate is mutual. And this kind of
hate is horrifically twisted, filthy, and banging hot.
I just might have to hate him forever.
Mister McHottie is 45,000 gloriously hilarious, hot, sexy words that your mother
warned you about, complete with an organic happy-ever-after (or seven), a
Bratwurst Wagon, ill-advised office pranks, and no cheating or cliffhangers.
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Excerpt
Ambrosia
May Berger is standing in the elevator bank, peering up at the numbers. She
hiccups again. I stop beside her and watch her eyes go wide, then narrow, then
cross. Mirrored elevator doors are possibly the second greatest invention known
to man.
First, of
course, is the internet.
I stare at
Bro in the door mirror.
She stares
back.
For all the
shit she gave me growing up, I always respected her spine. As much as one can respect something that infuriating.
She got away with everything. Even when she was reckless.
I can
honestly say no woman I’ve been with since her has ever tried to make a break
for it in the Bratwurst Wagon.
As long as
I block out the month that followed, I can think of the Bratwurst Wagon with a
smile.
“Working
late or coming in early?” I ask.
“The hogs
are mating again,” she replies.
The world
believes this woman to be a sane, competent adult. Mind-boggling.
“Do you
always wait in elevator banks for women you want to harass?” she asks.
“Only when
I’ve gotten bored staking out the bathrooms.” I reach over and hit the up button, because she hasn’t. “Do you
always assume the elevators can read your mind?”
“They were
doing better than you. I didn’t want to go up.”
“And you’re
standing here because…?”
“It’s my
thinking spot.”
“It’s 3 AM
on a Wednesday morning.”
“Do you see
me judging you on wanting to use an elevator at 3 AM on a Wednesday morning?
No, you don’t. So why do you have to judge me for wanting to think in an
elevator bank at 3 AM? Hmmmmmm?” The hum trills up on the end, right in time
with her swiveling to face me. She squints one eye, then the other, before
scrunching her face, pointing her index finger at my nose, and making pew, pew noises.
If this is what the security guards were worried
I’d find, I’m rather disappointed.
“Drinking
on the job again?” I ask.
“Again implies I’ve done it before. Which
I have not, unless you count that time the guava kale juice fermented, which I
don’t, because it only counts as drinking if I enjoy the alcohol. Also, all
whiskey was consumed off-premise.”
“So you’re
drunk.”
“I’m not drunk. I’m barely buzzed enough to be
able to tolerate you.”
I eye her,
and decide she’s telling the truth. Her eyes are too focused and her tongue’s
too sharp for her to be drunk. I can’t even smell anything on her. Tired,
maybe, but not drunk.
“Was it
organic?” I ask dryly.
“It’s
whiskey, dickhead.”
Christ,
that mouth. I want to lick it and tape it shut all at the same time. “You
shouldn’t call your superiors names.”
She blows a
raspberry. The sight of her ripe pink tongue makes my cock leap to attention.
“Looking
for disciplinary action?” I murmur.
“Oh, don’t
you wish.” The elevator dings, and she lists inside. I’d try to catch her, but
frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing her crash to the ground.
She comes
to a solid stop at the railing along the back paneled wall. “And you’re not my
superior,” she says.
“I write
your paycheck.”
“Not yet
you haven’t.” Spittle shouldn’t be sexy, but her second raspberry gives me a
longer look at her tongue. I remember that tongue. Long as a lizard’s, hot as a
volcano, talented as a porn star.
That’s as
complimentary as I get where Bro Berger is concerned.
“So Mr.
Liver-bellied Bratwurst-runner-away-er,” she says, “wouldn’t you be happier
owning a grocery store that I don’t work for? Because I’m sure we can find
another zagillionaire to take your place.”
I punch the
button to the eighteenth floor—where the fresh greens for tomorrow are being
picked and packed right now, if all’s on schedule—and give her my worst smile.
“Aw, Bro, your inflated opinion of my bank account is touching.”
“You could
be a mega-ka-billion-trillionaire, and you still wouldn’t have enough money to
buy a soul.”
I’m
relatively new to the ranks of the ten-figure club, but it’s still been years
since anyone has insulted me to my face.
Her blatant
hatred is oddly erotic. “Who needs a soul when I have the power to sack
tempestuous employees?”
“Go ahead.
I dare you.” She bangs the button for the fourth floor. Then the third, fifth,
seventh, ninth, and every odd number to the top. With a frown, she draws her
hand down the row of even numbers until every single floor is lit, and if I’d
still thought this was alcohol motivating her, the sharp, devious intention in
her cold eyes removes any doubt.
She’s fully
in control and she’s intentionally trying to bait me.
Heat creeps
over my scalp. It’s working.
She’s
making this elevator stop on Every. Single. Fucking. Floor.
I whip out
my cell phone—security can override her little prank—but as the doors close, my
signal dies.
She does
the MC Hammer dance, and her breasts jiggle under her swishy spring dress in a
way even a celibate Tibetan monk couldn’t resist. There’s no fucking way she’s
wearing a bra.
My cock twitches
harder.
How did a
woman so insanely evil land the world’s most perfect tits?
“Go on,
rich boy.” She switches to the Lawnmower, and now her hips are rocking it too.
“Buy your way out of that.”
Good Chase, the businessman, the gaming tech genius, the
face I show the world, the smarter part of my brain, hops off when the doors
open on the second floor, because he appreciates stairs and getting the hell
away from this deranged woman.
Bad Chase, though, has possessed my body, and keeps me
in the elevator.
I wave
goodbye to rational thought and better judgment—who needs those bitches
anyway?—and turn to Bro with a growl.
She’s
wiggling her sweet curvy ass at me now, arms circling, stirring the batter. “It’s my birthday, happy birthday, it’s my
birth—oomph!”
Huh.
Emergency stop button works, but it’s a little choppy on the execution. Better
have maintenance look at that tomorrow.
I take one
large, purposeful step toward Bro.
She fists
her hands on her hips and calls me an asshole with her dark, heavy-lidded,
fuck-me bedroom eyes.
Yeah.
She’s
feeling it too.
That pull.
That hate. That inexplicable force of rage that can only be satiated with a
hard, hot fuck.
Author Bio
Pippa Grant is a stay-at-home mom and housewife who loves to
escape into sexy, funny stories way more than she likes perpetually cleaning
toothpaste out of sinks and off toilet handles. When she’s not reading,
writing, sleeping, or trying to prepare her adorable demon spawn to be
productive members of society, she’s fantasizing about chocolate chip cookies.
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