Her Cocky Billionaire (Bad Boy Billionaires Book 4)

She’s in debt. He needs a wife. But can a marriage of convenience turn into love?

Sarah
My mom‌’s cancer left me penniless.
A job as a barista isn’t covering the bills.
So when my favorite customer makes an indecent proposal, I can’t say no.
He’s cocky, wealthy, and just like my coffee—hot and steamy.
At first it’s all business.
But when business turns to pleasure…
Will we be able to make it work?

This is a Sweet, Steamy Short Story Romance. No Cliffhangers. This is the fourth in the Bad Boy Billionaire series, but it can also be read as a standalone. If you love short romances with steamy sex scenes and a sweet love story, then you’ll love this book.

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
The massive mahogany clock outside the imposing double doors of my grandfather’s office ticks incessantly. It’s well over a century old, a remnant of the old limestone building that my great-great-great-grandfather and his brother erected when Manhattan still had sleepy spots, when Brooklyn was farm country. The original headquarters of Jansen Brothers is long gone, but my family kept the clock.
Underneath me, the leather sofa cushions creak as I shift nervously. Grandpa—Thomas Jansen to the rest of the city—won’t call me in until the clock chimes the hour. He runs his life like a railroad timetable, and even if he’s sitting on his ass with nothing to do inside his plush office, I won’t get the go-ahead to enter until two on the dot. So I’m stuck here, waiting until some antique gives me permission.
The fact that I’m a senior vice president of this company, poised to take it over entirely when Grandpa retires in two weeks? Grandpa doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Everybody waits for him. Including me, heir apparent to the whole operation.
The clock finally strikes two—long, rolling bells that echo through the glass and marble space. The clock—the sound—don’t fit this sleek office at all, but Grandpa insisted. Just like his dad did, and just like I suppose I will, too, whenever Grandpa actually retires and hands over the keys.
“Your grandfather is ready to see you,” his assistant, Anita, says from her desk, peering at me from behind her reading glasses. I give her a brief wave of thanks as I walk across the hand-knotted rug and push the double doors open.
Grandpa stands at the far end of his vast office, gazing out the bank of windows at the city below. He doesn’t move when I enter, doesn’t return my greeting or even look in my direction as I walk past the glass-topped table, the handmade sofa, and settle myself into one of the leather chairs opposite his desk.
“Did you know,” he finally says, still gazing out the window, “that in 1845, a whale oil and candle manufacturing plant caught fire in lower Manhattan and torched damn near ten blocks in every direction?”
Where the hell was this going? “No, I guess I didn’t.”
“Your great-great-great-grandfather almost went bankrupt,” Grandpa continues. “His warehouse was full of tea, cotton and tobacco. It all went up like a match.”
Grandpa turns to face me, and I gesture to the office around me. The opulent furnishings, the polished marble. “I think we’ve recovered, though.”

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