Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  “Baked potato then,” I say with a nod. “Load it up with everything.”

  “Wonderful.” She taps my order into the iPad and looks at Heron. “And for you?”

  “Lobster ravioli and a top-shelf bourbon. Surprise me.”

  “Excellent choices.” The server looks back at me. “I’ll be right back with your drinks. Sorry it’s taking so long, we’re a tad short-staffed tonight.”

  I smile. “No problem.”

  I train my gaze back on Mag as she disappears to the next table.

  “I’d kill for a drink right now,” I say.

  “Lucky for you, Miss Bristol, she’s already bringing you one. I see your taste in liquid nectar rivals your love of coffee sweet enough to strip paint,” he says, lifting the other glass at his side.

  “How hard is what you’re drinking?” I ask, betting the bourbon he ordered will be the fourth or fifth drink of the night. The vampire-freak in front of me has to unwind somehow, right?

  “It’s tea,” he grunts. “Some sort of mango-flavored stuff from Hawaii.”

  “I need a drink,” I repeat, draining the rest of my small water glass. “The massage therapist wasn’t kidding about feeling dried out.”

  “Are you saying you want my tea?” He quirks an eyebrow.

  “You’re offering?” When he doesn’t answer, I reach across the table and take it. I swallow a huge gulp and push it back at him, wrinkling my nose. “God. Use sugar. I didn’t think it was possible to make mango-anything so flat.”

  He studies me. “You know, I’ve had a lot of EAs over the years—”

  “Yeah, I know. You’re hard to work for.”

  “Perhaps.” He lifts his eyebrows slowly like he’s truly considering my words. Shocking. “But of all the many things I’ve complained about them doing, drinking my tea was never one of them.”

  I shrug.

  “So we’ve established you’re a book snob who’s very English major-y,” he says, this lawyerly edge in his tone like he’s laying out a case. “I asked you about the fireman books earlier because I have something in common with them.”

  “You? I doubt it.”

  He shrugs, his big shoulders rippling at his sides. “Remember, you asked.”

  Uh, I didn’t, but...but I’m instantly silenced as he slowly rolls up his shirt sleeve. The fabric pushes up over a very defined, sculpted, powerful bicep, revealing a purple-and-black semper fi tattoo.

  Whoa.

  I’ve seen similar military tattoos but never in that color scheme and it’s awesome.

  Not to mention the way his muscles bulge under the ink, sending my mind jetting off on fantasies of all the hell he—we—could raise with those arms.

  It’s not what I expected. Am I still back in my room dreaming? The other dream the masseuse woke me from rattles my brain.

  Yikes.

  I need to get out of here before I’m lost in dirty fantasies with Magnus Heron.

  That’s not the kind of complicated I need, no sirree.

  But since there’s no easy way to leave without making it obvious I’m fleeing, I try to screw my head back on.

  “Oh. Nice. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a veteran. When did you serve?” I ask, forcing disinterest into my voice.

  I need to tell Paige her Google skills are lacking. Not a single article she sent ever said anything about military service. Though that might explain his hard-on for discipline.

  “Four years. Right after high school. I was on active duty in Iraq at the height of the war.”

  “Thank you for your service,” I say woodenly.

  “You’re welcome.” His blue eyes sparkle as if he hasn’t been told that a million times, like every other serviceman. As if my gratitude makes him feel special.

  God. What’s even happening at this table?

  The waitress returns with my Bellini and his bourbon and sets them down in front of us. I take a big, heavenly gulp of the drink. It’s rich, smooth like ice cream, which is good. Otherwise I’d probably choke it up from the wild thoughts tearing through my head.

  “So, are those years in the Marine Corps the reason you sleep like four hours a night? Because you know the rest of us don’t have that training?”

  He shrugs, a thin smile pulling at his lips.

  “Living on military time was always an asset. I get a lot done in a day.” He sets his jaw. “It doesn’t matter whether you served or not. Working for me is all the discipline you need.”

  Dang. And for a second, I thought we might be having a real conversation versus wrestling that Godzilla ego of his.

  At least I can do something more useful than listening to him boast about being God’s gift to the business world. I add a bunch of Mom’s books to my checkout.

  If I’m glued to my screen until our food shows up, it’ll make him think I’m not interested in his wild ink and savage muscles. Even though I’m staring at my phone, his big bicep is all I see in my mind.

  Ugh.

  Keep talking, boss. I need you distracted. I need me distracted.

  I need distractions galore before you notice my eyes undressing you.

  The server returns with our food a couple minutes later.

  “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

  “Steak sauce,” I say.

  She nods at me and looks over to Mag. “And for you, sir?”

  “It better not need anything else,” he grinds out.

  She walks away with a worried smile.

  “Jesus. You need to be nice,” I scold him. “It’s bad enough when you talk to us like that, but at least you pay us for the privilege. She doesn’t make enough to put up with your shit.”

  His eyes widen, revealing vast blue pools. He’s shocked, like I’m the first person in the world who told this poor rich boy to quit being a prick.

  “Point taken. I’ll work on it,” he says, spearing a fork into his pasta.

  I’m speechless. I look down at my steak, and my small, but overloaded baked potato. “Did I order from the kiddie menu?”

  He looks over at it. “We’ll get dessert. It’s richer than it looks. Fine dining portions are controlled for a reason.”

  “That’s okay.” I’ll go to a vending machine. At least I know what I’m getting there.

  He takes a bite of his ravioli. “We have another pitch meeting on Monday. I’ll send you the info and a briefing list tonight.”

  Lovely. Here we go.

  My steak is on the fork, right in front of my mouth. I haven’t even taken my first bite yet.

  I roll my eyes and lay it back on my plate. “You do realize it’s Saturday, and I haven’t eaten since our last pitch, right?” I pick up the meat again and take a huge bite.

  “At HeronComm, we work on all days ending in ‘y.’”

  Yeah, that’s the problem.

  The waitress returns later, sets the sauce down in front of me, and turns on her heel. But before she can disappear, Magnus says, “Ma’am.”

  “Yes?”

  “We’re going to want a dessert platter. Have it ready for us when we’re done, please.”

  Impressive.

  The world’s richest Neanderthal remembered “please.”

  We spend the rest of dinner making small talk. I listen to his hopes for Jazzle Razzle while I wolf down my food. I don’t mind because he barely inserts himself into what it means for the entire company. Not just him.

  The dessert platter arrives later on a silver tray lined with every upscale pastry, ice cream, and gelato outlined on the menu. None of them are large—and he was right about the richness—but there are so many bite-sized pieces that by the time we’ve shared them, I’m full.

  She comes back and lays the leather folder with the tab down on our table. I reach for it, but Magnus beats me.

  “Unnecessary,” he snaps off. “They’re being billed through the same account.”

  The waitress looks at me, unsure what to do.

  I’m not sure either, but he does h
ave a point, so fine. Let him do the honors.

  As we’re about to leave, Magnus leans in. He stretches a giant hand out and lets it hover over mine without ever touching me. “You have small hands, Miss Bristol.”

  “Hmph. Maybe you just have big paws.” I try not to let my eyes linger as he coils his fingers with another insufferable smirk.

  And another torrid mind flash of the awful, no good, very bad things those hands could do to me. It’s an unwinnable battle trying not to think about them gliding through my hair, roaming my hip, slowly moving up my thighs until they—

  “You know what they say about large hands?” he whispers, interrupting evil thoughts.

  “Huh?” My face heats. “No, what?”

  “All the better to handle large hoses,” he rumbles.

  Then he pops a gourmet mint into his mouth and enjoys watching my tortured face cycle through every last shade of red.

  10

  Nice Accessories (Magnus)

  My office is the most organized it’s been in years, and my inbox is manageable.

  The familiar smell of dark roast Kona greets me every morning with my coffee waiting on my desk when I arrive, still deliciously hot.

  Replies to my texts and emails and calls come darting back promptly, even when I test her, firing them her way when she least expects like a mischievous principal on a fire drill bender.

  I think I’m even getting used to neutralizing the barbs flying off her tongue by drinking in the view that accompanies her smart mouth. A body made for sin hidden behind her modest dresses and sleek fall sweaters, strawberry lips my teeth ache to claim, an ass too perfect for my hands, and—how could I forget?—those bottomless cocoa-brown eyes.

  They haunt my fucking dreams. Always threatening to drown me in her loathing if my lust doesn’t do it first.

  In mere weeks, Sabrina Bristol upended my whole world.

  Right now, on a fine November afternoon, I scroll through the emails she hasn’t gotten to yet. Advertising titans pitching me to use their latest features, new clients asking to be pitched, journalists fishing for mud, shit to be paid, but there’s one message that catches my eye.

  A front section mention from Ad Wonk, the journal preaching marketing gospel to every agency in this industry. Looks like Woof Meow Chow had their highest Black Friday sales ever, and the writer notes it’s all thanks to yours truly.

  Even Chester Stedfaust sings our praises.

  Talk shit about my team again, old man.

  There’s no denying the obvious: my new EA is a godsend. I’d open the door and tell her that, give her the compliment I so rarely dole out, but there’s just one problem.

  She’s late from lunch. Again.

  The first couple times, I let it slide, but this is becoming a habit. One I have to break. She’s getting an email this time.

  To: Sabrina Bristol

  From: Magnus Heron

  Priority: HIGH

  Subject: Your Tardiness

  Miss Bristol,

  Congratulations. You’ve survived nearly six weeks as my assistant. However, that’s no excuse for taking extended lunches and you know it.

  Get here on time. You should be here right now, by the way.

  Have you tried on the dress for the Adzilla Conference in Phoenix this weekend? Ruby and my tailor picked the color. I’ll never comprehend your superstitions, but the conference organizers have assured me there’ll be no black cats, tumbling salt shakers, or broken mirrors on the premises.

  I need to know the dress fits so our plans are finalized. Please respond.

  M.

  CEO of HeronComm Inc.

  I go to work tweaking ad copy the marketing team sent over for an auto maker and smile when my computer pings.

  To: Magnus Heron

  From: Sabrina Bristol

  Subject: RE: Your tardiness

  Hey M (Apparently, you’re too busy to write your own name?),

  Guess what?

  I’ve worked like two hundred and forty hours over the past three weeks. Long lunches should probably be ignored in lieu of sixteen-hour days.

  As for the Godzilla conference or whatever, what about ladders in walking paths, thirteenth floors, and indoor umbrellas? I’m not taking chances.

  I still maintain I only survived L.A. because I found my lucky penny.

  Regards,

  S. (DEFINITELY too busy to write my own name for you).

  Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.

  I shake my head, chuckling, and change the subject line.

  To: Sabrina Bristol

  From: Magnus Heron

  Subject: GET YOUR ASS HERE NOW.

  S.,

  Ad-zilla. We sell ads. It’s the biggest annual gathering of digital marketers all year.

  Hence, Adzilla.

  If my EA ever returns from lunch sometime this century, I’ll have her contact the coordinator and ensure there are no ladders in walking paths or broken mirrors or umbrellas indoors.

  Where the hell are you?

  Does the dress fit?

  M.

  CEO of HeronComm Inc.

  Ruby calls me then, so I hit send without signing off as I pick up the phone. She’s saying something fast and garbled, but I don’t quite catch it before the call disconnects.

  “Ruby? Are you there?”

  The line is dead.

  There’s a knock at my door, and before I can answer, it swings open.

  Ruby shuts the door behind her and walks up to my desk. “I could tell you weren’t paying attention. I need to know if you want to replace the office intern or not?”

  I’m distracted, and it has everything to do with my EA.

  “Replace her? What the hell do you mean?”

  “Because your new admin doesn’t seem to need the help. The poor kid’s been stuck dusting and reorganizing stuff from the mail room,” she tells me.

  “It’s an unpaid position and it keeps us in the university’s good graces. What the hell do I care if she’s stuck with make-work?” I say as my computer speaker pings.

  I grin, knowing I’ll find Sabrina’s name in my inbox.

  “Since when do you smile?” Ruby asks, taken aback. “Or tolerate interns hovering around with no real work to do?”

  “What?” I look up, glowering at her, unsure what she’s getting at.

  She purses her bright-red lips. “You got an email alert and smiled, Mag. Something I haven’t seen you do since before you became CEO. Who are you talking to?”

  “No one,” I growl.

  “She works for you,” Ruby mutters quietly.

  Damn her for reading me so easily, but damn me for making it so obvious.

  “Who?” I feign ignorance, staring at the subject line of her email: My Ass Doesn’t Belong to You.

  Oh, yes, it does, woman. I open it.

  M.,

  Touché.

  Can’t even bother to sign off now, huh?

  I’ll have you know I’m not just taking my sweet time every day to relish a to-go burrito as big as my arm for lunch. My dad’s heart meds haven’t been working right for some reason. So I’ve been at appointments with my parents the last couple days. I’ll be back as soon as we’re done here.

  Dad is doing better, but isn’t exactly okay, and Mom will be hysterical by herself alone here. Company policy covers family emergencies, or should I start CC'ing Ruby Hunting on these emails?

  Sorry.

  S.

  Executive Assistant to Magnus Heron, HeronComm Inc.

  The shit-eating grin slides off my face.

  Well, hell.

  She never mentioned anything about her old man’s ticker, and she’s still been working until after midnight the past two days?

  This strange, long-forgotten sensation twinges in my gut. Guilt?

  “Is Sabrina okay?” Ruby asks with an all-too-knowing sigh.

  I look up. “How did you know it was her? She’s fine. Replace the office intern or don’t at
your discretion. I have a conference call soon.”

  Ruby nods but her lips are a straight line. She walks out, closing the door behind her.

  I tap my keyboard with one hand for a few seconds, thinking of what to say.

  I hope your parents are okay, I type back. Do what you can from your mobile devices for now, and get back as soon as you can.

  I smile, knowing I can’t let the email end without a jab.

  P.S. You never answered my question. Does the damn dress fit?

  That’s the last email for a while. I have a conference call with Jazzle Razzle Designs followed by another update with Woof Meow Chow.

  My email pings with another email from Sabrina halfway through the second call. By the time I have a chance to look at it, she’s back at her desk outside my office. I can see her through the slip of frosted glass next to my door.

  The dress is perfect. It fits like a glove. I’m beginning to wonder if you’ve stolen my clothing for measurements.

  I’ve attached a picture, so you can see.

  Now who doesn’t have time to sign off?

  I click the attachment and the image pops up.

  My jaw nearly hits the goddamned floor, racing my dick to the ceiling.

  Miss Bristol looks more like Miss America. Sequin-covered purple satin dips into her cleavage, drawing attention to her assets in this classy outline. And damn, what fine, supple assets they are.

  I can’t stop staring.

  I need to stop staring.

  Hot, jealous anger I’ve got no sane right to darts through my blood.

  The very notion of all those pervy CEOs at the conference eye-fucking her makes my gut clench.

  Mag, what the hell do you care? I wonder.

  Yet I do, and I know why.

  The dress is the same purple shade as the one she wore in the park that fateful day, and it cuts into a “V” in the front but trails in the back. Her chestnut hair, tied up in her normal casual ponytail, serves as the perfect contrast to the formal dress.

  This woman’s beauty is so intrinsic she doesn’t have to try. An angel, heaven sent, finding her worthy halo of fashion with a little help from yours truly.