Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Paige’s fingers fly against her phone and she stops and reads the screen for a moment. “Dude. He is a jackass—it’s not just you.”

  “Told ya,” I throw back. “What’d you find?”

  “Wow, this guy, I know all about him! I knew I’d read it somewhere. He’s like a local business legend, always in the press. He took over the company years ago when his dad retired. He became a huge CEO in his twenties. He’s a billionaire and everyone hates him. He likes to crush the competition with these elaborate marketing stunts...he’s put an awful lot of people out of business.”

  My gut knots. It feels extra unpleasant with too much bread and Alfredo.

  “Why would I want to work for an egomaniac like that?” I ask.

  She’s quiet for a minute, considering.

  “I mean...you need a job, right?” she says gently. “Nothing wrong with a little deal with the devil if it helps keep the lights on. No judgment here.”

  I can’t argue with her logic, even if every bit of me wants to.

  “It’s a sick joke,” I say again. “It’s got to be.”

  “Oh, at a company that size, you’ll rarely even see the CEO. My dad’s been a suit his whole life and he has no idea who’s being hired for entry-level positions.”

  I stare at Heron’s cocky, accomplished, unfairly gorgeous face in the picture and frown, imagining those dangerous lips saying, Come. Interview with us. Destiny awaits.

  “I guess I should try it. Maybe. It can’t hurt worse than what already went down.”

  So what if my pride takes another direct hit? If I get a job out of this, it’s worth a shot.

  And if it really is a sadistic prank and Heron tries something outrageous?

  Well, he’ll find out a latte spritzer is just one of my many talents when I’m backed into a corner.

  * * *

  “I love your parents’ house,” Paige says when she drops me off.

  I laugh. “You always say that.”

  “It’s true! It looks like something out of a fairy tale. Lord of the Rings hobbit home, tucked away right here outside Chicago.” She bats her eyes, temporarily somewhere else.

  Uh, no. Paige is too well off to get that folks settle into these cramped, older working class homes for decades not because it’s fun—it’s because they’re priced out of anything nicer by exploding real estate prices, and they’re the lucky ones to have a home.

  The tiny stone Bedford Park bungalow I grew up in will always be magical, though.

  It’s the place I still think of as home.

  She doesn’t know the tall purple flowers capping the stairs to the front porch are fake. Or that the house was already dilapidated when we bought it, and Dad spent fifteen years getting it to the general state of passable shabbiness it’s in today. From the curb, it just looks charming and rustic.

  “Thanks, lady. Thanks for everything today.” I get out of the car and wave to her, heading for the door.

  Placing my hand on the knob, I’m about to get my key, but a sneaking suspicion occurs to me.

  I turn it instead. Yep, the door sails open.

  They’re still not locking it.

  “Mom? Dad? You guys know Bedford Park isn’t like, Mayberry, right?” I shout as I step in and shut the door, shifting the lock loudly into place. “It’s changing all the time. It’s not safe to leave the door unlocked.”

  “Aw, Brina baby, we ain’t got nothing for anybody to steal,” Dad says from his recliner without taking an eye off the Cubs game on TV as he takes a swig of his iced tea.

  How am I going to convince them that while that may be true, some nut could still stab them in their sleep for the sport of it? I take a seat next to Dad on the lumpy couch.

  From the kitchen I hear, “Hel-lo-oo!”

  “What’s Mom doing?”

  “Dishes.”

  “And show tunes?”

  He looks up from the game.

  “She’s in a good mood. Up to six hundred books sold after this month. It’s always entertaining when your ma’s happy.” He laughs at her off-key rendition of “Hello Dolly.” “She deserves to be happy.”

  “Is my Brina home?” Mom calls from the kitchen.

  I smile because she already knows the answer, but she keeps up this cozy, familiar game of making me feel welcome like only Mom can.

  The house is small. Barely any space separates the kitchen from the living room where Dad and I sit. Before I can answer, she peeks through the passthrough and shrieks. Then she runs through the door, lifts me from the couch, and squeezes me in a tight hug.

  “Welcome home, baby!”

  I close my arms around her. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Guess what?” She pulls away excitedly, and I can guess what she’s about to say.

  “You sold six hundred books this month?”

  “Oh, Nolan, you shouldn’t have told her! It was my news.” She waves a hand at my dad.

  “Sorry, babe.” He doesn’t look away from his game.

  I manage an awkward smile I hope to God doesn’t look suspicious.

  Mom would be crushed to smithereens if she knew that over the past three months, I’ve bought six hundred and ten copies of her various titles and shipped them to libraries and used bookstores.

  It’s going to be impossible to do that this month, and it kills me.

  My parents depend on those book sales for extra money and Mom’s sanity. She’s struggled at this writing thing for years.

  I always told her she’d make it someday. And if I have to help that along in my own secret way, so be it.

  My face must betray my thoughts because Mom says, “Sabrina, honey, what’s wrong? You got so serious all of a sudden.”

  “Oh. Nothing.” I smile. “Nothing at all!”

  “Well, come into the kitchen and let me get you a cup of coffee.”

  I follow Mom over and sit down at the four-person table. Her five-year-old writing laptop currently occupies a seat, the lettering on the keys worn off. The dishwasher gurgles behind us.

  She returns to the table a minute later with two piping hot mugs of coffee and hands one to me.

  “I’m working on a new book called Farm Love. It’s going to be my best yet.”

  “That’s cool. What’s the story?” I ask, taking a long pull of warm coffee. It’s not Sweeter Grind but it’s familiar, and that makes it good.

  “Oh, this sleek little city girl gets evicted from her apartment and has to move to northern Wisconsin.”

  “That would suck.”

  Although, it could be my life.

  “She totally deserves it. She’s got plenty of lessons to learn when she takes a job as a farmhand with a big Marine and his mama’s old prize-winning pig, Sir Oinkswell...”

  I don’t ask where an evicted city girl got the skills to become a farmhand. I doubt I’d be able to milk cows, if I needed to.

  I scan the room as Mom talks. Again, familiarity is a comforting thing. The counters are lined with baskets of broccoli, carrots, and cabbage, still dirty from the garden, waiting to be washed. My parents have always had a massive backyard garden so they only have to buy produce half the year.

  Dad used to hunt during deer season and keep the meat in the deep freezer for months. He’s not really well enough for it anymore.

  Even if they’re happy with this life, guilt jolts through me. I’ve let my parents down, and money just gets tighter over the years. Meager pensions and Social Security can’t keep up.

  Without me buying those books, they won’t even be able to maintain this humble standard of living.

  “So, then, after a torrid affair and finding the missing pig, the Marine farmer man saves her from the Rodeo Clown Killer and they reconcile. He spells out ’I love you’ in the mud the pigs play in and proposes right there!” She claps her hands together. “What do you think?”

  Holy hell.

  Marine farmer? Rodeo Clown Killer? Sir Oinkswell? Mud proposals?

  I love dirty romance books�
��what monster wouldn’t?—but I don’t think this qualifies.

  I was only halfway listening, but what I’m hearing sounds like a train wreck.

  My mother tries so hard, but she’s not bestseller movie-rights material. She’s not even a mid-lister after twenty years pecking away at her stories.

  I don’t have the heart to tell her my attention drifted, or that if she’d given this up years ago and gotten a real job, maybe I wouldn’t have to sock away all of my fun money into funding this pipe dream of hers.

  Instead, I give her a thumbs-up.

  “It’s great, Mom. Steamy and riveting.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks again.

  “I’m fine!” I insist.

  Only, I’m so not fine if I’m dragging so hard I can’t even fake it for my folks.

  “Finish your coffee, dear. You look tired.”

  I put the cup to my lips and inhale another fortifying sip of homemade latte. I’ve got to give her credit for one thing—Mom always puts cinnamon and vanilla in my coffee.

  That’s why I love the Sweeter Grind’s drinks so much. It reminds me of home in the heart of a sometimes heartless city.

  As I sip my coffee, a weird drip-drip-drip noise starts to annoy me. The dishwasher has been quiet for the past few minutes, so I have no clue where it’s coming from.

  Then I see it. In the corner, right above Mom’s overwatered ivy, a steady stream of water leaks from the ceiling, straight down the wall.

  “Oh, crap. The ceiling’s leaking? Why didn’t you tell me?” I set my mug down and sit up in my seat, staring sadly at the persistent drip.

  “What?” Mom looks up, eyes darting around like it’s the first time she’s heard of it.

  Dear Lord. How does she live in this house and not notice these things?

  I point to the corner.

  She follows my finger with her eyes. “Gosh, you’re right! We’ll have to get that fixed before winter comes.”

  “Dammit!” Dad yells from the living room.

  “Hmm, it’s halftime. It shouldn’t be the game getting under his skin...” Mom frowns and pushes her chair back. “I better go check on him.”

  I follow Mom back to the living room.

  There, Dad wads up a letter in his hand, shaking his head with a savage frown.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?” I ask, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. He’s so tense it feels like he’s about to pop.

  “Damn heart medication went up—again! Damn insurance won’t cover the difference. I don’t even know why we pay for this crap.”

  Because I can’t possibly buy enough books to cover the heart drug without it? That’s why, but of course I keep it to myself.

  My own heart sinks into my chest. I swallow a sticky lump lodged in my throat. Just because Friday the Thirteenth ended doesn’t mean I’m in the clear.

  Bad things come in threes. What else is about to go wrong?

  I wonder if Paige can drive me up to Wisconsin to see if any farms need help. If I could fix my parents’ mess, I’d even be willing to take my chances with a hot Marine and a serial killer rodeo clown.

  Then my mind goes to that damn email I got from HeronComm. Gulp.

  Sad to say, I think it might be my best chance to hold back the flood.

  No, let’s be real—my only chance.

  * * *

  I stand outside a skyscraper in downtown Chicago wearing a business suit and heels I swiped from Paige. I suck down air, my pride, and any pesky dignity I have left.

  Then I march right in and take the elevator to the eighty-ninth floor.

  Like Paige says, if nothing else, it’s good practice for interviews at places I’d actually want to work.

  The doors open to a wall of windows and a view that’s just breathtaking.

  Dang. I’m looking down on Millennium Park in all its gleaming wonder. The massive Bean glints like this otherworldly oracle, reflecting the entire cityscape back at me.

  I take a deep breath, relax my shoulders, and walk up to the desk where a uniformed security guard sits.

  “I’m here for an interview with Miss Hunting,” I say.

  She picks up a walkie-talkie. “Hunting, you have an arrival. Over.”

  I’m so out of place here.

  This has to be a vicious joke. My stomach twinges, imagining all the wicked surprises Heron might have planned for payback. What if I open the door and he’s armed with a garden hose that shoots lukewarm latte?

  Crud.

  I should probably leave now. Before I find out what kind of sick revenge scheme a man who’s arrogance and ego personified cooks up.

  I’m actually turning to head back the way I came when a voice behind me says, “Miss Bristol! Welcome. I’m thrilled you could make it. Please come back and talk to me.”

  She doesn’t sound thrilled. Not exactly, but her voice is warm and calm enough to risk it. I spin around to face her.

  A tall woman with auburn curls in a black dress with split sleeves holds her hand out. “I’m Ruby Hunting, HR Director for HeronComm.”

  “Sabrina Bristol.” I shake her hand. “But everybody calls me Brina.”

  “Right this way.” She motions for me to follow, and I do, trying not to trip over my own feet.

  We go behind the security desk to a door she uses her badge to open. We walk down a long hall in silence until we finally come to a conference room with tall leather chairs like someone attached rollers to medieval furniture and a long glass table fit for King Arthur, if his knights were a band of corporate cutthroats.

  Okay.

  Breathe.

  My stomach is in stitches. I know I’m t-minus sixty seconds from getting punked.

  I know it.

  And I had Paige lend me her four-hundred-dollar black pumps, too. Another huge mistake if Heron decides to have a billionaire ragey man-trum with my shoes.

  The room is dark.

  “Lights.” No sooner does Ruby say it than the lights come on. She points at the table. “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

  Um—that would be down the street somewhere. Not in this building where I could probably disappear forever and he’d get away with it.

  Still, I take a seat at the very end of the table, folding my hands together tightly so I don’t start fidgeting.

  No easy task. Everything about this feels weird, unnerving, sinister.

  “I have to say, I’m surprised I got this interview considering the way I met Maggot—” Crap! Did I say that? “Magnus, I mean. Mr. Heron, I mean?”

  So, this is off to a flawless start.

  Ruby laughs, her cherry-red lips peeling back in a grin.

  “That makes two of us,” she says.

  Not the response I expected.

  Okay, then.

  “I’m sure you know I have pretty limited design experience, but I’m willing to learn. Whatever you need me to do, if this is for an entry-level thing.”

  “You’re not interviewing for a creative job,” she says, her voice flat.

  Come again? I’m sure I look as bewildered as I feel. Ugh.

  What am I interviewing for? I literally have no other skills.

  “I’m not?” I venture. “Oh. I guess I just assumed, after he saw my designs—”

  “Mag was quite impressed with you. You’re interviewing for an Executive Assistant position. But you need to know he’s hard to work for. This won’t be a cakewalk, and you’ll work for every penny of the generous compensation package we’re offering. He’ll expect you here by six a.m. and I doubt you’ll leave until he does. The man is married to his work.”

  I don’t doubt it. But I get the odd feeling she’s trying to talk me out of the job.

  Why?

  Because you’re being punked. Duh.

  I’m about to shove the chair away from the table and run but my parents’ leaky roof pops into my head. I keep Paige’s heels planted firmly on the ground.

  “Can you tell me more about this role? What does an Executive A
ssistant do, exactly?”

  “Whatever Magnus needs. You’ll do his filing, work on contracts, be a point of contact, and fetch his coffee. It won’t be fun, and time off is practically nonexistent.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and blink them open, trying to believe what I’m about to say.

  “Look, Ruby, you seem like a nice lady, so I’m going to ask you to be straight with me. The way I met Mr. Heron was godawful. I had a blowout with your boss in public, insulted him, and then you invited me for an interview that I guess I can’t afford to turn down. I lost my job last week, and I’ll be honest. I really need a new one and don’t have time for games. So tell me. Is this real, or is it some twisted revenge plot because I spit on a rich boy’s fancy shoes?”

  She purses her lips. “Okay. For reasons I won’t pretend to understand, you intrigued Magnus Heron. He’s not used to people doing anything but fawning over him or else cursing him after he’s won a negotiation. Frankly, I believe it’s a horrible business decision to hire someone with few qualifications for this position just because they piqued his curiosity. I couldn’t convince him otherwise, though, so here we are.”

  My gut sinks as she pauses.

  “You need to understand his assistants don’t last long,” she continues. “They never have, and after they quit, they usually need therapy. Don’t get all starry-eyed over the compensation package and starting salary and bite off more than you can chew. This would be a hard job for someone with a lot more direct experience than you have.”

  I swallow air and push a strand of hair out of my face. “What is the compensation?”

  Before she can answer, the door whips open.

  And there he stands.

  King Dickwad himself, staring at me with an oh-so-superior look imprinted on his face as he adjusts his cufflinks. He’s a razor of a man, so tall and chiseled and rock-hard it’d probably hurt any girl unlucky enough to wind up in his arms even before he smashes her heart to bits.

  Magnus strolls in and sits right beside me like I’m already his. Practically in my freaking lap.

  In his element, he looks like less of a jackass. Ever so slightly.

  But my eyes could be deceiving me because, yes, he’s sculpted like a Greek god, and I hate it.