SEX LUST LOVE HATE: An Enemies-to-Lovers Office Romance Standalone Read online

  Sex, Lust, Love, Hate

  Mika Jolie

  Contents

  1. Charlotte

  2. Jagger

  3. Charlotte

  4. Jagger

  5. Charlotte

  6. Jagger

  7. Jagger

  8. Jagger

  9. Charlotte

  10. Jagger

  11. Charlotte

  12. Jagger

  13. Charlotte

  14. Jagger

  15. Charlotte

  16. Jagger

  17. Charlotte

  18. Jagger

  19. Jagger

  20. Charlotte

  SEX LUST LOVE HATE Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Mika Jolie

  SEX, LOVE, LUST, HATE © Mika Jolie

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  U.S. Copyright Act of 1976. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  1

  Charlotte

  “Mom, for the love of God, roll over. You’re gonna make yourself sick.”

  “Get your hands off me, Charlotte. I knew how to handle my booze before you were even born.”

  “Yeah.” I haul her into a sitting position. She struggles to keep her balance—her legs don’t work, neither do her hands. Or her fingers. Somewhere, deep inside, I know her brain is sending signals telling her what to do. Whether or not her body is listening is a different story. “And look where you ended up.”

  Green eyes similar to mine stare at me, her expression a mixture of betrayal, rage, and alcohol-induced confusion. Her bottle-blond hair no longer resembles an expensive cut from a high-end salon, standing out from her head at all angles. Red lipstick smears the corner of her mouth, but there’s not much to be done about that. I’m just lucky she managed to get into her pajamas before getting shitfaced this time.

  “You…you take that back,” she slurs, lurching forward and jabbing a finger in my direction.

  “I’ll take it back if you finish this.” I push the half-empty water glass into her face. “You’re already making me late.”

  “Fine, then. Get out of here. Leave, like everyone else. What the fuck is the difference, right?”

  The melodrama might have been bleakly funny if it weren’t already going on ten o’clock in the morning on a Friday. TGIF doesn't mean getting hammered first thing in the morning.

  Shit. I glance down at my rumpled clothes. I have a meeting in less than an hour and I look like a fucking mess. Right now my life feels like a test I didn’t study for.

  “You’re going to have the hangover of your life if you don’t get some water down.” I hold the glass up to her mouth. She mutters something unintelligible but drinks it, and I refill the glass from the water bottle on the nightstand. “Atta girl.” I pull back the sheets as she lays back down. “Sleep on your side, Mom, okay?”

  “Sure, sure,” she mutters, all the fight going out of her at once. “Enough with the babying, Charlie. Just get to your meeting.”

  My heart pinches at the nickname my parents called me for most of my childhood, back in what I believed were the happier days. At seven, I didn’t think much beyond what was presented to me—a happy home, happy parents, a happy life.

  Little did I know.

  Trekking over to the floor-to-ceiling window, I pull the thick creamy brown curtains tight together, shutting out the daylight, and then perch on the edge of the bed. “Are you sure you’re gonna be okay?”

  She snorts. “No. But if you’re asking if I’m gonna die, you don’t need to worry.” Seeing my skeptical expression, she puts her hand over her heart. “Promise.”

  “Okay,” I say after a moment’s hesitation, then lean down to kiss her on the temple before standing up and slinging my purse over my shoulder. “I’ll stop by after work to see how you’re doing.”

  “Yeah.” She buries her face in her pillow. “And while you’re there, tell that son of a bitch that this is low, even for him.”

  Her words drip with anger and pain. I pause for a beat and survey my mother. Her head’s tilted to one side and her eyes narrowed as if I am a bug that needs to be squashed. And squashed quickly. Once upon a time I used to think her behavior was directed at me, but with time I learned I’m a replacement for my father. So here I am.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t agree with it, and the constant attacks always sting. There are other ways to clear the brain, to let the bad memories pass as a disliked song on the radio, to wait until there is enough space for the good stuff to grow. It’s been fifteen years since my parents divorced. I wish my mother had taken that route, steadied herself before the booze poisoned everything that is so very wonderful about her. Instead, she lets the alcohol take everything, buries her soul in a coma.

  I want to remind her to heal a wound, we have to stop touching it, but I know that too will fall on deaf ears. Mom hasn’t stopped poking at hers.

  I pity her.

  For now, my time here is done. I murmur a goodbye before turning and hurrying out of her bedroom. After work, I’ll stop and make sure she’s fine. I’ve seen Mom in the aftermath of her binges before, and it’s not pretty. She’s in for a hell of a ride after she sleeps this off, which probably means another few hours spent picking her up off the bathroom floor after work.

  So much for a hot bath and a glass of wine on a Friday night. I shake my head as I rush down the long hallway that winds towards the front door. Remnants of Mom’s debauchery are strewn all over the foyer—a couple of smashed wine glasses and empty bottles leave a trail into the kitchen that’s almost comical. At some point, she must have thrown her Louis Vuitton handbag, scattering its contents all over the floor.

  There’s no time to deal with that now, though. I have a meeting at exactly eleven o’clock. I glance at my modest, thin-strapped Tank watch. Ten-fifteen. Shit. No way I’m getting to work in time for that meeting, but if I hurry, I’ll at least be able to catch most of it.

  The elevator ride down is agonizingly slow, and I do my best to avoid eye contact with the well-dressed gentleman who gets on with his sugar baby on the ninth floor. My thoughts keep drifting back to that wedding clip, to the absurd look of triumph on my dad’s face as he stood next to his new wife—the third wife—and, of course, to the crestfallen betrayal in Mom’s voice when she had called me up, already knee-deep in booze. Maybe this is how all relationships turn out. Sex. Lust. Love. Hate. The perfect storm for emotional devastation.

  By the time I’ve made it past the front desk and out into the Manhattan sunshine, it’s ten twenty-five, and the Sloan Marketing offices are in the financial district. I guess now’s as good a time as any to get some exercise, though, and I begin to barrel down Fifth Avenue, doing my best not to stumble in my heels as I make a beeline for the nearest subway station.

  For once, I
manage to catch the five train, and I make it down to Broad Street in a lean fifteen minutes, finishing with a mad dash up the stairs and down the block toward the direction of Sloan Marketing headquarters. I probably look like a crazy person, but that’s par for the course in lower Manhattan, and at this point I’ll do anything to avoid the inevitable looks of disdain from one particular set of blue eyes. I can practically feel his eyes from across the table during our team meetings when he thinks I’m not looking.

  If only he knew.

  Whatever. I don’t care about Jagger Crane or his opinion of me. He’s a bore and a soul-sucking, broody human.

  Okay, I know what you’re probably thinking. Why so much dislike?

  It’s not that I don’t like him…oh wait, yes, yes, it is. Let’s put it this way, I feel much better when he’s not around.

  Twenty minutes late after the train ride and trekking down Fifth Avenue, I rush into the office building and swipe my ID for clearance. I do my best to get my outfit in order as I hurry past the reception desk and down the hallway to the board room, already kicking myself for not checking up on Mom sooner. To be fair, I didn’t think I’d have to bail her out this early in the day…although given the news, maybe I should have been expecting it.

  Here’s the thing—Mom isn’t the kind of divorcee to just roll over and crawl into a hole after splitting up with her husband. Oh, no, she’s the kind who will go down kicking and screaming in an alcohol-soaked blaze of glory. Every year she’s had a different coping mechanism: there was the boob job, of course, then her cougar phase. That was followed by prescription meds, constant parties, and binge drinking, which seems to be her current drug of choice. Given that she has nothing better to do than spend Dad’s alimony and rot in her penthouse apartment, it’s not exactly surprising. The sting of having been left for a mid-twenties office manager has never really gone away, although that marriage ended up dissolving in much the same way. He upgraded to a newer model.

  The source of today’s meltdown was a leggy blonde named Ashleigh, who at thirty-two is only three years older than me. Although considering Dad’s tastes, she might as well have one foot in the grave already. Honestly, I’m surprised he even went for her. Anyway, my mom ended up catching a clip of their blowout wedding on social media last night, and before you could say “train wreck,” she was throwing back the scotch.

  Mom will always insist that he’s just on the rebound, that sooner or later he’ll realize he made a mistake and start to hate himself for cheating on her. But if that’s true, then he’s been “on the rebound” since I was in middle school, and he’s not showing any signs of slowing down. I’m sure all those girls have plenty of stuff going for them, though. It has nothing to do with the case that they’re all young enough to be his daughter and busty enough to have an OnlyFans account. Of course not.

  Bitter? Who, me?

  I smooth out my skirt and square my shoulders before pushing open the glass door to the board room, pausing and struggling not to shrink under the gazes of everyone at the table, which have all suddenly turned on me, one especially. Jagger’s eyes practically bore into my brain.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I mutter to my dad as I walk past him and lower myself into the only available chair, which happens to be right next to Mr. Personality himself.

  2

  Jagger

  Speak of the devil.

  “Nice of you to finally join us,” I mutter, unable to help myself. “Going on twenty minutes late, but better late than never, isn’t that right?”

  Charlotte tugs her bag off her shoulder and sets it down on the table, then raises a brow in my direction. Green eyes meet mine. “I see you’re in your usual good mood, Jagger.”

  Board. Suits and egos. This room reached an all-time level of boredom eighteen minutes ago, all because we were on pause until Charlotte decided to join us. Meanwhile, I have six urgent calls to return. Every one of them is a sure sell, but they must be returned by two-thirty today. Each second that ticks by extends my day.

  “Would be a lot better if you weren’t holding up our meeting,” I fire back quietly. Contrary to her usual uniform of a cocktail dress, she looks rumpled.

  Now that I think about it, a party dress would probably top the designer suit she’s wearing now—at least that doesn’t give off the try-hard air of someone who’s ridden on her father’s coattails her whole life.

  She is pretty, as much as I hate to admit it—with flaming red hair that falls just past her shoulders and the long legs of a supermodel. There’s an aura of “look at me” about her that has nothing to do with her tardiness, and if she had her shit together, maybe she could use it to her advantage. But Charlotte Sloan is about as far from having her shit together as anyone I’ve ever met.

  “What was it this time?” I ask, going through the usual song and dance, insults and comebacks that would probably make high schoolers look immature, but I can’t help myself. She makes my blood boil, and she knows it. “Marquee? Webster Hall? Or have the classy places finally thrown you out?”

  “Envious of my social life, Mr. Dud?” She begins to rummage in her purse, the sound grating on my nerves even though there’s nothing inherently wrong with it other than the fact that it’s coming from her.

  “That’s funny, since you smell like you’re soaked in booze.” I lean in closer, dropping my voice to a faux whisper as she takes out a pen and notebook. “What is that, anyway? Jameson?”

  “Wild Turkey,” Charlotte replies without looking at me. “And can you blame me? Anyone would drink if they had to see you every day.”

  “Are you drunk right now?”

  “No. You’re just blurry.”

  “Problem?” Richard Sloan asks in our direction.

  “Not at all,” Charlotte responds, meeting her father’s gaze. “I was just telling Jagger about a great dating site he should check out.”

  The others at the table snicker. Her father appraises her with a stony look on his face before giving her a curt nod.

  Daddy and daughter. Their relationship is tepid at best, a well-known fact around the office.

  She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs like she owns the place. I guess she sort of does. Nepotism really does know no bounds.

  I swallow down my frustration and bite back a snarky retort when I realize that the conference room has gone quiet. Maybe that’s for the best. It’s only been a minute and she’s already starting to wear on me.

  Richard clears his throat, taking a moment to assess the room with his beady eyes. That’s been his go-to strategy ever since I started at Sloan Marketing Agency—stare a hole in the forehead of everyone in the room until they have no choice but to shrink back in their chairs and pray for mercy. I have to give him points for creativity, even if these kinds of mind games always make my blood boil.

  Charlotte is the only one in the room who doesn’t seem bothered by her father’s presence, at least until his eyes stop and linger on her for a second longer than the rest of us. She seems to retreat under his scrutiny, and I spot a hint of a blush rise in her pale skin. For a moment, I wonder where on earth she got such good genes from—her mother’s side of the family, I would imagine. Richard’s no looker.

  “Unfortunately, we couldn’t start until you joined us,” he tells Charlotte, putting his hands on the table in front of him.

  She clears her throat, and I have to admit, it’s fun watching her squirm a little.

  “Yeah.” She straightens herself in the black leather chair. “I was taking care of something.” She reaches up and winds a coil of red hair around her finger, twisting and untwisting it as she speaks. A nervous tic, maybe?

  “Try not to let it happen again. Now…” Richard opens a manila folder on the desk and frowns. “Dan, can you go over the numbers for this quarter before we get to the weekly to-dos…”

  I listen as he begins to rattle off sales figures, projections for the coming months, and possible new account leads. To find meaning in this r
eport would be like discovering protein in lettuce.

  As a member of the creative team, this stuff generally doesn’t concern me, which gives me ample time to pick at my fingernails while casting the occasional glance around the room. Next to me, Charlotte seems a little rattled at her father’s reaction and stares listlessly down at her notes as Dan continues to drone on. I’ve got to give Richard props for backbone, even if I had already known there’s no fire behind his reproach. Charlotte could set the fucking office on fire and she’d still probably end up with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.

  I realize I’m being petty, and I know it’s not charitable of me. If my mom were here, she’d remind me to not let other people’s actions bother me. But Mom’s not around anymore, which leaves me to bask in my surliness, as much as it undoubtedly makes me look like a brooding teenager.

  About ten minutes later, Dan finishes up with his statistics and passes the baton to Tina, who moves on to project guidelines for the week and a discussion about ongoing campaigns. My eyes creep back over to Charlotte. Her notepad is waiting in front of her, but she hasn’t written a single thing down. If anything, she looks…bored.

  Assistant Manager in the digital strategy department, and she can’t even be bothered to take notes during our meetings. At least appear to be interested.

  If you’re wondering why I have such a problem with Charlotte Sloan, I don’t know if I could point to just one reason. She’s got an attitude problem, sure, and that’s only exacerbated by the fact that our interactions tend to just end up turning into a volley of insults. But I’ve dealt with problem coworkers before, and that’s nothing new.