The first time I met Noah Parker, he asked if I was an escort. Apparently when you’re a billionaire sports agent, finding strange half-naked women in your hotel room is…normal? That didn’t stop me launching a stiletto at him. He’s fine—good reflexes. Still, he walked into my hotel room—claiming it's his—and has no plans on leaving. Neither do I. Which is how I end up sharing a bed with Mr. Jerk. Platonically…more or less. Nothing happened, I just might have had a few naughty thoughts and some very pleasant dreams. He’s hot, all right? A hot jerk . Volcanic levels of hotness. But a jerk nonetheless. Like when he fires his assistant in front of me. And then asks me if I want the job. Only a 5-star, card-carrying, world-revolves-around-me, A—hole would be so brazen. But he’s also paying me triple what my newspaper assistant job did. Giving me access to legit superstars. Starring in my dirtiest of fantasies. And that’s a problem. Because I can’t fall for my bosshole. They say he always gets what he wants. But he’s not getting me.