Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  At two fifteen, I message to see where he is.

  No answer.

  At ten till three, the jackass still hasn’t shown up, and I’m feeling like a massive sucker.

  What kind of pretty graphics could I make by layering Brad B.’s smirky Tinder pic over a donkey?

  I cock my head and ponder. If nothing else, it might be a fun way to blow off some steam.

  To hell with Casper the not-so-friendly date ghost.

  I need my Sweeter Grind fix and I’ve waited long enough, so I head for the counter.

  “What can I get you?” a chipper redhead with a ponytail asks.

  My stomach snarls, famished because I haven’t had anything all day. “A medium cinnamon latte and a cream cheese bear claw, please. Oh, and one of those Heart’s Edge truffles, too.”

  “Excellent choice! That’ll be nine dollars and nineteen cents,” she says.

  I wince trying to subtract nine dollars and nineteen cents from the last fifty bucks I had in my bank account this morning. Math was never my best subject, and about an hour ago, I’d really been hoping Brad B. would show up like a gentleman and insist on buying my snack.

  “Are you okay?” The cashier studies my face for a second.

  I look past her, my eyes flitting up to the large black-and-white photos behind the counter. They’re all scenes from some idyllic little mountain town, a smiling family, a huge man with a scarred, handsome face licking chocolate off a spoon.

  “Just admiring the décor. I’m fine,” I say, already tasting a month’s worth of ramen noodles. I finally stick my debit card in the stupid machine. I really shouldn’t be spending money on this, but I need the sugar and caffeine rush to get through the day I’m having.

  A couple minutes later, she hands me a paper sack holding my treats plus a hot cup of coffee. I breathe in the cinnamon steam.

  Sweet nirvana.

  Since I’m off work in the middle of the afternoon, I might as well enjoy it. I decide to take my coffee to the park across the street. There’s plenty to mull over besides jerks who don’t show up for dates. Like what I’m going to do now that I’m jobless, for one.

  The scenic park always calms me down.

  Even more so at this time of year with the trees casting off their summer greenery for the kaleidoscope reds, oranges, yellows, and browns of autumn.

  I tighten my grip around the warm cup in my hand, bracing against the crisp Chicago breeze as I head across the street. My favorite bench is empty, thank God. I plop down there with so much force the cinnamon latte splashes out of the sippy hole in the lid.

  Smooth. Now my new sweater dress is stained.

  I hate that I wasted a sip of my drink, too. I need to savor the flavor. It’ll be my last cinnamon latte before I’m a working gal again.

  My half of the rent is a thousand bucks a month. No idea how I’m going to make that, and it’s the cheapest place we could find in a decent area.

  Paige pays more since her room is larger—not by much. But Paige has rich parents and zero student loans which means she has luxuries like savings.

  I have debt that compounds daily and will only blow up faster if I don’t find another job, pronto.

  It’s not just my rent I have to cover, either. My parents depend on me, too, whether they know it or not (hint: they don’t).

  Ugh. It’s going to be tricky bulk buying Mom’s books this month with no income.

  How long does it take to get unemployment, anyway? I doubt I’m even eligible since I wasn’t part of Purry Furniture for long.

  Also, it’s still Friday the Thirteenth. The day’s barely half over.

  Plenty of opportunities to dump more messes in my lap, I think sourly, popping the truffle in my mouth.

  For a second, I wilt back against the bench, smiling as a sugar high washes over me.

  Good Lord. Whatever else is conspiring to go wrong today, it’s got nothing to do with the chocolate goodness bursting in my mouth, sweeping my woes away for thirty whole seconds.

  When I open my eyes, there’s a camera crew bustling around the park. Their tight, hurried movement pulls me from my thoughts.

  A heavyset bearded man frames the shot with his hands, counts down, and yells, “Action!”

  Two guys with cameras swing themselves around the scene. A statuesque woman stands in the middle of the circle like this weird oracle, her head tilted slightly up, a blue dress blowing gently in the wind.

  On a day like this, how does she even manage a gently rustling garment?

  The wind almost bowled me over on my way to the bench. Or maybe it was the broken heel.

  Models. Bah.

  They know how to make life look easy.

  All of these people do, actually. They’re real artists, creators playing midwives to the images in their heads. Making real art and getting paid real money.

  Bitter much?

  Yes. I. Am.

  I glance down at the stupid bedazzled pink folder on my lap, wondering who you have to kill to be a real artist with a real salary. Also, why does that woman have to be so perfect?

  When I look up from the folder, there’s a new man staring at me.

  Holy Hercules.

  When did I miss the lightning bolt that sent him down? If Miss Model looks flawless, this guy is divine.

  Over six feet of sculpted muscle stuffed into an Italian suit that probably costs more than my parents’ mortgage.

  The cut of his chin, lethal.

  Thick sandy-brown hair like a lion’s mane.

  The cheekbones, the brow, the dusting of a well-trimmed beard all hint at an inner wildness tucked behind his hell no to any and all nonsense expression.

  What really makes me clench my coffee cup until it dents in, though, are his eyes.

  Hands down.

  Yes, they’re blue, but to liken them to a pristine sky or beautiful gems almost feels offensive.

  His ocean-blue eyes are riptides, humming with a distant, unforgiving energy. Still so close I can feel it like the ozone before a storm.

  His gaze sends an instant shock down my spine, and my whole body tingles. My toes shrink up inside my mismatched heel boots.

  He...he has to be a male model, right? But the better question is why he’s looking at me like a scorned Casanova.

  Oh.

  Oh, God.

  His expression turns me inside out. One arched eyebrow raised significantly higher than the other and cocky as hell.

  I glance down, desperate for an excuse to break eye contact. And halfway afraid I’m in the middle of a terrible wardrobe malfunction I’m clueless about.

  Nope.

  Sweater dress still intact.

  Heart still beating.

  Panties still safely concealed where they should be...

  I think?

  When I look at him again, those feral eyes have shifted away from me, back to the photo shoot. I slowly exhale a sigh of relief.

  This stranger and his sexy voodoo eyes are just the kind of trouble I don’t need today.

  The chubby bearded guy close to him, who I peg as the photo manager from the way he scurries between the cameramen and Miss Perfect, becomes the focus of the male model’s glare. Stroking his chin, he watches the scene with a cold eye and clenched jaw.

  I frown.

  Everyone seems to be working their butts off to please this guy, and he can’t do more than grump-stare and make slight hand gestures now and then?

  Life in the arts is hard enough, but having to kowtow to an entitled suit...woof.

  Don’t feel too sorry for these people, Brina, I remind myself. They’re still getting paid by Mr. Entitlement. Well, hopefully.

  But still. That’s what suit-wearing pricksters do. They treat the artists who make their precious ads that they depend on like trash. Without us, they’d be nothing.

  I glare at the annoyingly gorgeous jerkface and take a loud slurp of my latte.

  Model Man’s stabby blue eyes jerk to mine again. This time, I
hold my ground, telling the butterfly swarm in my belly to stay put.

  He holds a thick hand up, pointed directly at me, and motions to the statue beside my bench. Like he’s telling me to move without even having the decency to come over and ask politely.

  Bad, bad move, Neanderthal.

  Of course he does it again, this time more forcefully.

  Of course.

  Really? You don’t even know me and you think you can order me around?

  With a snort, I dig my heels—okay, heel—into the ground. If looks could kill, there’d be a smoking crater right where his smug, rude, devilishly fine figure used to be.

  Their group takes a break a minute later, and the chubby production guy jogs over.

  “Hi t-there,” he stammers, stopping in front of the bench I’m sitting on, leaning on the back of it to catch his breath.

  I give a floppy wave and sip my latte, bracing for what’s next.

  “So, I was wondering if there’s any chance you’d be willing to move? This spot has better lighting for our shoot. I hate to ask. I’m sure you’re just out here enjoying your day, but...it’s a big job. We’d be really grateful if you could clear it.”

  Could I “clear it?” Sure, let me just vacate public property with a grateful smile. All so your rich bitch boss can get his ever so important shots.

  Before I can string the words together to form a nicer response—I know this guy is just a fellow minion doing his job—Mr. Rich Bitch himself stomps up.

  “You’re going to have to move, miss. We need this spot.” At least his grumpalicious voice matches his looks.

  I meet his eyes and smile. Not because he’s just as confusingly barbaric and good-looking up close.

  “Now,” he adds, when I don’t move an inch after several long seconds.

  I blink, shocked at his bluntness. I open my mouth to respond, but I haven’t gotten a word out before he folds his arms, his brows drawn together like thunderheads.

  How fitting that he has the temperament of a heartless Greek god, too.

  “This is public property. I’m not going anywhere,” I snap, giving him my best defiant face. “My mom says you catch more flies with honey than vinegar, you know. Maybe you should try it.”

  His eyebrow quirks up. “As cute as clichè Midwestern sayings are, there’s a marketing campaign happening here with a very tight schedule, and you’re stealing our light.”

  Oh, their light.

  I’d forgotten.

  How do you steal sunlight, anyway? Is he so rich he thinks he owns the sun? Arrogance and entitlement go together like chocolate and peanut butter with this dude.

  “So sorry. I bet you’re pouring a ton of money into this campaign, aren’t you?” I ask sweetly.

  He nods, his scowl easing. “I’m glad you get it, so if you’ll just—”

  “What I get is that you should’ve locked down a more private venue for your little campaign if it’s life or death. This is a public park, last I checked, and I’m not moving until every last bit of my cinnamon latte is gone.” I hold up my cup, sloshing the liquid around loudly.

  He crosses those huge arms again, his shoulders bowing out like they’re ready to rip through his imported fabric. “Lady, I’m done being polite. If you don’t get your ass in the air, I’ll move you myself.”

  Whoa. That was polite? I wonder what rude looks like...but I’m more interested in telling this millionaire bully where he can shove it.

  I hold my hand up, showing off the fresh set I had done last weekend.

  “Choose wisely. Touch me, and I’ll dig my plastic so deep into your pretty face you’ll need the jaws of life to extract it. Capisce?”

  His jaw clenches before he answers.

  Yeah, Grump with a capital G confirmed. Being wound so tight he might break a few teeth must be his preferred facial expression.

  But then he just sighs, raking a hand through his hair, before hitting me with another dizzying starlight-blue gaze. “Ha ha, you’re funny. Congratulations. Now if you’re done with the comedy act, move.”

  I blink, unsure what to even say to that. And did I really call him pretty?

  Too late to deny it, unfortunately, and as horrible of a person as our brief encounter leads me to believe he is...the man does make truffle-good eye candy.

  Heck, if I were a casting director, this guy would be Mr. Darcy. You know, before the whole redemption arc.

  I take another small sip of cinnamon courage, savoring it slowly, thinking how far I really want to take this.

  “You’d be better off leaving me alone and letting me finish my coffee in peace,” I say, leveling my tone. “You’re going to run out of good light for quality images soon. The sun craps out way too fast this time of year.”

  His death-glare actually makes me uncomfortable.

  I shift my legs and that ridiculous bedazzled pink folder slips from my lap, hitting the ground with a thunk. Half a dozen cartoon cat cards slide from the pockets, the height of my genius exposed to the world.

  I’m about to extend a foot to slam down on top of them, but I don’t get the chance.

  The Suit bends to pick up my mess, muscles rippling behind his clothes, his blue eyes filled with this cruel wonder.

  Not fair.

  Why do so many men with dangerously beautiful bodies turn out to be ogres?

  He surveys the cards quietly before making any effort to return my things. I clear my throat and our eyes lock. I don’t dare let on how small I feel right now.

  “I propose a trade. Your cats I’ve kindly rescued from blowing away for my camera space.” He smiles, and not in a friendly way. “Are you a cartoonist? A cat-toonist, maybe?”

  I fight back an eyeroll so intense it’ll probably land me in the ER.

  “Ha, ha, ha. So original. Hope you’ve got copywriters.”

  “My writers are some of the finest marketers in the country, from sea to shining sea,” he says, pride entering his voice.

  “Cool, then I’m sure you’re set. God knows no one pays for your jokes,” I throw back.

  “Damn, you’re mouthy,” he growls.

  That’s it. It’s a statement. And not an entirely furious, insulting one. There’s a hint of amusement, too, like mouthy is something that interests him.

  Awesome.

  He’s known me for three minutes while trying to extract me from a city bench but I’m pegged as “mouthy.” Like he isn’t the one who made me that way?

  Well, two can do the pegging today.

  Besides being a rich suit, an unbearable McHottie, and a park tyrant, he seems like one of those guys who think women should keep their mouths shut.

  I shoot him a fake docile smile. “My bad, your highness. I’ll try harder to be seen and not heard. Of course, I’ll be seen on this bench until I’m good and ready for a walk.”

  His jaw tenses again and there’s the faintest flash of angry white teeth around his lips. He stares up at the sun, muttering something to himself, and then turns back to me.

  “Frankly, Miss Hardass, I don’t care where you’re seen or heard as long as it isn’t on this bench. You’re blocking the light. You’ve already been told.”

  Funny thing is, I probably would’ve moved in a heartbeat, with no problem, if he just asked me nicely.

  But he picked the wrong day to dick with my pride, and now I’m on a mission.

  This bench is mine until I say it’s not.

  “When was that? I didn’t quite hear you,” I say with a yawn, looking back at my phone.

  He rolls his eyes so hard I think they might stick to the back of his head.

  I swallow a laugh. At least we’re having fun with this crapfest, right?

  “I’m impressed! You roll your eyes better than a thirteen-year-old cheerleader,” I say matter-of-factly.

  “Only when I’m being faced with someone as obstinate, immature, and insufferable as you,” he grinds out.

  “Fancy words.” I shrug. “I just call out BS when I s
ee it.”

  “Then you should get your eyes checked. There’s no ‘bullshit’ here.”

  “Hmm, maybe you’re right,” I say slowly, tilting my head. “Just a loser in an overpriced suit trying to act important. Trying to remind the little people of their place.”

  “You have no—find another damn spot and someone else to annoy. Leave now.” His voice is a drawn saber, rattling with this raw, masculine warning.

  “Uh, did you just growl at me?” I blink, trying not to snicker.

  “Why the hell are you walking around Chicago with a folder full of cat cards, anyway?” He straightens the knot in his tie, working those huge, angry fingers on fabric and holding my eyes hostage longer than I like.

  “What’s it to you?” I whip my gaze back at the ground. “I work—worked—at a pet furniture company.”

  “Pet furniture?” he echoes, as if he’s one breath short of laughing in my face.

  No.

  He’s just pissed off the wrong girl. I’m out of banter. I don’t need to do more talking, really, to extract myself from this misery.

  It’s been a day from hell and the last thing I need—the very last—is being mocked by a jackass suit with a God complex. I push the Sweeter Grind cup to my mouth and chug the remaining delicious liquid, as much as I can hold in my mouth.

  Then I lean forward, look down, aim, and spray cinnamon-colored coffee all over his expensive Italian shoes.

  So much for savoring the flavor. It kinda sucks that I spent nearly ten bucks on this unexpected date with Chicago Satan.

  But the result is worth it.

  The guy doesn’t strike me as the type to have any emotions beyond pure bleating rage, but in his cold eyes, I see something else leak through.

  Abject horror. Shock. Maybe a little humility—finally!

  He doesn’t say a word, just stares down at his soaked shoes, thinning his lips like he’s considering how to retaliate.

  I grin triumphantly.

  The big bearded guy has been so quiet through this exchange, I’ve forgotten he’s there. Until he looks up with his hands pressed against his cheeks in utter fear, and whispers, “I-I’ll go find you a napkin. Right away!”

  He scurries off and I add up the score.

  Unlucky Girl: 1.