Showing results by author "Alina Jacobs" in All Categories

Armed with comfy pants, overpriced coffee, and a highly anxious emotional-support corgi, I prepare to face him. Corporate boss. Villain. Salinger Svensson. I step into his office. His perfect mouth twists into a sneer. There is no heart of gold beneath that suit, just a big black pit. He’s a shark in the frothy waters of high-stakes finance. He might be the archetypal-asshole CEO, causing all in his path to quake in fear, but he’s never had to face down a basic bitch in her thirties.

Two weeks ago, I was an optimistic office girl with a Pinterest vision board and a dream. Now? I’m standing in a billionaire’s penthouse office, trying not to throw a donut at his smug, perfect face. McCarthy Svensson is my new boss-slash-personal tormentor. Though he thinks he’s my only protector. He’s wrong. He’s way worse than the merry-go-round of ex fiancés who may or may not be stalking me, including ex-fiancé number one of three, who fakes his death then pops up out of a casket. Alive.

When you're a blacklisted preschool teacher and somehow end up coaching the worst team in the NHL, it's shaping up to be the crappiest Christmas ever. We’re adding an NHL head-coaching job to the Yule log dumpster fire of my holiday season. I lost my apartment and had to move back home for the holidays. My mom sneaks into my bedroom to watch me sleep because she “can’t help it. I missed my little girl so much, Ellie!” And my day-drinking granny has declared herself the team's new equipment manager so she can ogle hockey butts in the locker room.

When your wedding-crazy, septuagenarian grandmother arranges a contest to see which of her granddaughters marries first, you have to bring out the big guns. And my billionaire boss Blade’s guns are banging! Billionaire, high-powered CEO, more money than personality, Blade Svensson is all business. He needs to win a contract, and I need a house. He and I both know that this is a logical, rational response to one of life’s many curveballs.

I kept smiling when I caught my fiancé coming down my sister’s chimney on Christmas Eve. I gave polite congratulations when they got engaged. And I even offered to help decorate for their Christmas wedding despite the fact that was supposed to be my dream wedding. But when my sister cuts up my great-grandmother’s one-hundred-year-old wedding dress and turns it into a skank show, even though that was the dress I was going to wear on my wedding day? Well, this elf is torching down the North Pole.

My new billionaire boss looks like he needs something sweet in his life. I graciously offered to let him stick his hand in my candy jar. It has salt water taffy and gummy worms! I can't believe he thought it was inappropriate! In an effort to redeem myself, I set out to show Mace that I wasn't a clumsy, car-destroying, electronic-killing, accident-prone, walking disaster. That lasted all of five minutes before I set his seaweed and quinoa lunch on fire. Yeah, I didn't know that was a thing either.

I should be hiding away with wine and snacks while waiting for Christmas to end. Instead, I’m wearing a reindeer mascot costume and pretending I’m oh-so-excited to meet New York City’s most eligible billionaire bachelor! Christmas is already a stressful time of the year without adding a billionaire to the mix. Between dodging bake-off sabotaging cousins, applying for a long-shot prestigious museum internship, and trying to survive being broke in Manhattan, I’m up to my black lipstick in my own special nightmare before Christmas.

What was the worst day of my life ever? Today. My wedding day. Not because I married a man I’d never met but because my husband, Wolf Van de Berg, hates my freaking guts—and the feeling is mutual. It’s worth it because I get 30 percent of his company if I can survive this marriage. But that’s a big, giant if. And no, before you ask if we had a passionate night of hate and lust on our wedding night, think again. Wolf is doing everything in his power to make me call it quits on our marriage. The only way I’m surviving is with cake. And wine. And did I mention cake?

Welcome to life as a wedding planner for the rich and entitled of Manhattan. I’ve seen it all - from the nastiest bridezilla to the most overindulged billionaire. And Evan is the worst. Tall, dark, and handsome, he has a ridiculously ripped body under his formal suit and runs a massive hedgefund that’s actively making the world a worse place. I don’t even feel sorry for him when he walks away from the alter in a daze

Hire a hitman to take out my cheating ex? It was an eggnog-fueled mistake, I swear! On Christmas Eve, my perfect fiancé stands up at the altar to declare his pure undying love… for my evil stepsister. Cue public humiliation, a ruined wedding, and me crawling back to my small hometown to work minimum wage at my granny’s Christmas café. Just living the holiday dream. But I refuse to show up sad and alone to my cheating ex and man-stealing stepsister’s engagement party.

I admit it was me who shouted, “Looking good, hot stuff!” at Mr. Richmond this morning, but I didn’t mean it like that. Yes, Mrs. HR Lady, I know how it looks. Believe me, I am totally anti-catcalling, but that’s not what that was. Honest. I was paying him a compliment! That’s kind of what I do: I’m a proud, small-town Floridian, and Manhattan is craving some Florida sunshine—nothing like a sincere compliment to turn those New York frowns upside down!

Welcome to life as a wedding dressmaker for the rich and entitled of Manhattan. I’ve seen it all - from the most spoiled brides to the most egotistical Wall Street bros. The worst? Mark Holbrook. Billionaire. Arrogant. Knockout sexy. Certifiable jerk. He hates weddings, and I hate him.

When your grandmother stalks the star hockey player on the rival team because “You need a husband, Dakota—you’re not getting any younger!” it’s Christmas crazy on ice.

Fall. Autumn. It doesn't matter what you call it, I hate it. I despise pumpkins, Halloween, and the overwhelming sense of dread as the cold and damp move in. But when my new chauffeur drives up in a hearse, Halloween carols blaring, I realize there will be no escape from the holiday.

I thought I had my life all planned out—great career, swanky condo, wonderful fiancé.... A fiancé who did not show up to our wedding. A bride’s worst nightmare came true, live in front of all my family and friends. And his family and friends. Ryan James was the cake topper on top of this wedding cake of humiliation. All I wanted was to clear everyone out of the venue, throw the hors d'oeuvres in the trash, then light the wedding cake on fire. But Ryan insisted on still holding cocktail hour. And the elaborate five-course meal I had planned. And dancing.

Five years ago, I royally screwed up, lied, and broke the heart of the woman I love. A sane man would buy her a nice present and grovel. Guess I must be crazy. I love Meg more than anything. So why am I running against her for mayor of Harrogate?

Bullies never get what’s coming to them. No, I didn’t put poison in their food - I am a jam maker, and food is sacred. But I did plot the most epic plan of revenge. I needed to get one over on the biggest baddest high school bully and prove that I wasn’t the awkward pushover anymore, just like Weston wasn’t the obnoxious teenager anymore. Now, he was a powerful billionaire. Though he’s taller, sexier, bigger, I need to stay on my guard. I know men like Weston don’t really change. Or did he?

Beck Svensson fired me right before rent was due and in the middle of a rainstorm. That’s why he’s at the top of my hate list, along with pickles, people who steal other people’s lunches out of the office fridge, and trying to fold a fitted sheet. But you know what? It’s fine - totally fine. It’s freedom! I could do anything! I could start a bakery or farm the mushrooms growing in my soggy apartment carpet. Or I could just show up at the temp office at hate o’clock in the morning for a new assistant job.

Chris Winchester is a billionaire with serious trust issues, and I am a photographer trying to survive in the world of high-end weddings. And the billionaire’s penthouse is about to be marriage and a murder if he doesn’t stop hitting his snooze button a thousand bazillion times in the morning, while I’m trying to work and get my life back on track.

Christmas is bad enough without all the music, frantic shopping sprees, and holiday parties. So many parties… with people you couldn’t stand in high school and definitely can’t stand now. Top of the list? Patty Harrison. She made my teen years miserable and, now that we’re adults, she’s trying to get me banned from the Christmas market. Even so, I’m not going to commit literal murder.