Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  I sigh. “I’m not sure he’s paying me enough to deal with his BS forever. I’m not the only one to think that. He has a hard time keeping assistants.”

  “Is it that bad? We knew it was weird when we scoped it out after they randomly asked you to interview, but...I was hoping it wouldn’t be horrendous. You’re there all day. You should snoop around and find out what made this jackass such a raving loon.”

  I give her a tired smile.

  “When would I find the time? I’m there by five responding to emails and sorting through client files to see who needs what. Some days, I forget to eat lunch. If I do, it’s at my desk, and this is the first time I’ve gotten home before I turn into a very tired pumpkin. I don’t have time to care about why he’s a mega-prick.” I shovel a forkful of lasagna in my mouth, burying my rage in delicious food. “I’m so drained, Paige. Like if I don’t get twelve hours of sleep this weekend, you’re gonna find me with no pulse.”

  She winces. “Hey, at least you have a weekend?”

  “Careful.” I flood my mouth with sorely needed wine. “Don’t jinx me.”

  “You know what, screw it.” Paige picks up her phone. “I’m Googling your boss. We’re going to get to the bottom of this. Maybe we’ll find the asshat’s kryptonite.”

  I swallow a chunk of lasagna and laugh. “I thought we already did that before I started working there?”

  She shrugs. “I did a preliminary search just to see if it was legit. Time to find out why people are so scared of him.” She taps away at her phone while I eat. “Oohhh, read this.”

  “What?” As soon as the word falls out, I bite off a chunk of warm garlic bread.

  “I just sent you an article. The Magnum of Advertising. Apparently, that’s what they call your jerk-wad boss.”

  My eyes roll so hard it hurts.

  “I’m finishing dinner before I read anything that puffs up his ego,” I say. “Magnus Heron has gotten enough of my time this week. I deserve one good meal before he steals more attention.”

  Paige stares at her phone, her eyes ticking over the screen.

  “When he inherited HeronComm—wait. Inherited? Oh my God. And this ass thinks he’s really something? We’d all be CEOs at thirty if we got our daddy’s company,” she quips.

  I nod, angrily washing the bread down with wine.

  “And it says here...the place wasn’t doing as well when he took over. It was more like a run-of-the-mill ad agency stuck in the mud. Just a handful of big clients,” she tells me, quickly summarizing the article. “He built a machine. They call him a shark. Probably why the jackass thinks he’s some wizard.”

  “Define not doing well?” I take another bite of lasagna, hating the fact that I’m curious.

  “It was hemorrhaging money and had trouble attracting new clients, I guess. But when Magnus took over, he got attention any way possible. He jumped on every new digital toy he could find. The firm grew thanks to his antics, and today he’s well known as ‘the Magnum of Advertising.’”

  Magnum, my ass.

  “Oh, antics. Sure. You mean like stinking up a meeting room because he opened cat food so he could pretend he was brave enough to eat it?” I snort.

  That was so dumb, even if it was kinda funny.

  Stedfaust wasn’t even impressed enough to jump back on board. He was a maybe at best, and in my experience, maybe means no.

  “He does worse things than that,” Paige says slowly. “Like...he hired this Instagram influencer, a big-time model named Mariska Crista to pretend they were engaged. All so he could land a freaking press conference. He wanted to get publicity for a new deal with a major startup. 'Success yields success,' so says the jerk.”

  If only it weren’t true.

  It’s far easier to be successful once you already are, but most people don’t say it out loud. Especially since he inherited his company. He’d be way less successful, I’m sure, if his dad never owned it.

  With my food gone, I set my plate on the coffee table and roll up into a ball on the couch. I can rest while we talk.

  “Tell me that model thing blew up in his face. Pretty please?” I ask.

  “I mean...looks like Mariska called him King Asshole in a blog post and the nickname stuck around, so I’d say he didn’t walk out of it unscathed. But he got to talk about his tech deal with an electric car company that’s everywhere now, and that scored him several more huge clients.” She grits her teeth.

  Awesome. Somehow, I knew there wouldn’t be a happy, humble pie ending.

  Magnus Heron is the devil.

  Nothing gives him the comeuppance he deserves. He wouldn’t allow it, and I’m pretty sure he’s got a black magic spell of protection over him or something.

  Paige scrolls down on her phone, stops, and smiles.

  “Oh, looks like he does some charity work.” She shrugs. “He donates money to some literary causes and a private school, I should say. Here, I’ll send you this one, too.”

  Charity. Right. Because rich kids at academies always need more help.

  “He’s probably after the tax deductions,” I say bitterly.

  She shakes her head. “No, looks like most people think he does it to improve his image. No one’s really fooled, though. People still call him King Asshole. Thanks, Mariska, for that one.”

  I snicker. “Yeah, thanks. At least everyone knows he’s the biggest jerkface in the history of ever.”

  My brain whips through several memories, rapid-fire.

  The conversation I had with Armstrong the first day. He tiptoed around some mystery scandal on the way to the coffee shop. Then Hugo danced around it like a man on fire.

  “So, here’s something weird. Everyone at work talks about this terrible scandal from a long time ago, but no one wants to dish what happened. Do you see anything like that?” I ask.

  Paige frowns and spends the next few minutes pushing her Google-Fu to its limits before she says, “Nope. Not finding anything besides his dumb PR stunts.”

  “Not like it matters, anyway. I don’t have another high-paying job lined up.”

  My phone pings, but I’m too tired to look.

  “Can you see who’s sending me what?” I ask.

  She takes my phone.

  “It’s probably just my articles, don’t you wo—oh.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line. “Speak of the devil. You’ve got mail from Mr. Maggot.”

  “God,” I moan, sitting up. I snatch the phone from her and open the email with my head already throbbing.

  To: Sabrina Bristol

  From: Magnus Heron

  Priority: HIGH

  Subject: LA Excursion

  Miss Bristol,

  This is your notice that I’m pitching a large fashion design client in L.A. this weekend and it requires your immediate assistance. I regret the short notice, however, that’s the way this outfit rolls.

  So pack your personal effects and be ready for an early flight. Armstrong will be waiting on you at four o’clock sharp. L.A. is considerably warmer than Chicago this time of the year, so you’d do yourself a favor to travel in layers.

  Now for the good news: we’ll be back in time for work Monday morning. See you at the airport.

  Magnus Heron

  CEO of HeronComm Inc.

  Kill me.

  And that last line makes me want to gag. Because the world might end if I wasn’t back in time to fetch his flipping coffee.

  “What. The. Crap.” It’s all I can babble out.

  Poor Paige looks at me like I’ve just snapped, and honestly?

  Maybe I have.

  I hit respond and start typing out my resignation.

  “What is it? What are you doing? Brina?” Her voice cracks with worry.

  “He...he wants me to pack my shit and be ready to go to the airport at four in the freaking morning on my day off—tomorrow! Probably so I can be his gofer all weekend.”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t jinx you—I swear!” She holds up her hands with a defensive smil
e, claiming innocence.

  “Relax. I’m not blaming you.”

  I may be superstitious, but I’m not a huge bitch about it.

  “I’m so sorry, but wait! What are you doing?”

  “What else?” I don’t look up from the screen. “I’m giving him a two-word resignation. Guess what the first word is? It starts with a big fat ‘F.’”

  “Brina, no! Don’t do it.” Paige lunges over the couch and body-slams me, wrestling the phone away. “Wait an hour. If you still want to do it, fine. But you can’t just throw away two hundred thousand dollars a year without thinking it through, lady. Yes, he’s a jackass, a tyrant, and a stuck-up suit, but if you can make it even six months working for him...you’ll probably have a gold key to any job in the city.”

  Why, why, why does she have to be the voice of reason?

  “You’re right,” I grind out, taking a deep breath. “Six months is roughly a hundred and eighty days. I’ve got five down. I can do this...I think.”

  I pause, imagining those days stretched out before me, longer than a Kardashian’s eyelashes. Paige looks like she wants to give me a big hug, and that’s when I crack.

  “Oh, what the hell am I saying? I can’t do it! I just...” I reach for my fork, considering a good place to stab myself and end this torment.

  “You can, girl, and you will. Think about it. Think about the money. When you get your first paycheck, it has to get easier. I promise.”

  Her big green eyes catch my gaze, and for a second we share this almost sisterly mind-meld where I try to steal a little of the knock ’em out energy Paige offers.

  A slow sigh slips past my lips. I’m talked down from the ledge. For now.

  She’s right. Grabbing my phone, I head for my room.

  “Hey, where are you going?” Paige asks.

  “To pack my stuff for this circus,” I say. “You won me over.”

  8

  Lucky Penny (Magnus)

  I don’t relish the idea of parking my Tesla at the airport, but I sent Armstrong to fetch Sabrina and the rest of my team. There’s no time for too many stops.

  I’m also not having anyone climbing into a cab alone with a driver neither of us knows at four a.m. with a high-stakes meeting on the line.

  I leave the house at three thirty because I’m driving across town to make a single pit stop before O’Hare International. Sabrina Bristol has no clue how much she owes me.

  Then again, I owe her for saving the Woof Meow Chow account, even if I’ll never admit it to her face. That’s the only reason I’m doing this.

  Yeah right, Mag Heron, you’ve turned into a sucker, a prickling voice whispers in the back of my mind. Desperate to make a woman you can never have smile like she doesn’t want to shank you in the throat.

  I park my car in front of Sweeter Grind and dash in.

  The place smells more like sugar than coffee. How does she even drink this stuff?

  “Can I help you, Mr. Heron?” the barista asks, a hipster kid with a bushy beard and more piercings than freckles. “Wow, it’s really you! I didn’t believe it when the boss said we were opening half an hour early.”

  “I need a large cinnamon latte and a bear claw to go,” I snap off, throwing my Centurion card on the counter with a metallic clatter. “And if there’s a way to keep that drink extra insulated, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Of course. What kind of bear claw?”

  “There are kinds of bear claws?” I ask. Who the hell has time for this?

  “Sure, the filled bear claws are almond butter, cream cheese, and huckleberry jam—a Heart’s Edge favorite. Then we have the original that isn’t filled at all. They’re all there in the case if you want to have a look. That always helps some folks decide.” He smiles and points to a pastry case.

  I blink like a fish out of water. People actually put mental effort into choosing bear claws?

  I follow his finger with my eyes and study them closely.

  “Give me one of every kind,” I say. “A whole box.”

  He quickly packages them up, and one closely resembles the pastry Sabrina munched on the day I met her.

  “That’ll be thirty-five dollars,” the barista says.

  I got almost a dozen pastries bigger than my hand and a large coffee for that much? No wonder this place reeks of sugar rather than being filled with the aroma of beans kissed by the Hawaiian trade winds and roasted to perfection.

  Clearly, I need to train Miss Bristol’s palate.

  “Tip yourself a hundred bucks and hurry up,” I tell him, tapping my foot impatiently as his eyes light up.

  “Yes, sir!”

  There isn’t much time, but I can’t resist one more stop at The Bean Bar for a carafe of real coffee—it’s too long of a flight for the instant stuff they keep on board—on my way to the airport. As usual, I’m still the first arrival.

  I check in with the pilot, load my stuff on the sleek Gulfstream jet, and go stand on the tarmac.

  Every now and then, I get a straggler, and I like to be calling or texting before we’re late. Ruby’s the next to arrive, as always. Her leopard print dress accents her usual good fashion sense today.

  She runs a hand through her hair. “I still don’t see why HR needs to be here. Don’t you have a sales team to pitch for you?”

  “Having you around keeps everyone on their toes.”

  “Delightful. I love being the one everyone hates,” she huffs out.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.” I chuckle, leading her up the stairs and inside the plane, where I open the box waiting on the table. “It’s not you they hate. Care for a bear claw?”

  She snatches one out with that huckleberry filling. Her first bite leaves her a little more at ease.

  “Believe me, I know. Your name comes up in an HR grievance at least once a month. But I can’t fire the majority owner and CEO, so you’re safe. As much as I’d love to stand here and chat, you know my limits, Mag. I’m finding an overstuffed seat. Wake me up when we’re in L.A.”

  “Go on.” I nod at her.

  Hugo, Angie, and Dave, the Sales Director, carpool. I watch them arrive, back on the tarmac again, enjoying the bustle of planes taking off. I’ve always had a thing for aviation.

  I’m about to call Armstrong to find out if my new EA made everyone else late when the black town car pulls up. Sabrina jumps out behind a few other designers. She’s wearing blue sweats, a pink tank top, and flip-flops with a lavender overnight bag.

  “You’re wearing sweats to a business meeting for a fashion brand?” I ask.

  “I love finding out I’m working at four a.m. on Saturday morning after eleven on Friday night as much as any gal, so yeah. That a problem, Mr. Heron? I’m going to wear clothes I can actually sleep in until right before we land, then I’ll change. Or do I need permission for that, too?”

  Her claws are out today for good reason.

  I offer her a real smile, for once, shaking my head.

  “Your call, Miss Bristol. I have nothing pressing for the flight.”

  Still, who wastes a four-hour flight sleeping? I couldn’t do it if I tried.

  She nods. “Shouldn’t we get moving? What time does the flight leave?”

  “The plane is right behind us. Get in. You’ll sit at the front of the plane with me.” I use my thumb to motion to the jet behind us.

  “That’s the plane?” Her eyebrow goes up. “But we have to go through security, don’t we?”

  “I see this is your first time on a private jet.” I smile. “Because it’s our plane, we just check in with the pilot. Already done.”

  She grins, rubbing her eyes. “So we don’t have to do the whole barefoot cattle thing?”

  I laugh at her word choice.

  “Not today. Or ever, if I have anything to say about it.”

  “Thank God!” She jumps and almost drops the overnight bag, but catches it before it slaps the ground.

  Then, before I know what’s happening, her little arms are arou
nd me, squeezing for dear life.

  We share this awkward smile before her face heats and she melts away.

  “Sorry,” she whispers. “I couldn’t help it.”

  I try like hell not to register how good her hands felt pressed to my back.

  Fuck.

  Then as she turns, I watch her take a step, still struggling with the bag as her laptop strap swings back and forth on her neck. I move so I’m right beside her, slip my hand under the straps, and lift the overnight bag away.

  “I’ve got it.”

  Just like that, I’m carrying my assistant’s bag on board as we head up the rollaway stairs.

  Ironic.

  She sits beside me in case anything critical comes up. I get the feeling she doesn’t fly much, even commercial, so I give her the window seat.

  It’s a waste for me, anyway. I sit down and pull out my laptop, getting down to business.

  Sabrina grabs a pillow and blanket from her overnight bag and goes to sleep. She has this cute little snore like a whistle, which starts even before we’re taxiing down the runway.

  I usually knock out a heap of work on these flights, but I can’t focus today.

  Listening to that cute whistle of a snore and occasionally glancing over to watch her while she sleeps drains my attention.

  Damn.

  Why is it like this? I should wake her up.

  We both have prep work, even if it can wait a few hours. She’s going to have a hard time getting stuff done before the meeting if she wastes the entire flight and drags herself off the plane in L.A.

  Unfortunately, the young woman looks so peaceful and exhausted I can’t find it in me to shake her awake.

  Focus, I tell myself. Your ad managers have been drooling over this brand for weeks. This could unlock billions long-term.

  It’s also the parent company of the subsidiary I barely finished the ad shoot for because I was so damn busy arguing with Sabrina Bristol in the park.

  I shake my head, calling the flight attendant over.

  She arrives a second later. “Yes, Mr. Heron?”

  “I need my dark roast Kona I brought on board. Black.” I wave her away with my hand and stare at my laptop.