Magnus Part 1: A Sex & the CEO Serial: Magnus, #1

By K.C. Anderson

**WARNING: Explosive, panty-soaking passion ahead… and this is just the beginning** 


From the boardroom to the bedroom… office politics has never been so steamy. 

Fresh out of grad school, Janie Beal is more than ready to join the adult world. Her new job at a tech startup in Silicon Valley is just the motivation she needs to put aside her neurosis and double town on her goals. Things just get better when she’s assigned as one of the leads on a massive, game-changing project — the perfect place to prove herself. 

The only problem? 

Luke Magnus, well over six feet of brooding muscle and intensity — and CEO of Magnus, Inc. 

Janie wants to keep her job and reputation. Luke wants to avoid scandal, litigation, and vulnerability. 

And not necessarily in that order. 

Now they have only days to prepare for a key presentation that could change everything. But with everything at stake, their passion might be the biggest risk of all. 

Her boss. His employee. How can something so wrong, feel so right?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Blackthorn Press
• Release date: Nov 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519949356

Book preview

1

Janie

The sign looms large above me, plastered on the face of the sleek glass building. A word and a symbol. Magnus Inc. A lion, mid-roar.

I take a deep breath and adjust my skirt, my hair, my glasses. Landing a coveted spot at Magnus is beyond a great opportunity; it’s a dream. And landing it straight out of grad school? Almost impossible.

But here I am, moved into Silicon Valley, ready to take the plunge into the real world, the adult world. Working for a company, with a salary, with health insurance. A little cubby to make my own. The possibilities of fostering friendships or maybe even something more is promising, thrilling. But they’re just possibilities, the outcome of which is dictated by me.

I’m determined to put my days of sputtering my anxiety in half-formed phrases behind me. A new start means a new Janie, a moment to capitalize on unformed relationships and erode  my flaws with sheer resolve. Even if I have to white-knuckle it through neurosis and depths upon depths of self-loathing.

People have never been my thing, but that’s about to change.

I step up the stairs leading to the huge glass door. A young guy exits the building and walks a feet feet from the door before looking up from his phone. He sees me and doubles back to the door, catching it before it can close, holding it open for me. He gives me a nervous smile and I give him a nervous smile. I swear I feel his eyes on me but I’m still not sure if he’s actually looking. My confidence is in short supply, always has been, which just amplifies the self-loathing more, which just diminishes my reserves of confidence, which just fans the flames propelling this entire cycle. It’s exhausting and difficult to tame.

Before entering the building I look back. I was right. There he is, staring at me.

I know he’s looking at me, but it’s hard to tell why he’s looking. Do I have something in my teeth? Is my hair askew? It’s your body.

No. No no no.

I flash another nervous smile and turn away, rushing toward the elevator, clutching my purse tighter, embarrassed or ashamed for a reason I can’t discern.

I don’t know if he was a swell guy with good intentions or some asshole looking to tear me down for having curves. The mystery of it all is draining.

The elevator doors pull open and I step inside. An older gentleman is my only companion on the way to the fourteenth floor. He keeps sneaking peeks at me out of the corner of his eye.

People like to look outside themselves. Sometimes I hate them for that. But then I remember that looking inward isn’t so easy for me either. I guess we’re all more alike than we want to admit.

He gets off at the eleventh floor. I ride three floors by myself. Just enough time to take a deep breath and dig for any scraps of courage, optimism, calm.

When the lofty metal doors open I’m blasted with cool air. I step into the lobby, looking over the receptionist and a man waiting in a chair opposite her desk. In the back of the room is a set of glass doors, the office just beyond them, the bustling employees mirages in the transparency.

The receptionist waves me over with a smile. She’s cute, with thin black hair in a pixie cut, the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen, and a Star Wars shirt that says I’m with Chewie across her chest.

Janie? she asks.

That’s me.

I’m Joey. Did you get a tour of our offices during your interviews? It’s like she can’t stop smiling.

No tours, just glimpses.

Well let me be the first to welcome you home, she says.

Home?

That’s what we call it. Our CEO insists. I kinda like it. Her smile is relentless, and suddenly my face feels tighter, brighter, my cheeks pulled back in a spontaneous smile. It’s as if  her optimism is transferring to me like magic.

It feels good. Optimism has been in short supply lately, probably a residual effect of grad school finals. UCLA is tough, and grad school is even tougher. Maybe this job will give me a moment to breathe. Student loans, sleepless nights, and a sacrificed social life have to count for something, right?

A tour would be nice.

Right this way. She types a few keys on her computer before leaping from her chair and opening the doors at the back of the lobby.

My new co-workers hunker over their computer monitors, the click of their keyboards nearly as loud as their chatter. The style of the office is angular, comfortable. The air is fresh and clean, like someone hosed the place down with a subtle can of Glade. I follow Joey through the office, winding a trail through the clusters of desks.

Over here is our marketing department, she says, motioning to a bunch of desks centered around a large cork board plastered with words and graphics. A few people huddle around one desk in particular, discussing something only they can see. And that’s HR. She points to a pair of people at their desks. One of them glances over and gives a lukewarm wave. You ever need anything outside your job description, they’re the first people you should see. Go to Mary. Paul’s a bit of a neurotic.

Aren’t we all?

She laughs. How true.

What’s that? I ask, staring at a sleek set of closed wood doors, stretching higher and longer than any set of doors I can recall. The same lion from the sign outside, mid-roar, is carved in the center where the doors meet, the etching formed from both doors coming together, remaining closed. Whoever did the detailing is far above my artistic talent, and frankly, nearly every artist I’ve ever known. The set of doors looks like it belongs in a museum. Far too good for the office of a tech startup.

That’s Mr. Magnus’s office. We’re a pretty open company, but that’s one place you’ll never see.

Why’s that? I wonder what’s beyond the doors. Probably some stuffy old guy, playing put-put with a shitty plastic golf hole he bought from a sporting store. That is, if the guy’s in the office today at all. The owner of the bank I used to work at hardly ever showed up for work.

Mr. Magnus prefers his privacy. I guess you could say he’s a man of few words. Sort of sticks to my granddad’s mantra; walk softly and carry a big stick.

Hm. Privacy. Few words. This guy definitely didn’t take the same courses every other CEO has apparently taken. The brash CEO ravenous for power. Somehow Mr. Magnus doesn’t fit that profile.

My gaze lingers on the doors, even as Joey keeps talking, pointing, motioning