Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  Is it wrong I want his caustic mouth on mine when it’s so gentle?

  Yes.

  Oh, but I still want it. Bad.

  The scene swirls away as Dad hammers the wall hard enough to wake the dead, trying to fix something in the house that’ll only wind up more broken.

  “Stop, Dad!” I scream.

  The banging continues. I wish he would’ve found something else to do when he retired from machining. Idleness isn’t for everyone.

  “Miss Breztle, will you let me in please?” a muffled feminine voice with an accent calls.

  Huh? Giving up on sleep, I push the thick comforter down and blink my eyes open. Was the voice part of the dream?

  I blink one more time, letting my eyes scan the area.

  No town car. Definitely not my parents’ house.

  I’m in a swanky hotel room in L.A. and I ache all over.

  Thankfully, I’m still sane because I definitely did not let Magnus flipping Heron put his lips anywhere near my skin.

  Right.

  Brina, get a grip. He’s your boss, and he’s a swinging dick. You can do much better.

  I scoff at myself.

  Yeah, no. I probably can’t do better than an uptight billionaire, but personality-wise, I think a horned toad would beat Magnus hands down.

  “Last call, madame! If you don’t answer, I have to move on,” the mystery voice calls.

  It’s real. Oh.

  “I’ll be right there,” I say, stumbling out of bed.

  I realize I’m in a tank top, and I don’t know who wants me. Grabbing the big white bathrobe with the gold hotel crest across the chest, I throw it on and cinch the belt.

  Then I pad over, opening the door, unsure what I’m expecting to find. But whoever it is knows me. She called me by name...sort of.

  I swing open the door to find a tall blond lady in a grey hotel outfit.

  “I’m from the spa. It’s time for your massage,” she says matter-of-factly in a thick accent. “Massage” comes out more like “massaszh.”

  “I’m sorry, you must have the wrong room. I didn’t order any massage,” I tell her.

  “No, no. Magnus Heron ordered for you. He booked one hour for all of his employees staying here, and right now, it’s your turn.”

  “Awesome.” I think?

  I’m not turning down a free massaszh, anyway.

  “Open the door very wide for me, please,” she says. “I’m going to bring in my table.”

  My eyes drift beside her. Sure enough, she has a full-sized massage table with her. I open the door as wide as it’ll go and wave her in.

  She drags the huge padded slab in and sets it up next to my bed.

  “I’m Verena. I’ll be doing your massaszh,” she says with a smile and more of that thick accent I can’t quite place. “Since you’re already in a bathrobe, leave any clothes in the bathroom. I have a blanket you can cover with.”

  I force myself into the bathroom to discard the tank top. I’m leaving my underwear on. I don’t care what she is. I always thought I didn’t do massages because they were too expensive.

  Maybe I’ve never tried because it’s a little weird.

  I walk back into the main room in just the fluffy bathrobe. A folded blanket sits on the end of the table now.

  “Where’d you get the blanket from?” I ask.

  It’s not from the bed, because they’re all still there.

  Grinning, she holds up a huge black bag with a wide strap I didn’t see before.

  Wow. What else does she have in that thing? Heron’s soul?

  I still can’t believe he actually did something nice for the team, for me.

  But he did it with the surprise Sweeter Grind stuff on the plane, too.

  So what if he’s only eighty-percent Mr. Hyde?

  “Please lie down and pull the blanket up. Then you can pass the robe to me from under the blanket,” Verena tells me, stretching her hands, getting ready for action.

  At least she has a system.

  Maybe this won’t be as mortifying as I thought.

  She pulls a black box from her bag and moves to the counter where she plugs the box into her phone. “Woodlands or waterfalls?”

  “Come again?”

  “Soothing sounds for the session. You have a choice,” she tells me very seriously, her brows pulled together, like it’s a life or death decision.

  “Hmm,” I ponder, climbing up on the table. I pull the blanket over me, loosen the robe, and settle down on my stomach.

  “I like water. Let’s go with that,” I say. It’s true. It relaxes me...or makes me have to pee.

  The rush of a waterfall going down a mountain fills the room as Verena steps away and returns a moment later.

  “Are you ready to give me the robe?”

  I slide my hand, grasping the robe and holding it out, and she takes it.

  “Any problem areas?” she asks.

  “Umm—my whole body? Mostly because my boss works me to death.” I hold up my hands. “Fair warning, Verena, I’ve never had a massage. I might be ticklish.”

  “Where do you feel the tensest?” she asks without missing a beat.

  “I don’t know. Everything kinda aches.” I sigh. “Not really unbearable pain or anything. I’m just sore and tired and worn out.”

  “I see. Close your eyes. Focus on your body. Live in the moment,” she commands softly.

  It’s not bad advice, even if this entire moment of my life belongs to Mr. Heron for dragging me to L.A. and putting me under a massage therapist he hired.

  I do as she says. The soreness isn’t all over, and some areas are definitely worse than others.

  “The soles of my feet hurt, and my calves burn from the heels I wear like sixteen hours a day,” I tell her. Whenever the bossman tyrant’s gone, I take them off, but it hasn’t helped much. “Oh, and my neck feels stiff, and my shoulders—”

  “You spend a lot of time at computer?” she cuts in.

  “Too much.”

  “I’ll make you good as new. We’ll focus on your neck, shoulders, feet and calves, and then do a quick back massaszh. Okay?”

  “Sure. Where are you from?”

  “Switzerland. Do I have an accent?”

  I smile into the table. “Not much.”

  She rubs her fingers into the side of my neck. Yes, it tickles at first, but only for a second. The pressure stings my already sore body, but then the pins and needles sensation evaporates.

  Verena’s circular motion stays in that spot until it loosens like jelly.

  Not bad.

  Not bad at all.

  Plus, with my new salary, I can afford to do this again. Every week, if boss dickwad ever lets me leave before midnight or spares me a day off.

  Maybe someday.

  He ordered this for me, didn’t he? For the whole team?

  That’s actually...thoughtful.

  Not something a pure stone-hearted hard-ass with a windswept hole in his chest would do.

  “Relax,” Verena whispers, and I try.

  No surprise, dwelling on my enigma of a boss coils more tension in my body.

  She massages all the way to my shoulder, freeing muscles in her wake, and then moves to the other side of my head, repeating the process before starting on my foot and moving up my leg.

  By the time she’s finished, my whole body feels so light it’s like I never worked a day for HeronComm. I should thank him.

  Maybe I can even survive another eighty-hour week.

  Is this what Armstrong meant when he said Heron takes care of his employees?

  When Verena leaves, I’m so relaxed, it’s tempting to fall back in bed and sleep for hours. But I fight the urge, because I think I might actually get eight hours of sleep tonight and I want to wake up well rested at a reasonable time in the morning.

  I’m also starving.

  So I rifle through my clothes for a sundress I haven’t been able to wear in Chicago since July, and since it’s cool in
the hotel, I layer it with a sheer silky drape jacket.

  I’ve never eaten in a five-star hotel before. My meals are covered on company travel, so hell yes, I’m enjoying it.

  The elevator taking me down is all glass and gives a sprawling view of ivory growing over golden banisters as I plummet closer to the pond on the first floor.

  Holy crap. A small lake inside the lobby.

  As I drop to the bottom, fish jump for food.

  If someone told me ten years ago—or last month—I’d be staying in a golden, glassy hotel with a man-made pond, I would’ve laughed. Girls from Ford Heights don’t spring for places with decorative fish.

  The restaurant looks dimly lit in this soft orange glow. The hostess wears a black three-piece suit and stands at the front. I glance down at the huge pink and blue flowers splattered across my dress, part of my exclusively Target wardrobe.

  I’ve always loved this outfit, but somehow, standing outside this restaurant...

  I’m torn. Part of me wants to go inside and enjoy it.

  Who knows when I’ll get the chance again. But part of me wants to hoof it to the nearest burger joint.

  Of course, I just had all the pain worked out of my legs, so why put it back?

  After thinking it over another minute, I step up to the hostess. “Hi, do you have room service?”

  She smiles politely. “We certainly do. Since you’re already downstairs, though, why don’t you let me find you a table? The restaurant has a better menu.”

  “Well...all right,” I say, doubtful.

  She peers at her screen. “What’s your room number?”

  “Seven thirteen,” I say.

  She nods. “Oh, very good. Your meals are taken care of by Mr. Heron.”

  Yeah, perfect, except for the fact that I’m horribly underdressed for this place. But if the hostess notices, she’s damn good at hiding it.

  “Uh, thanks,” I murmur.

  “Let’s find you a table!” Smiling, she picks up a black leather book and leads me into the dining room. She swings her head this way and that, like she’s lost. “I know I have a table, but I’m not sure where’s the best place to seat you...”

  I don’t care where. I just want the biggest sandwich they’ve got with fries and some kind of sugary drink—after everything I’ve been through, I’m sure I have the calories for it—and once I’ve devoured the whole thing, I’m dragging myself up to bed.

  I’ll hibernate until Magnus Heron pings me with his next demanding jackass message. I’m probably too lowly to warrant a call. Thank God.

  As I sit in a half-circle booth, I remember my last check from Purry Furniture should’ve landed by now, and the HeronComm pay will be hitting soon. I grab my phone as the hostess places a napkin next to me and type in my mother’s latest offering into the online book app.

  A horrible scraping noise pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see none other than the Prince of Darkness approaching.

  Speak of the devil.

  He’s pushed his chair back several tables away. He strides over so he’s standing over me, casting his long shadow like a sword.

  “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Oh my God. Is that some line they teach pretty boys at prep school?” I bite off, wincing at how my body tightens with the soreness lingering from the massage.

  I said that out loud. To my boss.

  Stupid.

  Heron’s perfectly chiseled face is pure arrogance. It’s punchable, hatefully gorgeous, and yes, still intimidating all at the same time.

  “Someone’s in a mood today,” he observes with a smirk. “I thought the massage would make you a little less bloodthirsty.”

  Whatever. Sleep deprivation does awful things to me, but he’s hardly Mr. Congeniality.

  I shrug. “I didn’t spit any coffee today. So you’re welcome.”

  A corner of his mouth twists up. He’s trying to stifle his amusement but it’s far too obvious. “I guess I should be grateful for small miracles.”

  “Ah, I see you’ve moved.” The hostess looks from me to Magnus to the table he sits at. “Do you want to set up here?”

  “No,” I snap.

  “Yes,” he answers.

  Both simultaneously. And his voice is deeper, carrying over mine like thunder.

  “Actually, we’ll both be moving to my table,” he adds.

  She raises an eyebrow.

  “Fine,” I backpedal. “I guess.”

  I heave a sigh and start sliding out of the booth. She holds the black leather book she carries in front of her face, blocking herself from Heron’s view.

  “If you don’t want to sit with him, it’s all right, I’ve got your back,” she whispers, snickering under her breath. “But he’s handsome and rich. I say go for it. Just don’t give him your room number!”

  My jaw drops. “He’s Magnus Heron! The Magnus—”

  “Oh, shit.” Her face goes completely white. “I’m so—”

  “No, it’s fine.” I say limply. “I’ll sit with him.”

  The terrified hostess isn’t wrong. He’s a blue-eyed beast designed to electrify lady bits, and the fact that she thinks so reminds me it’s not just in my head. Unfortunately.

  So I try not to dwell on his smug, stupid, dangerously sexy face while she collects our stuff to get us situated.

  She pulls the chair out on the other side of Mag’s table and sets the leather book down in front of me. “Here’s your menu.” She walks away.

  “Wow,” I say, hefting its weight as soon as I sit down. “Feels like a history book.”

  “It’s hardly as thick as it seems, just a few pages tucked inside. They do it for show.” Heron chuckles, burning me alive with that lightning in his eyes. “You must have eclectic taste for an English major. Wasn’t that the other degree listed next to fine arts on your resume?”

  I scan the menu. “Huh?”

  “I mean, to enjoy The Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell.”

  I’m busy reading the entrees—and frowning because there are no sandwiches, probably no fries, ugh—so it takes a second for his words to click.

  Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell? He must’ve seen my Amazon search.

  Oh, great.

  I decide to play it cool. After all, my personal shopping has zilch to do with him.

  “Why would it have to be eclectic? There’s a literary reference right in the name. Sounds very English major-y to me,” I say.

  “English major-y? Is that a word?” He holds his water up, taking a long, sardonic pull off the glass.

  God. If only I could clock him in the nose right here.

  “It is now,” I say without looking up.

  “Interesting. I must’ve missed the part in Barrie’s work where Tinkerbell even met the fireman.” The bastard winks.

  Winks.

  My face heats at his words and I abhor how good he is at getting me all riled in more ways than one.

  Yeah, no, I decide.

  He’s not getting the satisfaction.

  I scoff—I have to do something with the fire in my veins—and set the menu down so I can meet his eyes. “I’d love to meet a fireman. If I ever have an evening off in time for dinner, I’ll cruise Tinder or Match for one.”

  “You’re serious? Firemen are your type?” His face becomes more serious and slightly angrier than it was like two seconds ago.

  Oh, God. Thanks, Mom, for putting me in this predicament. You couldn’t just write a book with a more mysterious title?

  I take a deep breath and look him square in the eye.

  “Why does that shock you, Mr. Heron? Are you fireman-phobic? They’re heroic, hardworking, protective, and risk their butts all day to save lives,” I say, registering his grump-face growly mood with some satisfaction. I can’t resist adding a dollop of icing to the cake. “Plus, they’ve got big hoses. I know those are things preppy business guys probably wouldn’t know about, right?”

  His face is, for once, completely blank.
/>   I’ve caught him off guard.

  Ha. I like being the one on top, so I continue while I’m on a roll.

  “Especially the big hose part. I mean, you wouldn’t even know what to do with equipment like that. It’s not your fault. There’s no need for a long, thick hose in boardrooms.” I smirk at him and flip through my textbook of a menu again.

  A second later, I’m actually a little mortified. My face heats, no doubt giving away the fact that I’m not as confident as my words.

  What’s gotten into me?

  Discussing long hoses with my egomaniac boss?

  He manages a tight smile, then places his hand over my menu and pushes it back to the table.

  Uh-oh.

  “A woman I hired several EAs before you used to read similar paperbacks. There’d always be a guy in fire coveralls on the cover, jacket unbuttoned, chest bare, helmet clenched in his fist, glistening with sweat.” His voice is low, earnest, and he sounds kind of adorably clueless.

  I snort. “Your point? Are you picking on romance readers or what?”

  “Hardly. I’ll be the first in line to defend anyone’s choice in entertainment, considering the publishers we’ve run very lucrative marketing for,” he says, pausing to sip his ice-cold water. I’m dumbstruck, hating how my eyes stick to his face, his throat, as he swallows. “Here’s my point—the guys in those books are usually veterans, too, aren’t they?”

  I glare. “I wouldn’t know. I think so. I’ve only read a few books about firemen.”

  In truth, I’m more of a paranormal romance or family saga girl. Give me a hot vampire with glowing eyes and a silver tongue, and an attitude so horrible you can’t help but fall for—

  Oof. Never mind.

  But Heron seems to be obsessing over this fireman theme. Why?

  That reminds me. I need to finish my bulk order. So I slide my phone out of my purse and pull up Mom’s author page again, clicking on her latest offering, and add a couple dozen copies to my cart.

  The waitress comes up. “Are you ready to order?”

  “I am. If he’s not, he can starve—”

  Magnus smirks at me and closes his menu. “I’m ready.”

  “I’ll have a peach Bellini and a steak. Rare. With fries?”

  “Sorry. No fries on the menu this evening.”