Xoxo, p.1
XOXO, page 1
FIRST ORIGINAL EDITION, MARCH 2021
Copyright © 2021 by Deborah Bladon
All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without written consent from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales are entirely coincidental.
ISBN: 9798716868908
eBook ISBN: 9781926440620
Book & cover design by Wolf & Eagle Media
https://deborahbladon.com
Also by Deborah Bladon
THE OBSESSED SERIES
THE EXPOSED SERIES
THE PULSE SERIES
THE VAIN SERIES
THE RUIN SERIES
IMPULSE
SOLO
THE GONE SERIES
FUSE
THE TRACE SERIES
CHANCE
THE EMBER SERIES
THE RISE SERIES
HAZE
SHIVER
TORN
THE HEAT SERIES
RISK
MELT
THE TENSE DUET
SWEAT
TROUBLEMAKER
WORTH
HUSH
BARE
WISH
SIN
LACE
THIRST
COMPASS
VERSUS
RUTHLESS
BLOOM
RUSH
CATCH
FROSTBITE
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Epilogue
Preview of Plucked
Thank you
Deborah’s Mailing List
About the Author
Chapter 1
Arietta
“Are you skipping your coffee break again?”
I glance up at the sound of the cheery voice of one of my co-workers. Bronwyn Kirby flashes me a dimpled grin.
“Yes.” I sigh. “I can’t leave my desk. I have too much to do.”
Undeterred by my answer, Bronwyn waves a chocolate bar at me. “I picked this up yesterday at a candy store in Times Square. Take a break, and we’ll split it.”
Chocolate is one of my weaknesses. It’s the perfect partner to a hot cup of dark roast coffee.
I’m tempted to drop everything to satisfy my sweet tooth and caffeine craving, but it’s not worth facing the wrath of my boss.
I point at the stack of file folders on the corner of my desk. “Mr. Calvetti wants all of those updated before he gets back.”
Bronwyn’s gaze drifts to the files. “You have time to squeeze in a short break.”
She says it with enough confidence that I almost fall victim to her ploy. I know she doesn’t want to spend the next fifteen minutes alone in the break room. The chocolate is a compelling lure, but avoiding Mr. Calvetti’s disappointment bears more weight.
I shake my head. “He made it clear before he left for his meeting that I needed to get through all of that. I want to avoid angry Dominick today.”
Bronwyn tucks a lock of her brown hair behind her ear. “I convinced Judd to switch everything to electronic form. When I have to make an update to a client’s file, it takes two seconds flat.”
I don’t need the reminder that her boss is the opposite of mine. We’re both executive assistants working for the same company, but Bronwyn reports to Judd Corning. He’s known to smile most of the day, dole out a few compliments each week, and the bonus he handed her during the holidays was in the low-five figures.
Mr. Calvetti has resting scowl face. He wouldn’t know a compliment if it hit him in the side of the head, and my December bonus consisted of a ten-dollar gift card to a bodega.
Bronwyn unwraps the chocolate to snap off half. She offers it to me with a grin. “You look like you could use something stronger, but this is the best I can do at the moment.”
Taking a bite, I close my eyes and lean back in my chair. “This is incredible. It’s so good.”
Bronwyn laughs. “You act like it’s better than sex.”
My eyes pop open. “What?”
“It’s chocolate, Arietta.” She takes a bite of the piece in her hand. “It’s good, but even bad sex is better than this.”
I disagree. I’ve never had sex that has been as satisfying as this chocolate.
“If you change your mind and decide to sneak away from your desk, I’ll be all by my lonesome in the break room.” Bronwyn pushes out her bottom lip in a pout. “I’d tell you not to work too hard, but I know you have no choice.”
She’s right. I don’t have a choice. I have to get my to-do list done before my boss’s meeting uptown comes to an end.
***
An hour later, I finally close the last file folder on my desk. I have no idea how I managed to get it all done, but I did. I pop what’s left of the chocolate into my mouth.
I turn my attention to all of the messages that have been left for Mr. Calvetti this morning. I need to sort through those now.
It sounds simple enough, but in his world, nothing fits into that category.
He made it clear that any message from a woman who is not related to him or looking for investment advice is to be tossed in the trash.
I search through the fifteen pieces of paper in front of me.
I pick out three.
I read the first to myself. “Tell Dominick that I have his tie. If he wants it back, he’s going to need to fly to Norfolk to get it out of my bed.”
My gaze drifts to the name I jotted down during my brief conversation with the woman. Teagan. Next to that is a phone number with a Virginia based area code.
I open the bottom drawer of my desk and tug out a manila envelope. I push the paper with Teagan’s message into it, cramming it in with the dozens of others I’ve put in there since I started working for Mr. Calvetti.
I do the same with the other two messages I plucked out of the pile.
Even though Mr. Calvetti has told me repeatedly not to take messages from the women he knows “outside of the office” (code for has sex with), I always do. Tossing them in the trash feels cruel. If a woman is putting herself out there, I can’t ignore that, even if Mr. Calvetti always does.
I’m not okay with being the bearer of bad news, and I refuse to be responsible for a stranger’s broken heart.
Since two of the three messages I just put in the envelope are from women in Virginia, I’d say that my boss did more than handle business on his trip there last week.
I wish he’d jet off again. The offices of Modica Wealth Management are peaceful when he’s not here.
When he spent months in Italy courting new clients, it was almost perfect.
He did wake me often in the middle of the night to do menial tasks for him, but whenever I sat behind this desk, I didn’t have to glance into his office and see the stern expression on his gorgeous face.
Speaking of which...
I bolt to my feet when I hear the telltale whispered warnings from my co-workers that Mr. Calvetti is back from his meeting.
Pushing my eyeglasses up the bridge of my nose, I suck in a deep and uneven breath. I’ve got this. I can do this.
Mr. Calvetti promoted me because he knows I’m capable of great things.
I convinced myself of that as I was signing my employment contract. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but the best things in life come with a challenge and a commitment to overcome anything standing in your way.
My gaze hones in on him when he steps around the corner and turns in my direction.
Perfection in a three-piece charcoal gray suit is headed my way.
Did he get even better looking since he left the office this morning?
His dark brown hair is a touch longer than when he hired me, and his brown eyes look even more soulful.
I shake my head because I’m being blinded by how handsome he is. Dominick Calvetti doesn’t have a soul. Greed sits in the place where his soul should be.
&
“My office now,” he says in a clipped tone. “Follow me, Miss Voss.”
I grab the messages and my tablet from my desk and fall in step behind him, hoping that the rest of the day flies by.
Chapter 2
Dominick
Arietta Voss looks as though she stepped out of a finger painting done by a four-year-old. Every color of the rainbow is represented in the patterned blouse she’s wearing.
Her sense of style has never been on point.
That’s one of the reasons she was promoted a few months after being hired as a junior analyst.
My last two executive assistants were women as well. They dressed to impress. They both caught the eye of my single male clients. Many of the married ones were just as enamored. It was a distraction my business doesn’t need, so when it came time to find a new executive assistant, I perused the company employee files while paying close attention to the attached photos.
Arietta stood out in the simplest way.
She puts minimal effort into her appearance. Today is a perfect example of that. Her blonde hair is wound up in an uneven chignon. The bottom hem of the oversized skirt she’s wearing skims the top of her sensible black shoes, and the blouse she has on is not only a mishmash of colors; it’s at least two sizes too large for her.
I’ve heard people in the office comment behind Arietta’s back about how she’s the youngest grandma they’ve ever met.
My grandmother, Martina Calvetti, would have a word with them about how a woman’s age shouldn’t dictate her wardrobe choices.
I agree, but I don’t have the time or inclination to defend Miss Voss’s attire.
I care about her intelligence and competence. The clothes she puts on her back keep my clients focused on their portfolios and not on her.
I consider that a bonus.
“How has your day been so far, Mr. Calvetti?” she asks as she follows me into my office.
“Fine,” I answer brusquely.
“And the meeting? How was that?”
“Fine,” I repeat, leaving it at that.
She doesn’t expect me to ask her anything. I know what I need to know. She’s twenty-two. She has a degree in business. She skipped the fifth and tenth grades. Her IQ is higher than mine, although that’s a fact neither she nor anyone but me is aware of.
I take the seat behind my desk. “I want a coffee in my hand in...”
“Ten minutes,” she finishes my sentence. “I’ve emailed you a proposed schedule for the remainder of the day. I contacted Mr. Morano, and he was happy to reschedule his appointment to tomorrow afternoon at four. That gives you the time you requested so you could leave the office an hour early.”
I look up when I hear the subtle shift in her tone as she says the last two words. Her face gives nothing away. Her gray eyes lock on my mouth as I study her.
If she’s expecting an explanation or a smile, she’ll be disappointed.
“Good,” I offer.
The corners of her mouth edge up toward a grin.
Have her lips always been that full?
“Mr. Corning would like to see you as soon as you have a free moment.” Her gaze drifts to the window to my right. “I did ask what it pertained to, but he wasn’t forthcoming.”
I’d bet my entire fortune that it’s about a client we’ve been trying to persuade to sign with us. We want to manage her hundreds-of-millions. She wants us to work harder for the privilege.
Going into business with my two closest friends from high school seemed like a good idea at the time. I was eighteen, full of hope, and blinded by lust for a future bank account with a six–figure balance.
Sixteen years later, I’ve leapfrogged that to a comfortable eight-figure investment portfolio, an apartment that overlooks Central Park, and a villa in Italy. Hope fell by the wayside during my freshman year of college when I realized dreams could only take a man so far. Hard work and ruthless determination have been the keys to my success.
Daniel Lawton, a third of our trio, moved to Los Angeles two months ago to handle our growing list of clients on the west coast. Judd Corning, who sits in an office down the hall from mine, brings his unique talents to the business. He balances out Daniel’s and my strengths.
We’ve nurtured relationships, made connections, and proven to our clients that if you want your wealth to grow, we’ll make it happen.
“I’ll see him now.” I glance at Arietta. “Tell him I have fifteen minutes, and that’s all I can give him.”
I can carve out an hour for Judd, but I’ve already read through a string of text messages that he sent me today. His latest effort to convince Clarice Blanchard to agree to a meeting with us to present our investment strategies was met with silence.
It’s a calculated move in the seemingly unending game of cat and mouse that we’ve been playing with her for weeks.
“I’ll do that,” Arietta says. “Is there anything else you need?”
“That’s all. Thank you.”
She tilts her head as if she’s trying to comprehend what I just said.
This may very well be the only time I’ve thanked her for anything. I’d say it slipped out, but good intentions take effort. I’ll never be the gentleman my father is, but an attempt at good manners now and again can’t hurt.
A full smile graces her lips. “You’re welcome.”
“Your call to Mr. Corning, Arietta...”
“Of course.” She takes a step toward me before she backs up several inches. “Since you are leaving an hour early today, I was wondering if I could too?”
“No,” I answer without hesitation.
Again, her expression gives nothing away. If she’s disappointed, she’s hiding it behind a smile.
“That’s all, Miss Voss.”
She places a stack of papers on my desk. “These are your messages, sir. There were others, but I took care of them.”
I read between the lines. Arietta tossed any messages left by women I’ve had encounters with.
“Good.” I don’t need to thank her for that. It’s part of her job. “My coffee, Arietta.”
She nods. “I’ll call Mr. Corning and grab a coffee for both of you. If you need anything else, you know where to find me.”
Indeed I do. She’ll be where I pay her very well to be. That’s behind her desk, keeping my professional life in order.
Chapter 3
Arietta
“I will never understand how Mr. Calvetti grew up with that woman as his grandmother.” I wave a finger in the air toward where Martina Calvetti is standing near the kitchen of the restaurant that bears her surname. “She’s a saint. He’s the devil.”
My roommate, Sinclair Morgan, glances in the direction I’m pointing. “Marti has like a bazillion grandkids. You can’t expect them all to be winners.”
I let out a stuttered laugh. “There are a lot of them, but I think it’s under twenty total.”
Sinclair shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe The Dick didn’t spend enough time with her during his formative years.”
I almost choke on the forkful of ravioli I just shoved into my mouth. I chuckle as I chew. “I haven’t called him that in a long time.”
The Dick is the nickname I gave Mr. Calvetti after I worked with him for a week. Although I appreciate that the man has the weight of the world on his shoulders since he’s managing the financial portfolios of some of the world’s wealthiest people, his one-on-one skills are lacking.
Or at least they are with me.
He pays me enough that I don’t take his rudeness to heart.
Sinclair runs a hand through her long brown hair, pushing it over her left shoulder. “Speaking of dicks, how is online dating going?”
“I thought we agreed to finish dinner before we talked about men.”
Sliding her now empty plate to the side, she points at my almost empty bowl. “We’re done. Are you ready to take the plunge and meet that guy you’ve been talking to online?”
Sinclair means well. Since we started living together a few months ago, she’s been helping me wade through the muddy waters of online dating. In my case, it’s app dating. Three weeks ago, I downloaded an app that matches singles in the five boroughs with each other.
I’ve had six matches so far, but only one is someone I’d consider meeting in person. Lowell Wellington is good-looking, funny, and building a career in finance. So far, we have loads in common, and our chats on the messaging system built into the app have been hours long.
He may be the ideal guy for me, right down to his close-cropped black hair, blue eyes, and eyeglasses.
