The Pregnancy Test (NY Girlfriends #1)
Still, I've got a few things going for me-bitter humour, a divine right to eat till I'm the size of Marlon Brando, and good friends who've managed to get me a job interview with one Damien Sharpton: in need of a personal assistant, and some say, a good, swift kick in the arse. If you want to make a lasting impression, by all means, toss your cookies in your future boss's wastebasket, which is located directly between his excruciatingly sexy legs.
Apparently, Mr. Gorgeous-But-Unbearably-Anti-Social must like personal assistants who violate his trash can, because I got the job. And if I can avoid him via text messaging for the next seven months of health insurance, everything will be just fine. Except that he's just asked-no, insisted-that I go with him on a business trip to the Caribbean. Gulp. Ordinarily, this would be cause for celebration. Ordinarily, I'd shave my legs, pack my bikini, revel in day-glo drinks and my seething lust for Mr. Swarthy-And-Secretive. But there's nothing ordinary about this situation...which means it could be absolutely extraordinary...
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