Fired: A Holiday Romantic Comedy (Cooking up a Celebrity Book 3) Read online

  FIRED

  Cooking up a Celebrity Book 3

  Hadley Harlin

  Henwin Press, LTD

  Copyright © 2019 by Hadley Harlin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Any appearance to real people is purely a coincidence and should not be inferred.

  Editor: Emily A. Lawrence

  Cover Designer: Shanoff Designs

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Fired

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Epilogue Part Deux

  Afterword

  Also by Hadley Harlin:

  33. Chapter One

  34. Chapter Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Fired

  An accidental Vegas wedding, an unfortunate arranged wedding, and Christmas. What could be more festive?

  Lena:

  People say I’ve had life served on a silver platter with a flute of sparkling rosé on the side. They’re not wrong, but if I have everything, why do I want Puck so badly?

  I lusted after my pastry chef two seconds after he applied for the job. My business partner declared work relationships off limits one microsecond later. It was probably the sparkle in my eyes. It’s been known to devastate small economies.

  But what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas. Right?

  Puck:

  Nobody knows where I’ve come from, but they all know where I’m going. Straight to the sugared cherry on top. I’m a pastry god, life of the party, panty-melter extraordinaire. My ridiculously beautiful and wealthy boss is fun to flirt with, but that’s it. No ties, no commitment, no regrets.

  Until Vegas.

  Fired: A Holiday Romantic Comedy is a stand-alone, full-length romantic comedy with an accidental marriage between boss and employee that is sure to melt your kindle! HEA and no cheating.

  *While each book in the Cooking up a Celebrity series is a stand-alone novel featuring one couple, the books are connected by a shared storyline. Be sure to read Melted: A Sexy, Enemies-to-Lovers Romantic Comedy and Seared: A Sexy, Competition Romantic Comedy.

  Fired concludes around 91% on your Kindle device. The last two chapters are a sneak peak of A Manor of Faking It. If you like Downton Abbey, fake relationships, second chances, betrayals, feisty heroines, and broken heroes, read on!.

  Chapter One

  Lena

  The Cinderella spell may wear off at midnight, but it hits rock bottom after the third puking session.

  During Ring Around the Rosie with the porcelain king, the truth hit hard: I’d secretly married my employee.

  Against everyone’s advice.

  In Vegas.

  While wearing a Santa hat and a string of twinkly, Christmas lights.

  My business partner, Sophia Sato, was jetting around the world with her mortal enemy to co-host a cooking competition. That meant I was in charge of our restaurant, Sassafras.

  Sophia had this ridiculous idea that I would screw it up. She had this ridiculous idea that I was young and impulsive. Also, probably because I’d never had a real job until I threw enough money at her to convince her to open Sassafras with me. Waking up married to our pastry chef, Puck, probably wasn’t going to help my case once she got back.

  Especially since her last words to me were, “Don’t do anything stupid with Puck.”

  I groaned and dragged myself off the cold, tiled bathroom floor and staggered to the bed. Maybe this was all a bad dream. Or food poisoning. Doesn’t one hallucinate with food poisoning? That would explain the puking.

  Except, it didn’t explain the lump under the covers. I tentatively lifted one end of the sheets to peek underneath it. And came face-to-head with a very naked, very large, case of morning wood.

  With a yelp, I pressed my hands to my boobs. Still fully dressed. Whew.

  “I think I drank Vegas dry,” Puck announced, sitting up and blinking his eyes. His beautiful, ocean wave blue eyes. His beautiful, ocean wave blue eyes I was more than willing to drown myself in.

  Take me, ocean eyes!

  “Here, I’ll turn around so you can get dressed,” I said while half-covering my eyes and half-watching in fascination as Puck stretched and yawned.

  His abs rippled in the sun light of our expensive hotel suite at the Cosmopolitan, and his glorious back muscles flexed up and down. He flipped back his golden, surfer-boy hair, but one piece refused to stay put. It perpetually dangled like a lure between his eyes, drawing me in. I couldn’t resist. I dropped my hands to watch fully as Puck rolled off the bed and onto the floor.

  “Ouch!” He rubbed his incredibly broad, yummy, lick-able shoulders and—wait. If I was dressed, but he wasn’t, what exactly happened last night?

  “Puck?” I asked slowly. “Do you remember last night?”

  “Before or after we busted out of the pastry convention hall? God, they’re so stuck-up and boring. Yes, I know, pastry is a science. But it’s also art.”

  “After. Definitely after.”

  Puck pulled the white sheet around his waist and tucked it in. “Okay, before or after you ‘commandeered’ the red Ferrari and then slid back the roof and made a dude off the street chauffeur us to all of the Christmas sites in Vegas as you sang carols at the top of your tiny lungs? You really like Christmas, Lena.”

  I remembered… the red Ferrari, Christmas lights, blinking Vegas signs, and… multiple drive-throughs. Only two of the three drive-throughs were for food, if my foggy memories were to be trusted.

  “This cannot be happening.”

  I began digging through the mess of our suite, flinging clothes, shoes, Taco Bell Triple Double Crunchwrap Supreme wrappers, folders of itineraries, and ten cases of designer sunglasses around the room. Hey, it was the desert. My eyes needed the UV protection.

  In a corner, wadded up under a rosé-soaked washcloth, was all the evidence my father would need for the judge, jury, and executioner he would surely hire.

  There was a Santa hat, a string of twinkle lights that were still blinking red and green, two commemorative Vegas wedding poker chips, and the real problem: a marriage certificate with Puck Williams and Helena Beaumont in big, black letters. With my signature damning me at the bottom.

  So much for food poisoning. This was much, much worse.

  Sophia would get to gloat that she was right for the rest of our miserable lives. My dad would get to disinherit me like he’d been threatening since my failed venture in a banana ice cream stand. Or was it the failed holistic pet boutique?
>
  Either way, there’d be gloating and disinheriting.

  “I didn’t know your real name was Helena,” Puck said, looking over my shoulder.

  I sank to the ground, the rosé washcloth slung over my face and one thought running through my brain.

  Kill me now.

  I would not recommend flying with a hangover. It took two full days before my body forgave me, but I blamed it on jet lag, not the two more bottles of rosé in first class. Hair of the dog.

  To apologize to my liver, I bought myself a pair of Manolo Blahnik pumps. At least, that was how I rationalized it. So sorry, Liver, please take these shoes that make us look fabulous as my sincerest apologies.

  Also, I don’t recommend getting married at a drive-through chapel. The immediate convenience isn’t worth the annulment headache that inevitably follows.

  The moment I got home to Chicago, I holed up in the back office of Sassafras to formulate a game plan. Unfortunately, Puck had other ideas. He stuck his stupidly-large foot in the door as I swung it closed. And yes, it does correlate.

  Think about it.

  “Maybe we should talk about this, Helena.”

  “We did. And my name is Lena.”

  “No, I did, while you passed out in first class.” Puck waggled his eyebrows at me. “Helena.”

  Ah, noticed that, did he? It wasn’t that I wanted to avoid Puck, but I didn’t know what to say. Marry me? We already checked that box. Okay, how about: I actually really do love you and please don’t divorce me. Yes, I know my family and friends and all of our co-workers will hate you for getting with the boss, but you’re cool with that, right?

  It’d been a measly month since Sophia had left for her international debut in Cooking Around the World. I’d like to say things were going well. In fact, whenever Sophia called, that’s exactly what I said.

  If only.

  Instead, we’d run out of butternut squash twice, had a minor fire incident, overbooked, under-booked, and un-booked just about everything else in between. Worse, the pastry chef convention in Vegas was meant to be just Puck alone with strict instructions to actually attend the workshops. Not only did I go with him, but we bailed early. Apparently to get hitched while wearing Santa hats festooned in twinkly lights.

  Thanksgiving was in four days, then came the busy holiday season with Sassafras completely booked for office parties and seasonal celebrations. I had to get the train back on track. It would not surprise me in the least if Sophia flew back from Paris for a night to check up on me or, worse, made her sister visit from Los Angeles and video chat the whole thing. They had an unhealthy relationship. Sophia was bad about boundaries. It was the control freak in her.

  Clearly, I was in way over my head, but Sophia couldn’t know that. She needed to focus on the competition and all the buzz it would bring our restaurant. Only by having a successful restaurant would we both get what we wanted.

  But back to Puck, standing in my door, grinning innocently. He was enjoying this!

  “This is a nightmare,” I snapped.

  “And here I thought it was a mid-winter dream.”

  “We both know we have to get this fixed. Sophia would fire you and do God knows what to me if she found out. Just—don’t mention it to anyone. Pretend it never happened. I’ll get it fixed.”

  Puck snapped his fingers. “Just like that?”

  I locked eyes, pretending I was cool and indifferent. “Just like that.”

  “You got it, Boss Lady,” Puck promised, unaffected and immediately back to the fun-loving employee I knew so well. “I better start prep for tonight. Beet mousseline cake with freeze dried oranges and strawberry dust.”

  Puck turned to leave, so I coughed.

  “What’s on your mind, Boss?”

  I stood, moved a day planner here, scooted a few glitter pens over there. “Puck, did we…”

  He grinned, in his element. I saw the way our patrons ogled and googled him after tasting his creations. He typically went home with at least one girl after every service. The muscular, laid-back surfer vibe helped.

  “Did we what?”

  I made a “you know” motion with my hands.

  Puck wouldn’t give in, though. He stood, arms folded, still grinning.

  “Are you really going to make me say it?”

  “What? S-E-X? It’s not that hard. Well, some things are hard, but—”

  “Fine!” I threw my hands up. “Did we consummate our marriage?”

  Puck watched me, silent for a heartbeat too long. Finally, he dropped his arms. “Don’t worry, Boss Lady. The judge will have no problem annulling our unconsummated marriage. I tried to pry the third Double Crunchwrap out of your hands and put you to bed with a bucket, but you literally bit me to get at the taco and then insisted on the bathroom floor next to the porcelain king of regret.”

  He bared a teeny tiny set of teeth marks on his forearm.

  “Oh my God, Puck, I’m so sorry! I don’t have rabies, I swear.”

  “It’s fine. I made a mental note to myself never to try to fight Lena Beaumont over food. It was a good life lesson.”

  For some reason, my heart saddened and a boulder settled on my chest. This should be a good thing. Puck was right. Our annulment would be a cakewalk. It seemed a shame, though. Especially after what I’d witnessed in our hotel room that morning. If Puck even half-knew how to operate his extra-large joystick…

  “Okay, well, I’m going to start prep. Let me know if you need any sustenance. I don’t want to turn around and find you nibbling on my arm again. Unless you’re into that kind of thing.”

  I shook my head, not trusting my response. Yes. I could be into that kind of thing. If it was with Puck. And chocolate. Chocolate on Puck. Mmmm.

  The moment the door closed behind him, the inevitable freak out arrived in all its glory. Gah! There was so much to do. I ran my finger over the December calendar. We had three big parties coming in this week alone and all sorts of special bloggers and reviewers that Sophia would be busting my balls about. And I still had to decorate Sassafras in something tasteful. That wasn’t even getting into my family’s ridiculous holiday schedule they insisted I drove home for.

  As if right on cue, timed with the cosmos, approximately three billion text messages beeped onto my phone.

  I could not deal with Sophia right now, so I scrolled down.

  And down.

  And down.

  Finally, I found one that wasn’t from my psycho best friend/business partner. Unfortunately, it was worse. My ex-boyfriend, Lysander, wanted to know when I was coming home for Christmas. He’d be in town for two weeks and wanted to catch up. No purple eggplant emoji included.

  Lysander was my high school sweetheart. I thought we were in love, but I thought a lot of things back in high school, like that chunky highlights were cool. Or listening to emo rock youth anthems.

  Lysander and I had played a cat and mouse game for most of middle and high school before finally getting together when he asked me to prom. Then I’d gone to college, and he’d gone to college, and we just drifted. It happens. He ended up becoming some hotshot investment banker in Europe, and I knew he kept multiple homes around the world, including one in our home town, Paperville, for some God-only-knows-why reason.

  Okay, I could not deal with him or his mind games right now, either. I scrolled past him to my mother’s text.

  Mom: When are you coming home? Your father wants you to light the Christmas square with Lysander this year. It’s a thing. I’ll let him explain.

  Damn. They were in league together. With the cosmos, clearly. My twin sister left me one, too. I’d given her a unicorn emoji and a rainbow in place of her name. It was ironic, but you’d have to know her to get it.

  Hermione: GET HOME. I CAN’T TAKE MOM AND DAD WHEN THEY’RE TOGETHER, JUDGING ALL MY LIFE CHOICES. TAKE SOME OF THE HEAT FOR ONCE!

  I slumped in my chair, wishing for that rosé washcloth to suck on right about now.

  Chapter Tw
o

  Puck

  And just like that, Lena shut me out of her personal and professional life. I wasn’t the one she went to with problems about Sassafras or anything else for that matter. That was fine. It wasn’t like I’d know what to do anyway. I made sugar art. I was a pastry god.

  Cocky wasn’t my thing; I had pride in the one thing and only because I knew I did it well. Everything else I did was pretty much shit. I owned that. So let me lay out my crimes for the jury.

  Exhibit A: Married my boss in Vegas.

  Exhibit B: Didn’t want it annulled.

  Exhibit C: Just a picture, but it’s vivid: My balls tacked to her trophy wall next to the remains of media tycoons and Ivy League frat boys.

  I didn’t say it was a pretty picture.

  To take my mind off my adorably tiny boss, I began laying out my prep station and getting my cake ingredients to room temperature.

  Nobody was in yet, which was odd for me. I wasn’t an early bird, and I had no interest in the worm. At least, not since I got out of the Navy. I hated every regimented minute of my time on the ships. About the only thing that stuck with me was the drinking. Organization, too. They really pounded that shit into you, like brainwashing.