Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Colossal Prick: 0.

  I smile up at the arrogant jackass with my latte still dripping off his shoes, slowly standing up. “The space is all yours, pal. I’m done with my coffee now.”

  With my parting jab signed, sealed, and delivered, I storm away.

  Well, I try.

  Storming is hard when one shoe is three inches taller than the other.

  “Forget the napkin, Hugo,” King Asshole says behind me. “We need to get this shoot going now.”

  I can’t resist tossing a look back over my shoulder. Only to find the jackass still watching me, something on his face I can’t quite read.

  He doesn’t look angry or humiliated anymore.

  More like...awkwardly amused?

  Okay, yeah, my broken heel is hilarious. It’s easy to laugh it up when these boots aren’t made for walkin’ anymore.

  The worst part is, even after all that, he’s still hot. That kind of wound-tight-to-snap caveman pose wrapped in a silk suit that’s hard to ignore and even harder to avoid drooling over.

  Or maybe I’m just on my last nerve.

  Jesus. I’ve got to go home and lie down. I need to wake up on Saturday the fourteenth.

  Though I should probably check on my parents first. Fridays are usually the best day for that. I should also start scanning jobs and unlikely unemployment requirements before calling it a night.

  I will make it to the fourteenth.

  Eventually.

  And no amount of growly egos and good looks are going to stop me.

  2

  Latte Girl (Magnus)

  Her long brown hair whips in the wind as she limps away.

  Is she hurt? Maybe that’s why she didn’t want to get up.

  If so, I should’ve assigned someone to help her instead of demanding she move. Then again, she could’ve just said she was injured like a normal human being instead of going on a tirade about having a right to occupy public property as long as she damn well pleases.

  The self-righteous ones don’t impress me. I guarantee I pay more taxes than a thousand of her combined, and I’ll only use this space again if I need another shoot. She’s welcome to come squat on her bench another time.

  Shame there’s no denying the hot current coursing through my blood like a chainsaw.

  There’s something about this girl.

  Unfortunately.

  It’s still hard to peel my eyes off her. When she sprayed coffee on me, my eyes were as glued to her as they are now. I was fixated on her lips—very full, kissable, hellfire lips—when the cinnamon reeking liquid splattered my leather shoes.

  Now? It’s hard to pin down one good reason why my eyes have a mind of their own.

  It could be the way the purple sweater dress hugs her body, accenting curves I shouldn’t be so interested in. The fabric stretches across her breasts in a colorful band, swoops in, and spreads across her hips. An ass like a plum, begging for a sinful hand.

  She’s not a tiny girl—not toothpick thin—which makes me relish the thought of taking her over my knee even more.

  Fuck.

  I scan the length of her and my gaze catches on her boot.

  So she’s not limping from pain.

  A missing heel, actually. For some unholy reason, I want to know the story behind it.

  I swallow a chuckle and shake my head. The day’s taken a strange turn. I can’t help being curious about the hellcat who might’ve used her claws like she threatened, rather than that cinnamon dreck pungent enough to strip paint.

  She turns to look back at me as she shuffle-retreats. Deep mocha-brown eyes connect with mine for a split second. A crease lines her forehead.

  “Go to hell,” she mouths, if I read her lips correctly.

  Damn.

  She’s this territorial over a park bench?

  I stand by my mouthy description.

  “Mr. Heron? Do you want me to get the park police?” Hugo asks. “She...she’s crazy! I’m worried she’ll come back the second your back is turned.”

  “The cops?” I shake my head. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve stepped in far worse on these streets than coffee spit. Get back to work and pretend this never happened.”

  Hugo Little may be many things—awkward, whip smart, and always so high-strung I worry about his blood pressure—but the man’s a loyal workhorse to the end. No sooner than the words leave my mouth, he’s bustling around, calling for our camera people to get to their places, directing them to move everything over to the vacated spot with better light.

  I realize I’m still holding something that doesn’t belong to me. I remove the papers I stuffed back in the pink folder after collecting them off the ground. Thumbing through them again, I nod, muttering to myself.

  Apparently, Miss Llama Spit works in advertising. Her work speaks for itself. Hard to believe she’s developed the same defense mechanism as a shaggy camel if she’s ever called an office home.

  Cats aren’t my thing, and neither is purr-niture, but her work is clean. About as good as the polished work my creative team sends across my desk every week for approval.

  The cartoons are witty and the color contrast says she knows her stuff.

  This isn’t novice work.

  I smile. My latest assistant cracked and quit a few weeks ago. Executive assistant duties are far more demanding than graphic design, however...

  What if this woman brings the same guts to a meeting I saw on a park bench?

  She could be what I’m looking for. I need someone with a backbone, and any girl with a sharp, acid-spit mouth like hers could really—

  No.

  Shit.

  Those lips just became completely unkissable, if I’m seriously considering this insanity.

  I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.

  She’s left a rare impression, though, and there’s no denying the stone-cold fact that I want her.

  On my team. In my bed. At my desk. On all fours.

  I can’t decide which I’d enjoy more.

  Hell, for now, I just want to see her again, talk to her, preferably without the turf war or anything liquid she can hock up.

  “Hugo?” I ask as soon as he’s circled back.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Track her down. I need to talk to her about the assistant job,” I say.

  Hugo stares at me with a blank face, adjusting his spectacles like there’s something wrong with them.

  I inwardly groan. Come on, man. I don’t need you questioning my sanity, too. Not after the routing that chick just put me through.

  There’s a reason I relate so well to Louis XIV. I am the company.

  People follow my orders, and not just because I have CEO, Owner, and President as job titles. They do it because I’m the beating heart of this leviathan that spins them gold.

  “You mean...latte girl?” he finally whispers, batting his eyes in disbelief. “Mr. Heron—”

  “Did you see another girl with no filter here?”

  “R-right. But you’re serious? I still think we should call security, just to be on the safe side. She’s unhinged. You really want to give her a job for...for spitting on you?” Hugo asks.

  Phrased like that, it does sound strange.

  “Yes. She’s perfect for the open EA position. I have no doubt she has the energy to fill my shoes when I’m otherwise occupied, and that’s what I need. No excuses, no nonsense, no endless babysitting.”

  Hugo shakes his head.

  “Energy. Because that’s the only skill required...” he mutters under his breath, then goes quiet for a minute. He shifts his weight, rocking gently at my side. “Mr. Heron, with all due respect, you go through assistants like tissue in a sick ward. Wouldn’t we be better off finding someone with more qualifications besides a bad—um, uncooperative—attitude?”

  “No.” I look at Hugo and narrow my eyes. “Get it done before she’s gone.”

  “But the shoot, the lighting...”

  I flash him a cutting look
. “The cameras are flashing, our model’s smiling, and you’re wasting time.”

  He nods at me, then cups his hands around his mouth as he takes off at a run.

  “Hey! Hey, latte girl, wait up,” Hugo yells, racing across the street to the bus stop.

  The model—Sylvia, I think—struts up to me after the camera guys flash each other a thumbs-up.

  She’s worth her pay. We’re shooting in a busy park, and she’s managed to keep those stilettos free from a single speck of dirt or misplaced grass. She approaches with a slow, practiced walk meant to win respect like English royalty.

  The button-down business-like jacket she wears has light-blue silk at her arms. The back of the skirt is longer than the front and more silk fans out in a tail. It’s this weird clash of regal pomp and modern sizzle, but I just market Big Fashion, not think up the designs.

  All she needs is a gold tiara over her platinum-blond hair, and she’d be princess personified.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Heron?” she coos, flashing a set of teeth like perfect ivory. “That woman was so vicious.”

  She bites her bottom lip, batting her fake lashes.

  I’m tempted to step back since she hasn’t left much personal space between us, but I don’t want to offend her. I need her to complete this shoot I promised our client I’d personally oversee, and we’re running out of daylight.

  Not everyone controls their emotions as well as I do.

  “I’m fine. It was just coffee,” I tell her. “I’ll have a change of shoes waiting back at the office.”

  She closes the last smidge of space between us and puts her hand on my chest.

  “You were such a gentleman about it,” she gushes. “Hugo’s right. You should’ve reported her to the park police. That was nuts. Practically assault.”

  Now I step back.

  Somehow, it doesn’t register with her that I’m trying to get the hell away.

  With these huntresses who flirt with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer, it never does.

  “Hardly. Having her grilled by a cop would be ten times the overreaction she gave me,” I snap, putting several more steps between us.

  “Oh, well, you’re right to be upset.” Sylvia follows me like a helpless puppy. “We should get you a nice warm cup of chai when we’re done here! That always de-stresses me after a hard day.”

  “We need to get back to work,” I remind her gruffly.

  I shoo her back to the cameramen with a warning glare to shake their asses. Get it done. With unpredictable weather this week, it might be our last shot at the rapid turnaround I promised our client.

  Hugo returns panting a minute later. “Couldn’t...quite...catch her. But I texted Ruby. She’s on it.”

  I let him take over the production and drop back, analyzing the scene for anything they’d miss that needs changing. Rigid, intense, and impossible are what they always say about my standards.

  Accurate.

  It’s also why HeronComm remains the most respected agency in this city.

  When this campaign is over, I’ll charge the client ten percent more for the next, and they’ll happily accept it. To get anywhere, we have to yield results.

  * * *

  Back at my office, I take off the latte-covered spit shoes and swap them out for a spare set of leather dress shoes I keep in my coat closet in case of emergency meetings. I go to the sideboard, pour myself a finger of scotch, and gaze out the window.

  Yeah. That view never gets old.

  Heron Communications lords over the city, occupying space in one of the tallest buildings in Chicago. The only buildings higher are the Vista and Willis Towers. A lifetime of work put our office as close to heaven as I’ll ever deserve.

  When I hear my door swing open, I turn. It’s a very short list of people who come barreling in without knocking, and Ruby Hunting is one of them with her big red curls bouncing.

  She slams the door behind her, another woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone.

  She’s only about ten years older than I am, but she’s worked here since I was in middle school. If she ever had a meeting with my father, then-CEO of HeronComm, and I was out of school, I’d come with her so I could get versed in learning the ropes before assuming my destiny.

  I’ve learned so much from her over the years.

  She’s been a mentor, an ear, and a nice swift kick in the ass whenever I needed it. She taught me everything my father should have—if he’d been born with more than a gaping hole in his chest where a human heart should be.

  Age and experience aside, we’re friends. That’s why she’s the only female employee welcome to visit my office nearly every day with the door shut for long periods.

  After the legacy my old man left behind, I’m all about keeping boundaries.

  “Are you fucking stupid?” she snaps off, her brows knit together like an angry V.

  I grin. She’s also the only employee who gets to speak to me like that. I move to my office chair, sit, and motion to the seat across from my desk.

  She barely looks at the empty chair, ignoring me.

  “I never thought I was stupid, but I’m sure you asked for a reason.”

  “Jesus Christ, Mag.” A heavy sigh falls out of her and she pinches the bridge of her nose. “You had a screamfest with a woman on a park bench until she literally spit on you, and now you want to hire her? Did you hit your head this morning?”

  “She was blocking a clear space with good light,” I say. “We asked her to move.”

  Ruby puts a knowing hand on her hip, thumping her fingers. “If she was blocking it, the space wasn’t clear.”

  “It’s not up for discussion. Even if it was, it’s over and done. She skedaddled, and we got our shoot. Hugo agrees, it turned out well. Our client will be impressed.”

  “Here’s what I don’t understand. You argue with a woman, trying to get her to move for ten minutes, and the conversation ends with her spitting coffee on you. Why does this convince you she has any skills?”

  “She has guts, and she’s not easily intimidated. Seems she has no earthly clue who I even am. That’s more than we can say for the last three EAs you hired,” I mutter.

  “And practical skills? Does she even know how to type?” Ruby asks.

  “Ruby, do you know what year it is? Dogs can type and check their own Instagrams. Since I sign the checks around here, I hardly think it matters what her work experience is without a proper review. Just get her in here and find out.” I reach for the pink folder on my desk, pick it up, and pass it over. “But if you must know, yes, she’s perfectly digital literate. Her design skills prove it, and apparently, she has a thing for cats.”

  Ruby opens the folder and starts flicking through the cards, huffing back annoyed murmurs. “She worked for a pet store brand? I guess that explains all the cats.”

  “Pet furniture,” I correct sharply, holding up a finger.

  Ruby purses her lips like she’s just bitten into an expired lemon.

  When Miss Congeniality mentioned pet furniture, I thought she was being sarcastic. I’d virtually laughed in her face.

  Yes, I’m a jackass. Guilty as charged. No wonder she was pissed enough to become a cinnamon coffee sprinkler.

  “You act like you’re not surprised?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

  Ruby nods. “Hugo warned me you wanted to hire her and sent a picture he snapped on his phone. I scoured the entire internet until I found her.” She drops a couple of pages on my desk. “Here you go. Everything you’d ever want to know about a strange girl who’s given no good reason to work here. Stalk away.”

  I shoot her a dirty look and eagerly sift through the printouts.

  Her name is Sabrina Bristol. She has a BFA in Graphic Arts with a minor in English from the University of Chicago, and a string of entry level positions on her LinkedIn resume. Not the kind of background we usually consider for this role—especially since it appears she doesn’t work anywhere for long.

  Rubbin
g my chin, I face my inquisitor, who flicks a red curl over her shoulder impatiently. “Ruby, I need a good assistant. We need good help because as long as that role remains vacant, my inboxes are cluttered, my schedule’s a mess, and poor Armstrong has to run himself ragged after my coffee and dry cleaning. If I had a right hand I could depend on—a helper who’d last—I wouldn’t have fought with some random woman over a park bench in the first place.”

  I find myself smirking at the memory.

  “If you weren’t such a bastard to work for, your assistants would last.” Ruby folds her arms in front of her chest. “What’s so funny?”

  I can usually smile, beam a little Heron charm, and get most women off my back. Not with Ruby Hunting.

  “She was feisty. A fighter. Miss Bristol held her ground rather gracefully until the bitter end. I can’t fathom how she can choke down that cinnamon crap. It smelled like perfume, but her attitude—”

  “Her attitude, as you call it, sounds like trouble.” Ruby shakes her head. “Are you sure you want her as an assistant? Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this?”

  My humor evaporates and my smile flattens.

  “Careful. I don’t like your implication. You know I’m not my dad.”

  “Oh, I’d never imply that, but you didn’t have time for a skills assessment, and she left an impression on you. I just hope you’re being honest with yourself.”

  “She’s got a spine and that’s what I need. I don’t care if she doesn’t have the right background and a litany of glowing recommendations. None of those people with business degrees and letters from their last ten bosses ever lasted six months. Why don’t we try something different?”

  “Because. Miss Bristol hasn’t kept a single job for six months, for one. She has no experience in a top-level EA position for a company of this size, much less dealing with horrible bosses. You’re downright draconian, especially to your assistants...”

  She looks down at her hands and fidgets. This is the part where I fight back a smile, knowing what’s coming.

  “Go on,” I urge, waving my fingertips.

  “Do I have to spell it out for you, Mag? Again? After we have the same conversation every two to six months when another one bites the dust?” She rolls her eyes. “You’re demanding, condescending, and expect sixteen-hour workdays. If your emails aren’t prioritized perfectly, you freak out. You send unreasonable requests at all hours of the night, and even if you do provide very generous compensation, I’m not sure any salary in the world is fit for the shitpile of torture you unload on their shoulders.”