When Greg Svensson crossed my path four years ago, I should have just let him keep on walking … right into the street to get hit by a bus.
But I was weak.
Not to mention that when you’re a six-foot-tall woman and meet a guy out in the wild who is both taller than you and attracted to you, you make certain allowances. You ignore certain red flags.
Greg is poison.
Sexy poison, but he’s still the type of bad decision that will leave you on the cold floor of your apartment, consuming your weight in cheese while you wonder what the hell happened.
Greg happened.
And now he’s stolen my company—the one I built by sheer force of will.
I’m demoralized, furious, humiliated.
The worst part?
Now we have to work together.
Him in the office next to mine.
His stupid, smug, perfect face on the other side of a glass wall that I swear to God I’m throwing a chair through if he doesn’t stop doing that tapping thing with his fountain pen.
Breathe.
He thinks he’s won.
But I’m going to make sure he regrets meeting me as much as I regret meeting him.
Forget stealing his parking space (though his expression is pretty funny).
And note to self: definitely forget sleeping with him!
No … I’m taking my pound of flesh.
Ugh. God, keep your clothes on. Not like that!
