Friction

By Emily Snow

Former overachiever Lucy Williams sucks at adulting. 

Recent divorce, check. Pending lawsuit, check. A move back to Boston to live with her mother, triple check. 

It can't get much worse, right? 

When she starts her new marketing job at EXtreme Effects, she's positive shit's stopped hitting the fan. Sure, what she's advertising is a little … unorthodox, but it pays the bills. And since she's seconds away from becoming Lucy Williams: Wednesday Night Bingo Enthusiast, she needs money to get the hell out of her mother's house. 

The only problem is her boss, Mr. Extreme himself: Jace Exley. He's everything any sane woman dreams of—alpha, successful, ridiculously gorgeous. He's also Lucy's worst nightmare. Because like every overachiever, she has that underachiever she brushed off. The slacker who, once upon a time ago, was the object of her dirtiest schoolgirl fantasies. 

Jace Exley—with his sarcastic smirk and delicious accent—just happens to be that guy. 

And the friction between them? 

Well, that's the only adulting Lucy seems to be winning at.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Emily Snow
• Release date: Dec 10, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386048633

Emily Snow

Emily Snow is the New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of the erotic romance series Devoured, which includes Devoured, All Over You, and Consumed, as well as the new adult novel Tidal. She loves books, sexy bad boys, and really loud rock music, so naturally, she writes stories about all three. She lives in Virginia. Visit her online at EmilySnowBooks.blogspot.com, and follow her on Twitter @EmilySnowBks.

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Friction

Emily Snow

Copyright © 2017 by Emily Snow

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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1

Lucy

"I’m playing bingo with Cynthia and Dean this afternoon. Did you … do you want to come with us? Just so you won’t have to be alone. I hate the thought of you being alone, Lucy."

My mother’s voice, rising over Tony Bennett and Lady Gaga’s version of The Lady is a Tramp blasting from the counter-top CD player, sends a wave of shame through me as I stumble into the kitchen. Early mornings are supposed to be simple. Pee, two or three cups of coffee, repeat. Instead, I’m already being reminded that, at twenty-seven, I am A) living with my mother and B) alone.

Crossing my arms over my chest so she won’t complain about my lack of a bra, I face her. She’s primly seated at the same glass kitchen table my dad assembled—cursing the entire time—during Thanksgiving break my freshman year of college. Gripping her coffee mug in one hand, she leafs through the newspaper with the other. I’m not surprised that, despite the absence of an actual sunrise, she’s already fully dressed for the day, her black bob neatly combed and her make-up subtle, immaculate.

I yawn into my upper arm. Good morning to you, too.

She takes in the sight of me, from my bare feet and oversized tee shirt to my tangled mop of jet-black hair, and her brown eyes narrow. I frown right back.

So … bingo? When I shake my head, she sags her shoulders and sighs. I’m just looking out for you.

I know you are, and I appreciate that. Turning, I open the cupboard and grab the first giant mug I find, the one I bought when we visited her family in Da Nang the summer after my father passed away. I take the chair across from her and draw my knees up to my chest, stretching my shirt over my legs. "But I promise I’m fine. And if I don’t seem fine … well, that’s because you start the morning playing Tony and Gaga."

While Mom goes on about how amazing Gaga and Tony are, I pretend to be interested in my phone, which I’d left on the kitchen table overnight. One glance at my new messages, though, and I regret checking. I have three new texts and they’re all from Tom. My blood pressure spikes a little more with each word I read.

11:19 PM: I won’t sue if you drop the stubborn act. Your career means EVERYTHING to you, and we need you here with us.

11:21 PM: You’re living in your mother’s house like a child, and I know you. This isn’t your idea of fun.

11:21 PM: Luce, I know you’re getting my messages.

God, I want to punch him in his perfect face for starting my day with this sort of bullshit. It takes an outrageous amount of effort not to slam the phone down on its screen, but it’s new. And I can’t afford another. I gently place it beside my coffee and force a smile at my mother.

She takes the change in my expression as a sign of encouragement, because she leans in tentatively and says, "Getting out might be good for you."

I can think of a million and one things that might be good for me:

A cocktail with a double shot, maybe even a triple.

At least one night where I sleep a full eight hours because I’m not worried about what happens next or stressed because my former boss is an asshole who’s screwing me over.

Sex.

All three, and not in any special order. At this point, I’m not picky. I’ll take what I can get without much fuss.

I actually have other plans this afternoon, I inform Mom a little too cheerfully, trying my damnedest not to think about the messages I’ve yet to respond to. I don’t even know if I can respond—not without telling Tom to go screw himself. I have an interview in Boston with a place called EXtreme Effects. I’m not sure what time I’ll be back, and I’d hate for you to hang around waiting for me.

I’ve chanted the magic word, interview, because she scoots her chair closer to mine. Placing her elbows on the table, she cradles her chin in her hands. Did that employment agency from last week make a match already?

No, I found them myself—through an ad on Craigslist.

Her grin rapidly diminishes, and I feel heat creeping into my cheeks as she taps her fingertips against her temples and pinches her lips into a tight line. "Craigslist … okay."

I should have known this was coming, the blatant disapproval. It’s why I wasn’t going to bring up the interview, especially since I haven’t been able to find anything about EXtreme Effects other than that the company specializes in welding and other metal works—and I had researched for hours. I had almost messaged Daisy, the woman who contacted me via email, to decline the interview request because the lack of information immediately sounded alarms in my head.

Of course, the moment I looked at my bank balance, I reconsidered sending that message.

Beggars can’t be choosers and since this entire conversation started because my mother’s inviting me to play bingo with her friends…

Stiffening my posture, I give her a pointed look. "It’s a job, not a search for a casual encounter. Besides, didn’t that thing in the living room come from a Craigslist ad?" I point at the 70-inch monstrosity mounted on the wall just outside the kitchen. My mother loves her TV shows just as much as she hates paying exorbitant prices, so naturally, she sprung for a used flat screen.

That’s different, she argues. It’s a television set. What you’re talking about is dangerous.

Firms aren’t lining up to hire me, Mom. The least I can do is go to the interview; it can’t hurt.

What does hurt is saying those words out loud.

Despite everything, I moved home still sure of myself, sure that everything would be okay, sure that I would snag a new job in record time. Instead, I’ve heard the same thing repeatedly, meeting after meeting:

Overqualified.

Maybe I am, but I also know the real reason I haven’t been hired yet and it has nothing to do with too many credentials. I walked out on a two-year contract with my last employer. And the employer in question—whose newest text messages have already nudged beneath my skin before eight AM—is job-blocking me at every turn.

Mom’s chair scraping against the tile floor draws my focus from Tom and back across the table. She works to coax her frown into a reassuring smile as she stands and grabs her mug from the placemat. If those firms have any brains, they’ll call you, she says, walking over to the dishwasher.

I’m not holding my breath.

Make sure you take your pepper spray to that interview. When I start to argue, she holds up one finger, reminding me of the arguments we had when I was still a child. No matter what, Susie Williams is always right. You found them on Craigslist, Lucinda. Take the damn pepper spray.

Drawing in a breath, I promise her I will and leave the table to search moving boxes for my lucky nude pumps. I wore them the day I was promoted to Senior Marketing Director at WLC—a year before I let Tom talk me into working for him at Java-Org. Today, I need all the luck I can get because the bastard’s right about one thing:

It’s not fun having my life so far off-track.

* * *

It’s just over an hour drive from the bungalow I share with my mother in Worcester to EXtreme Effects in East Boston, so I leave two hours early. I’m still flustered by the texts Tom sent—and I’ll likely spend the rest of the day on edge because hearing from him has such a crushing effect on my psyche—but I concentrate on what I can control. Like I told Mom, the firms I’ve applied at so far haven’t been beating down my door, and I need this interview to go off without a hitch.

Desperately.

The GPS announces that I’ve arrived at my destination, and I pull my Jeep up to the curb, twisting around in my seat to get a better look at the building as I put my car into park. My lips drag into a deep frown. Compared to WLC’s ten-story building in downtown San Francisco or the chic South of Market office space Tom and his business partner leased for Java-Org, the tan structure before me looks more like an oversized garage. Knowing my luck, the person interviewing me will probably have a dip-chewing obsession and coveralls that haven’t been changed in the last week.

The moment that thought crosses my mind, my scalp prickles with shame. I bury my face in my hands and groan into my palms before shoving my hair away from warm cheeks. Don’t be an elitist bitch, I tell myself harshly. "Don’t you dare be that way."

As I approach the building with my purse and portfolio in hand, the first waves of nausea slam into the pit of my stomach. I’m good at what I do, but I’ve always struggled with getting my foot in the door. I had stressed about my college admission interviews so much my easy-going father confiscated my laptop and copy of Selling Your Skill Set for Dummies just to force me to relax. Dad’s advice before my appointment at Brown, and even when I called him freaking out over the WLC position the year before he died, is still fresh in my mind.

Kick some ass, Lucinda Claire.

Clutching my pepper spray keychain in one hand, I step out of the early January chill and into the warm confines of the company I found on Craigslist. The one I know absolutely nothing about because they have zero web presence, and I only applied to because the sixty thousand dollars a year salary was music to my broke ears.

The part of the building I’m standing in is small—a ten by ten space with filing cabinets lining one side of the wall and a few chairs against the other. A leggy brunette sits in the seat closest to the blue steel door on the far side of the room, flipping through her own portfolio and occasionally sneaking glances at the intricately designed metal clock on the receptionist’s desk.

I confidently approach the desk, and the heavily tattooed woman behind it lifts a pair of startling light green eyes from the screen of her tablet. Let me guess, Client. She rolls her chair backward a few inches, and I try not to stare at her t-shirt that says Fucking Classy. After a few seconds, I open my mouth to correct her, but then she shakes her head and muses, "Ahh, interview."

God, I hope I wasn’t ogling her shirt too hard.

Yes, I’m Lucy Williams-Duncan. I was contacted by Daisy about coming in at two for the marketing position.

I’m Daisy. Her lips quirk, and she scratches a stylus through her platinum pixie cut as she skims her gaze over my golden yellow peplum dress. "And you, Sunshine, are early."

A bad habit.

One I should probably pick up before Mr. E has me sending out invites to fill my own job. She points to the two empty chairs next to the brunette. There’s a one-thirty before you, so it might be awhile.

Before I leave her desk, I tap my fingertip against the face of the clock, shivering at the hard, cold texture. "This is beautiful."

She beams. We made that here.

Slightly more at ease, I drop my keys into the side pocket of my purse before leaning down to examine the clock more closely. Ahh, so you design clocks? I’m already imagining all the aspects of selling pieces like this, and I’m an eighth of the way into a detailed marketing plan when Daisy clears her throat. She blinks up at me.

Several times.

Yeah … clocks. Her lips part, but then she crinkles her small nose and drums her stylus against the quote tattooed on the side of her neck. Among other fun things. Go ahead and have a seat, I’ll let you know when he’s ready to speak with you.

While I wait to meet the elusive Mr. E, I review my documents. I’m in the middle of re-reading my recommendation letter from the internship I completed before I graduated with my MBA from Stanford, when Daisy sings out my name in a clear alto. I peer up from my portfolio to find her grinning broadly.

The other chick’s interview ended early, so he’s ready to brighten your day with his … sunny awesomeness.

I can’t tell if she’s being serious, so I simply nod. Holding my leather binder to my chest, I brush my other hand down the front of my yellow dress, smoothing the wrinkles out of the woven fabric. Thanks, should I—

She points over her shoulder, to the blue door behind her desk. Go through there and take a left. He’s in the office at the end of the walkway. And watch out for metal on the floor. It’s a mess back there!

Thankfully, the metal disaster seems to be contained in the workshop on the other side of the walkway, where two men in welding masks are working, the sound of The Weeknd’s The Hills booming from an overhead sound system as sparks fly around them. I reach E’s door and draw in a sharp breath to calm my nerves before I knock softly. Although it’s already half-open, Mom got on my case so many times about bursting into rooms unannounced when I was a child that knocking first is a habit now.

Come in, Ms. Duncan.

My toes curl inside of my lucky pumps. That voice, with its long vowels and clipped consonants, is just a bit breathtaking. I’ve always been a big fan of accents. I grew up with a Vietnamese mother and a father from Mississippi, and the voice on the other side of that door deeply satisfies my auditory fixation. It’s Americanized, that’s for sure, but there’s a British undertone there.

I wonder if the face and body attached to a voice like that does it justice.

Miss Duncan? he repeats, sounding a touch irritated. You’re wasting your time and mine just standing out there.

I square my shoulders and press forward.

And my heart immediately slams into my throat.

The man behind the metal desk is looking at his laptop screen, his eyes narrowed and his lips worked into a concentrated frown. I can only see him from the waist up, but I quickly hate my body’s reaction to the blue flannel shirt shoved up to his elbows and the unruly chocolate brown hair and stubble.

Give me just a second, I’m going to— Lifting blue eyes from the screen, his deep voice catches. He stares at me for an awkward pause, stunned. Rubbing long fingers tattooed with Roman numerals over his chin, he inclines his head to one side. I hold my breath, praying and hoping and wishing for a miracle that’s clearly not going to happen because his scowl transforms into a grin.

He knows me.

He remembers me, and my heart sinks from my windpipe, inch by inch, as I realize another interview has just bit the dust.

Here’s the thing about most overachievers, even those who’ve fallen from their high perch: they all have that one person. The one who made their high school existence a little more stressful. That one person who was, despite his constant asshole-isms, the object of her secret fantasies. That one person who was the opposite of everything she aspired to become because he gave zero shits.

I was twelve the first time I laid eyes on my person.

It’s sad that I remember the moment clearly, but in my defense, he came to our class toward the end of the school year, and I’d just celebrated my birthday three days before his late May arrival. We had the same homeroom teacher, Mr. Collins who taught Social Science, and as they talked at the front of the classroom, I was entranced by his soft, chopped accent and the way he combed one hand through his dark hair.

He’s doing that now, only he’s not speaking.

The last time I saw the man in front of me was ten years ago. He had complained that my salutatorian speech was too fucking long and that he had parties to get to and vaginas that needed his undivided attention. I had responded boldly, telling him that I’d see him at our reunion—if he could put down his bong and whoever he was banging long enough to make it.

And now, I’m standing smack dab in front of Jace Exley, asking for him to give me a job.

Heat pulses down my spine as he flicks his steely blue gaze over me, raking in all five foot six inches—five foot nine with the heels. I’ve filled out since the last time we saw each other. I have hips and breasts and a butt now, and I nixed the short black bob that made me look older than my mother years ago.

Still, for a moment, I feel like the flat-chested girl who wanted to punch him in his stupidly rugged face every time he said, pull the stick out of your arse, Williams.

Lucy Williams. Jace steeples his fingers over his mouth and leans back, giving the impression of a man used to getting his way. To be honest, I have no doubt that’s just what he is. Never thought I’d see you again, and I sure as fuck didn’t think you’d walk through my door, but please … sit down.

2

Jace

I didn’t think I’d ever see her again.

Lucy Williams.

No, Lucy Duncan.

She’s married now. It was bound to happen. Even with her smart-ass mouth and know-it-all attitude, she was always a stunner, but goddamn, the years have been good to her. I let my eyes travel over her body, slowly, because I don’t give a fuck if she notices.

I start at her legs.

Whenever she used to ride my ass—she was good at that, good at pissing me off—I imagined wrapping them around my waist and riding her. Those legs are longer than I remember, leading up to full hips that make my fingers twitch to grasp them and a tiny waist I’d like to clutch too. Her tits are still perky, perfect, but she’s not hiding them under one of those baggy ass sweaters she was so fond of. That yellow dress leaves little to my imagination, and her breasts strain against the fabric with silky black hair falling over them.

I have a thing for long hair—the more there is, the better because I like having something to hold on to—and between that and her hips, Lucy Williams-fucking-Duncan has plenty to grip.

It’s a shame another man’s digging his fingers into her hair, tilting her head back until her long lashes flutter over round hazel eyes. Making her lips part just enough for her to say, "More," before he ruins that sweet pink gloss of hers with his tongue and cock.

Clearing my throat, I lower my fingers from my mouth, gesturing them to the empty seat across from mine. Sit down, I repeat in a voice that’s gone rough from the images in my head.

Yes … okay.

Her legs are wobbly as she perches her ass on the edge of the chair in front of my desk. I want her to look at me, want to see her skin light up beneath my attention, but she doesn’t. She traces her gaze over the monogrammed letters—LJD—on the edge of her leather folder like it’s the first time she’s ever seen her own initials.

That’s fine with me. I’ll make her look up sooner or later.

It’s been a long time. She sucks in her flushed cheeks at the mockery lacing my tone. I wonder if she remembers the last time we saw each other. She must because she just blinks and sways slightly in her seat. You look … well.

Hell, she looks better than well. With legs that go on for days and tits that were made to touch, she’s the sexiest thing that’s ever stepped into this building. Breathing her in is torture because she smells like warmth. Warmth, vanilla, and a hard, noisy fuck.

I bet she’d taste just as good as her scent.

My cock twitches at the thought, and I groan at the effect the presence of this woman has on my little brain. I don’t have a hard time getting soft curves and sweet scents into my bed—well, their bed because I don’t like to take women back to my place, don’t like the sense of attachment it gives them—but I have rules. I don’t do married women. I never have, and it’s not a trend I plan to pursue. That was my father’s MO, and although I never formally met him, I decided long ago that his drive for success is the only inherited trait I want from the git.

I gaze across the desk at Lucy, wondering when she’ll speak. Ms. Williams?

Startling at the sound of my voice, she darts her eyes from side to side. I bet she’s trying to come up with something witty. She was so quick to run her mouth in school I’m disappointed it’s taking her so long to get on with it. Thanks, she says carefully. "It’s good to see you again Jace—I apologize—Mr. Exley."

Fuck me running, she’s lost that touch of smart aleck that made her so aggravatingly endearing.

You had it right the first time. Closing my laptop, I shift around in my chair, and the chuckle I release bows her tight body forward. "There’s no need to call me Mr. Exley."

You’re interviewing me, she whispers. Of course I should call you that.

I can’t deny that it’s deeply satisfying to see her lips wrap around those words since she’s the last person I ever expected to come to me for a job. I’d be a fool not to get some pleasure out of this. The last time she saw me, she’d all but written me off as Most Likely to Knock Up Everything in Sight Between Prison Stints.

Suppressing the harsh smile the memory draws from me, I shrug. I’d prefer Jace. I can’t be that much older than you. A year or so—

Two. I skipped a grade and you failed a year before you … Trailing off when her eyes connect with mine, she flinches at how superior she just sounded. She squeezes her glossy lips together and nervously tucks her hair behind her ears. I could be wrong, though. About the age thing.

I doubt you are. I fold my hands over the copy of her resume on my desk. She zeroes in on the tattoos on my fingers, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. I’ve thought about doing that a time or two—sucking on her lip. Her mouth always drove me insane and kissing it until she was speechless seemed like the only way to deal with her.

"Like I told you, I’d rather you call me Jace. After all, we were schoolmates and you’re interviewing for a job at my company. It’s what I want from you, understand?"

My voice breaks the spell my fingers have over her. She snaps her hazel eyes to mine. "Sure … Jace."

That’s a good girl. She draws in a sharp gasp. It takes all my self-control not to grin because she’s probably never been called that—a good girl. I’m oddly proud to be the first one to do so. So, marketing?

Yes, marketing.

I would’ve pegged you as the medical sort. She was always good at science and math and had loved rubbing her A’s in my face. I had been more interested in burying my face in her A, but I’d never pursued more with her. Too uptight. Too untouchable. Too Lucy, even if she was hot. I stroke my chin with my thumb and forefinger then drop my hand to my desk. "You know, physician, scientist, evil pharmaceutical CEO—something like that."

With her hand to her chest and scrunched expression, she looks offended. Good, let her be. Marketing better suited me, she responds coolly. I’m good at talking and promoting my work.

You always did enjoy moving that mouth, Williams.

Instantly, she licks her lips. I can’t help it; I stare at the path her tongue makes, needing to see more. Just because her last name has changed over the last ten years doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the