Because now, I’m screwed. I’ll always be comparing every man I meet to the cockiest—literally and figuratively—son of a bitch ever to grace my life.
I’m a big, steaming pile of Caplin Hawkins roadkill.
Seriously. The road crew should be here any minute to scrape my good-for-nothing rotted carcass from the pavement.
Not Fido’s. Mine.
Woof-motherflipping-woof.
Still don’t believe me?
Keep reading—you’ll see.
I have to warn you to be careful, though.
Because you’re going to like Cap from the start. You’re going to think he’s charming and funny and sexy. He’s going to make you laugh and giggle and flutter your eyelashes, even if you’re generally not one of those eyelash-fluttering kinds of girls.
You’re going to find yourself enamored of him.
Hell, you probably won’t be able to resist him.
But don’t be fooled. He’s a sexy-as-fuck wolf in sheep’s clothing, and when Caplin Hawkins is involved—any time Caplin Hawkins is involved—there’s a really good chance you’ll end up roadkill too.
Cap
A calendar alert pops up on the screen of my computer, reminding me about the call I have scheduled for tomorrow with a client named Gene Huffman, and I curse under my breath.
Shit. The Huffman case.
I knew I had something on the docket for tomorrow that I needed research for, but with the chaos of today’s office environment, I couldn’t remember what the hell it was until right this moment.
“Heather…Heidi…Hoda!” I yell quickly, trying to get my new assistant’s attention.
“Jesus Christ,” Milo Ives, founder and CEO of Fuse Technology, mutters in my ear. “Are you requiring alliteration in your harems now?”
I suppose some might consider it bad form to be on the phone with the CEO of a billion-dollar empire without giving him my undivided attention, but I, Caplin Hawkins, am a one-man show.
Also, Milo is one of my best friends, and he can simply fucking deal with my lack of focus on whatever the hell legal contract he’s wanting me to nail down so he can add more zeros behind the number on his bottom line. The man has enough money to last him a lifetime. Surely, not being able to acquire another tech company under his umbrella wouldn’t be the end of the world.
Basically, I run my office in much the same way I run my life.
There are no partners to turn to, no office lackeys to count on, no wife to answer to when I don’t come home at a certain hour.
I make my own decisions, and in work, I know I’ll do the job the way I want it done.
But it’s that mind-set that’s gotten me where I am today.
At a mere thirty-one years old, I’m a man—a damn good-looking one, I might add—who has built one hell of a successful career as a corporate lawyer.
But I only have so much time to give, so many hours in the day, and as a result, in both the office and my relationships with women, multitasking is always necessary, bad form or not.
“I fucking wish,” I grumble, scrounging desperately around my cluttered desk to find the Post-it note I know I put somewhere. After a straight twenty-four hours here at the office, there are files and Red Bull cans and takeout order receipts on every square inch of usable surface. “I’m trying to remember my assistant’s name, and I’m pretty damn sure it starts with an H.”
“It’s Liz,” he deadpans, and if we weren’t on the phone, I’d definitely give the asshole a big hug—right around the neck with only my hands. As it is, and we are, I chortle a fake laugh.
“I know Liz’s name, Jackwagon. But she decided she needed time off from work to have a baby, if you can believe that. Like working for me isn’t a vacation every single day of her life.”
Nine months ago, my regular assistant Liz, my right-hand woman—my Girl Friday—up and decided to have a baby. Just like every other goddamn person in my life, she succumbed to settling down into marriage and babies and happily fucking ever after.
Pffft. Happily ever after. As if proverbially handcuffing yourself to one person for the rest of your life is going to result in bliss. Divorces would be a hell of a lot lower than fifty percent if that were the reality.
Frankly, I don’t understand the disgusting practice, and as much as my love-sick friends like to believe otherwise, I never will.
Of course now, something that’s annoying on its best day—the Leave It to Beaver epidemic—is even worse. Now that Liz is a part of it, it’s actually inconveniencing me.