They say that diamonds are a girl’s best friend.
But the guy that sells those diamonds?
My worst enemy.
It took me precisely 0.1 seconds to start hating Cameron O’Connor.
I’m late to a job interview and it seems like kismet when a cab stops outside my apartment.
Until the grumpiest, grouchiest, and most outrageously handsome suit-hole steals it.
Of course, I get to my interview and who is behind the desk?
“You’re late. Couldn’t find a cab?”
This infuriatingly beautiful man makes my blood boil.
So I’m completely justified when I tell him all the ways his company is messing up their current PR disaster.
I wouldn’t touch this job—or the brutally chiseled bossbeast—with a ten-foot pole.
Until he offers me a number with more zeros than a box of donuts.
Now I’m working alongside the bosszilla.
Trying to keep the snark level to somewhere between brazen defiance and outright mutiny.
If only he hadn’t hired that influencer to promote the company’s engagement rings.
And if only she hadn’t announced that Cameron and I were hiding a secret romance.
Now suddenly, our relationship is all anyone can talk about.
Except there’s zero romance—we hate each other.
To sell the story, we have to go on fake dates and fake being in love.
Only at some point, I don’t have to pretend anymore.
And I start thinking Cameron isn’t faking either.
There’s no way I’m falling for my bosshole.
Right?
