The Work Wife: A Romantic Comedy Read online

  The Work Wife

  CJ Martín

  Contents

  The Work Wife

  Letter to the Reader

  Playlist

  1. Prologue: Charli

  2. Charli

  3. Oliver

  4. Charli

  5. Charli

  6. Charli

  7. Oliver

  8. Charli

  9. Charli

  10. Oliver

  11. Charli

  12. Oliver

  13. Charli

  14. Oliver

  15. Oliver

  16. Charli

  17. Oliver

  18. Charli

  19. Charli

  20. Charli

  21. Oliver

  22. Charli

  23. Charli

  24. Oliver

  25. Charli

  26. Charli

  27. Charli

  28. Oliver

  29. Charli

  30. Charli

  31. Charli

  32. Charli

  33. Oliver

  34. Charli

  35. Charli

  36. Oliver

  37. Charli

  38. Charli

  39. Charli

  40. Charli

  41. Charli

  42. Oliver

  43. Charli

  44. Oliver

  45. Charli

  46. Oliver

  47. Charli

  48. Charli – Epilogue

  Also by CJ Martín

  Forever Hearts: Prologue

  Chapter 1: Riley

  Chapter 2: Riley

  Chapter 3: Jesse

  About the Author

  Acknowledgments

  The Work Wife

  We’ve all been there before: wanting something—or someone—we can’t have. Whether it’s a decadent slice of chocolate cake that will blow a diet, the too expensive yet oh-so-cute shoes that cost more than an entire paycheck, or the drool-worthy barista who whips up this morning’s macchiato…the point is, we can relate.

  Meet Charli. A slightly awkward, forever single twenty-eight-year-old woman who definitely wants what she can’t have. Enter Oliver. A thirty-eight-year-old executive chef who can’t stop thinking about his quirky co-worker, even though he’s engaged. Life is about choices, and saying “yes” to one person means saying “no” to another. But what if Charli and Oliver have been saying yes to the wrong people?

  The timing isn’t right. The place isn’t right. But is it ever?

  They say if you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen. Charli and Oliver just may set the kitchen on fire.

  The Work Wife is a standalone romantic comedy. Equal parts cocky and self-assured, a pinch of awkward sprinkled with a dash of sass, topped with a whole lot of sizzlin’ heat, you'll love this laugh-out-loud romance by best-selling author CJ Martín.

  Copyright © 2018 by CJ Martín

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of CJ Martín. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  All the characters and storyline are the property of the author, and your support and respect are appreciated. The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or deceased, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language, and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  ASIN: B07P6DYM42

  Cover Design: KassiJean Formatting & Design

  Edited By: Bree Scalf, Vivid Words Editing

  Proofread By: Elaine York, Allusion Graphics and R.c. Craig

  Formatting By: CJ Martín Books, LLC

  Letter to the Reader

  Before you embark on this journey with Charli and Oliver, I’d like to share some important notes with you. To me, beginning a new book is like entering into a contract of sorts. You, the reader, have expectations, and I want to be clear about what this book offers.

  Some novels are about finding your path, or falling in love, or good old-fashioned sex. While this story has elements of all these things, this book is primarily about relationships—relationships between family, co-workers, friends, and lovers—and how those bonds affect the decisions and choices we make.

  Infidelity is a hard limit for many readers. There is no physical, sexual cheating in this book. However, the lines are definitely blurred in regards to emotional infidelity. What defines emotional infidelity is subjective; if this is a trigger for you, please do not read this book.

  Still with me? Okay, great.

  I read this quote many years ago, and it has profoundly impacted the lens through which I view the world: You never have enough information to judge somebody.

  Please keep this in mind as you embrace Charli and Oliver’s characters. They are real. They are flawed. I hope that as you begin this adventure with them, you can understand their motives, and not necessarily forgive their shortcomings, but empathize with their situation…because in the end, we’re all just doing the best we can.

  Thanks for reading,

  xoxo, CJ

  Playlist

  Stone Cold – Demi Lovato

  Borrowed – Leann Rimes

  Shouldn’t Be a Good in Goodbye – Jason Walker

  Love on the Brain – Rihana

  Before He Cheats – Carrie Underwood

  God Bless the U.S.A. – Lee Greenwood

  Symphony for Piano, 1st movement - Alkan

  Tal Vez – Ricky Martin

  This is for all of the people who work hard to achieve their dreams despite the naysayers. Hold your head high and keep fighting the good fight.

  Don’t quit before the miracle.

  It’s better to cross the line and suffer the consequences

  than just stare at that line for the rest of your life.

  Prologue: Charli

  One year ago

  I’m going to kill him. Sweaty and out of breath, I lie there, splayed flat on my ass, on the corner of Broad and Market streets. Precisely three blocks—three long city blocks—from my starting point.

  “Winston!” I shout, digging my heels into the pavement to prevent him from dragging me farther along. “Winston!” I yell again, desperation rising in my voice as I wrap the black leash around my wrist so tightly it nearly cuts off the circulation.

  People rush by in a hurry. Most walk around me, giving me a wide berth, one distracted woman almost steps on my leg, and a few nosier passersby stop and stare with mouths agape. But, mostly, everyone ignores me and Winston’s incessant, annoying bark. Save for one person.

  Him.

  The man who sprinted three blocks from the restaurant and didn’t even break a sweat. Not one drop.

  The man who watched in half-amusement, half-horror when I collided with the heavy sign as I finally caught up to Winston.

  The man who made me gasp—aloud—when he pinned me with his intense, cocoa-colored eyes.

  “Are you okay?” the man asks, voice laced with concern as he extends his hand toward me.

  My hair is wild and messy, ponytail undone. My gym shorts are bunched near the tops of my thighs, and I’m wearing a silly t-shirt that states in big, bold letters “I Like Big Mutts and I Cannot Lie.” Definitely not my finest moment.

  I want to maintain some semblance of dignity, which is damn hard given my current state. “I’m fine, really, but thanks,” I answer and roll onto all fours, practically mounting the wooden sign that boasts “Mecca’s Daily Spec
ials.”

  When I finally get up, I’m colored with vibrant streaks of chalk dust, and the slate menu board has been wiped clean. I quickly scan the length of my body. No obvious scrapes or bruises anywhere. Besides the ones to my ego, that is.

  I direct my attention to the dog that prances several feet in front of me, barking and howling as if his life depends on it.

  “Come on.” I yank the leash with a bit more force than is warranted. If his owner, Mrs. James, finds out about our little “incident,” she’ll have my head. She’s a crazy dog lady if I’ve ever seen one. Not only does Winston eat a healthier diet than most humans—organic, fowl-free, low allergen, and low glycemic, but he also has standing appointments with his dermatologist, dentist, and psychologist. It’s a wonder Mrs. James let me within fifty feet of her beloved German shepherd to begin with. My guess is she has no idea how unskilled of a dog walker I actually am. This may be due to the fact that I oversold my dog expertise by, oh, I don’t know, a million percent.

  But I needed a job, and busy city dwellers like Mrs. James are willing to pay top dollar for their precious pooches to be exercised on daily walks. Never mind that I’m scooping up shit every few feet and stopping to piss on every pole. The dogs, that is, not me.

  “You sure you’re okay?” the man asks, voice soft. His eyes move over me, slow and lazy. His gaze caresses my skin, heats my flesh, causing me to flush even more. But this time not with embarrassment.

  “I’m fine.” Holding the dog’s leash with a firm grip, I lean forward to try to right the fallen sign, but it’s too heavy to manage one-handed. Jesus, how the hell was Winston able to run three city blocks dragging a fifty-pound sign behind him? I’m properly winded having only carried myself.

  The man’s fist closes around the other edge of the menu board, and together, we stand it up. His chin tips toward the wooden sign, the corners of his mouth curling into a sexy smirk. God, he is delicious. “Care to tell me how this ended up all the way down here, attached to your dog?”

  “He’s not my dog.” I don’t know why that’s the first thing I choose to divulge. Judging by the circumstances of my current situation, I’d say it’s the least relevant piece of information.

  His eyes widen. “Okay.”

  The explanation comes out in a rush. “I’m a dog walker. Or at least I am for a few more days.”

  His brow quirks as if to say, “I think that’s for the best.”

  “I’m starting a new job.” My gaze darts from him to the sign. “At Mecca. Have you heard of it?”

  His eyes shine with amusement. “You could say that.”

  “Well, I was supposed to stop in to drop off my tax forms for the owner. It wouldn’t have taken long, ten minutes, tops. Winston”—I jab my thumb in the dog’s direction—“had to be walked anyway, so I thought, why not kill two birds with one stone?”

  I give in to my desire and permit my eyes to sweep the man’s face. It’s a nice face. More than a nice face, really. It’s a hot face. Clean-shaven, angular jaw, and strong, well-defined brows that frame rich coffee eyes that shine with a trace of humor. Short-ish, slightly wavy dark brown hair that’s spiked in the front.

  Not that he complains about my ogling. Instead, he uses the opportunity to assess me as well. His eyes skim over my bare legs and continue upward to my waist, ribcage, throat, and face, before his heavy, heated gaze finally returns to my breasts, lingering just a moment too long to be considered polite.

  I clear my throat. “Anyway,” I carry on, halting my inventory of his handsome face. “I looped his leash around the signpost—I was only going to be a few minutes, after all, and I knew I couldn’t bring him inside.” A nervous chuckle escapes my mouth. “I’m not a complete idiot.”

  The man doesn’t laugh. Awkward.

  Undeterred, I keep going, “Before I even got the door open, ol’ Winny here took off. I tried to stop him, run after him, but…” My eyes find his and hold. “Well, you saw how well that worked out.”

  His lips twitch, and my guess is he’s doing his damnedest not to laugh. Finally, he speaks, “You brought your dog to a job interview?” Those cocoa brown eyes sparkle. “At a Michelin-rated restaurant?”

  “He’s not my dog.” I huff, jolting forward a little as Winston pulls on the leash. Instinctively, the man reaches his hand out to brace me from falling. I jerk back from the contact, from the spark of heat where his palm circles my bicep. “Thanks,” I murmur, retreating a few steps. “And it’s not an interview,” I add, finally processing the rest of his question. “I already have the job.”

  His lips twitch again, drawing my attention. He has full, pillowy lips. Sensual lips. Lips that look soft and kissable.

  “All right.” I turn in place, wanting to end this exchange sooner rather than later. “I guess I’m going to go.” I pull Winston alongside me and stand next to the sign. Hooking my arm around the top, I do my best to drag it beside me, but it’s heavy and cumbersome. At this rate, I’ll make it back to the restaurant in fifteen hours.

  The man watches for what could only be a few seconds yet feels more like minutes. A small smile forming on his face, he finally asks, “Want some help with that?”

  “I’m good, thanks,” I answer, continuing to struggle. A year from now, I’ll look back and still wonder why I refused the help. Maybe it’s pride. Perhaps it’s determination. More likely it’s embarrassment.

  Shaking his head, he dismisses my refusal, snatches the sign from my hands, and starts walking faster than I’d think possible with such a hefty load. Winston and I—okay, fine, just I—struggle to keep up. In record time, we’re standing in front of the posh double doors of Mecca.

  I hesitate outside the restaurant, trying to think of something to say other than a measly thanks. Before I can come up with anything witty or cute, he opens the door and begins to walk inside, shocking the hell out of me.

  “Where are you going?” I practically shout at his retreating back. He’s taking this Good Samaritan thing a bit too far.

  He stops and turns to face me, a coy smirk playing on his lips. “Back to work.”

  I can feel the blood draining from my face, fast and sure, like when you dump a full bucket of water down the drain in one strong rush. “Wait.” I hold up my hand. “You work here?” I point at the restaurant in front of me. “Here here?”

  “Yes and yes.”

  It’s then that my eyes land on the embroidered name printed across the breast pocket of his white coat. A coat that looks dangerously close to a—“Oh my God.” My skin prickles with heat. “Please tell me you’re not Oliver Pensen?” My voice rises at the end in question, even as my addled mind connects the dots. “Holy shit,” I mumble, a little breathless, a whole lot embarrassed. “You’re the head chef at Mecca.”

  “Yes again.”

  “Jesus.” I resist the urge to cover what I’m sure is my beet red face. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”

  He looks down at his chef coat. “I didn’t exactly hide it.”

  My eyes narrow in annoyance. “You know what I mean.”

  He laughs off my accusation. “I was too busy chasing a sign thief.”

  I scowl again, but he continues to laugh. “It was nice meeting you…” His voice trails off as he waits for me to tell him my name.

  Clearing my throat, I say, “Charli.”

  “Charli,” he repeats it back to me, the syllables rolling off his tongue in a smooth yet gravelly tone, and I’m surprised by the effect it has on me.

  I want him to say it again. Would it be weird of me to ask? Probably.

  He offers one last smile. “I have a feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of one another.”

  Charli.

  “I’ll tell Don you’re here.”

  I nod before he enters the restaurant, leaving me standing on the sidewalk, a goofy, almost shell-shocked grin on my face.

  Charli.

  They say you only get one chance to make a good first impression. It takes just th
ree short seconds for a stranger to form an opinion about you based on your mannerisms, body language, and appearance.

  In that moment, Oliver Pensen made the biggest impression on my mind, my body, and my heart of anyone ever before. What I had no way of knowing was that the man who stole my heart already belonged to someone else.

  Charli

  Present Day

  My advice? Never fall in love with a married man. Don’t spend your days pining away for the most perfect, most handsome, most infuriating man you’ll ever meet, because his heart belongs to someone else. Don’t fantasize about his beautiful, full lips pressed against your skin, or the sexy way his brows furrow when he concentrates. And definitely don’t imagine waking up next to him, naked, wrapped in silky-soft one thousand thread count organic Egyptian cotton sheets that smell like lavender while a gentle summer breeze billows the sheer curtains…

  “Earth to Charli.” The loud thunk of a cardboard box hitting the wooden bar jolts me from my stupor. Joe, our main bartender, waves a hand in front of my face, and I straighten my spine. “You okay?”