Knocked Up

By: Nikki Chase

About This Book

Knocked Up is a full-length novel of approximately 51,000 words.

I’ve also included a free bonus book, Single Dad’s Fake Bride—just a little something to thank you for reading, and hopefully get you interested in my other books. ;)

You can expect Knocked Up to end around 50% on your Kindle.

Happy reading! <3

Knocked Up


“His office looks more like an upscale jazz lounge than a place of work, all dark wood and smooth leather. And it doesn’t only look good.

“Whenever I take a seat on the designer chair across the desk from him, it feels like my ass is being cradled by fluffy clouds.”

My boss stops reading and turns his steely blue eyes on me.

“I’m glad you enjoy my furniture, Kat,” he says.

“It’s fictional,” I say quickly, but my defense sounds as thin as Keira Knightley, even to my own ears.

Heath raises an eyebrow. “Your protagonist works in a private investment company. Her boss has made a fortune from going short on stocks of unethical companies, even though he's only twenty-eight.

“His last big move was basically a $100 million bet against this company that was running a pyramid scheme. Oh, and he’s also—” Heath glances at the screen of his computer “—a sanctimonious, arrogant bully.”

I squirm in my seat as Heath stares at me.

“Did I miss anything?” he asks. There’s no anger in his eyes. If anything, he seems amused by the whole thing. But I feel like crawling into a hole and dying.

“Umm… Not really,” I lie.

I wonder if he’s also noticed the part where my main character describes her boss as “a man with the body of a Greek god and the face of a Hollywood heart-throb.” Because—surprise, surprise—that’s based on him, too.

“It may be fiction, but I’d say it’s at least based on a true story. Wouldn’t you agree?” he asks.

I swallow. How is my throat so dry?

“Very loosely based on reality. Just the background stuff, really.” I force my lips into a smile.

“Hmm…” As Heath nods distractedly and leans forward to read the writing on the screen, the messy pile of dark hair on his head tumbles forward. His finger scrolls the wheel of the mouse.

Normally, I’d be fantasizing about that digit scrolling my wheel, if you know what I mean. I mean the one in my panties—is that too vague? I’ve been wondering if I should use that in the final version of my novel. Either way, that’s the kind of dirty thought that’s gotten me into trouble in the first place.

God, I wish a great, empty void would appear right under this stupid chair and suck me away somewhere else. Anywhere else.

This morning, I got to the office early so I could edit a few chapters of my romance manuscript before work. But the computer on my desk was dead, and nobody in the IT department picked up any of my fourteen calls because it was too early in the morning.

I actually bumped into Jeff from legal in the elevator, though, so I knew he was around. He’d once mentioned liking to tinker with computers in his spare time so he probably could've helped. But he's also a creep who stares at my chest and says things like “milk jugs” and “birthing hips.” I wouldn't be too surprised if one day he says something like, “Does this rag smell like chloroform to you?” And that would be the start of my life as a sex slave, kept in the dungeon of Jeff's basement.

So, for the sake of my freedom and liberty, I decided to use my boss’ computer.

It seemed like a good idea, until I realized I’d forgotten to take out my USB stick before slipping out of his office.

Even worse, my moment of realization came only seconds ago when Heath started reading out a passage from my manuscript.

And he hasn’t even gotten to the sexy part…

“Heath, I’m so sorry I used your computer. I promise I won’t do it again,” I say, breaking the silence before he finishes reading the whole thing. “We should get back to work. Mr. Mikhailov’s assistant has already texted me to let me know his flight from Moscow had landed on time, so he should be here in less than an hour.”

“He flies on his own private jet. Of course he’s on time,” Heath says, easily dodging my obvious attempt at changing the subject. He reads on. “I realize Mr. Jones is standing right behind my chair. As he bends down, he rests his hands on my shoulders. I can’t help but imagine those big, masculine hands running all over other parts of my body. His stubble tickles my neck and I almost giggle, but then he whispers, ‘You’re in trouble now, Sarah.’”

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