Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Snow, Nicole

  But after today, if she has me dragged away in handcuffs, if she loathes me that much, I’ll have to stay away.

  Let her move on.

  I’m sure it won’t be the last I see of her.

  She’s brilliant. She’ll still be at every conference and convention. She’ll just leave with someone else. Some lucky bastard who treats her better than I did.

  Twenty minutes later, I climb in the town car.

  “The office?” Armstrong asks.

  “No. Brina’s apartment.” I stare out the window, trying to think what I’m going to say if she’ll even talk to me.

  Armstrong doesn’t answer, but his eyes flick to me in the rearview mirror, more than once. Eventually, he clears his throat.

  “Yes?” I ask. “Something on your mind?”

  “Mr. Heron, it’s your business, but honestly? I suggest taking a gift.”

  I lean my head against the window. “The last time I tried she told me to deliver the flowers to a retirement home. And I did.”

  “Does she keep flowers around her desk?”

  “No,” I say slowly.

  “Hmm.”

  I stiffen in my seat. “You think flowers were a bad idea?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’m just not sure they’re right for Brina Bristol.”

  How does Armstrong know this shit if I don’t?

  Do I not care about her as much as I think I do, or am I really so self-absorbed I can’t pick out a decent gift for the only woman I’ve ever loved?

  “What would be better?” I ask quietly.

  A second later, I answer my own question.

  “Wait. Take us to Sweeter Grind.”

  Armstrong lets out a low, deep chuckle. “Now that sounds more like it!”

  We make our pit stop, and soon I’m knocking on Brina’s door, holding a steaming cinnamon latte and a box of Clarissa’s Finest Truffles under my arm.

  Her roommate answers the door in oven mitts, a perky, mischievous-looking blonde holding a pie in her hand.

  “Hi, Paige,” I say, my voice level.

  “You again? What are you doing here?”

  “I brought Sabrina a cinnamon latte and truffles.” I hold the cup up. “Her favorite.”

  “Ohhh, bad timing. She just went on a caffeine purge and a no sugar kick. I’ll tell her you stopped by, though.” Her free hand lingers on the door, and she starts to push it closed.

  I jab my foot between the door and its frame.

  “It’s decaf and almond milk. Can I speak with her please?”

  “Liar, and no. Now move your foot before I break it.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I snarl, but catch myself, forcing a fake-as-hell smile. “Sabrina told me about your sense of humor. I’m laughing. Inside.”

  Paige frowns, her eyes snapping to the pie in her hand, before returning to meet my gaze.

  “Are you done, Magnus? I’m pretty busy.”

  My jaw clenches. I thought no one could be more blunt or stubborn than Sabrina.

  “I need to speak with Brina,” I growl.

  “And I need a million dollars but oh well! You need to get out of my apartment.”

  “Or what?”

  She looks down at the pie. “Dunno, but it involves you wearing whipped cream.”

  I motion her forward.

  “Bring it.”

  She frowns. I knew I was calling her bluff.

  “Well, or maybe I’ll just call the police and say you’re stalking us,” she tells me.

  “It’ll take them an hour to get here in rush hour. I’ll stand here until then. You’re not her gatekeeper.”

  “Wrong. She appointed me to be—”

  “Look. Just tell her I’m sincerely sorry—ready to grovel even—and need to talk to her. Please.” I hate how my voice is already hoarse, pleading.

  Paige glares. “What makes you so sure she’s here, anyway?”

  “My driver helped her buy the little red convertible parked out front.”

  For a second, Paige looks surprised, before melting back into that mask of brute sarcasm. “Maybe she’s with her boyfriend.”

  “Liar.” I shake my head.

  “Careful. Hate to break it to you, but she hates you so much she’d rather go back to work at that stupid pet place where they talked trash about her designs than ever have to look at you again. I’m not bothering her with your shit. Show yourself out.” She kicks against the toe of my shoe, trying to get me to move my leg.

  Sorry, girl. I’m not going anywhere.

  She frowns. “You’re really not going to leave nicely?”

  I don’t respond.

  “And you’re not afraid of the cops?”

  I didn’t say that. Only that we have a while to wait if she calls them, and I’m holding out hope Sabrina might give me an inch to talk to her.

  “How much do you like your fancy suit?” she asks.

  “Excuse me?” The question catches me off guard. “Sabrina likes it just fine. Why?”

  Paige nods slowly.

  Before I can think, the pie in her hand comes barreling at my face.

  There’s a loud slap like a wet sponge hitting a cement floor.

  Then I’m drowning in flavors I don’t particularly like. Sweet-tasting cream and strawberries drip down my blazer and formerly starched white shirt.

  “Bad move, buster. You interrupted my baking time,” she snaps, a hellish smile on her face.

  In shock, I drop the coffee I’ve been holding. Somehow, the lid flies off and scalding cinnamon latte splashes my leg. I wipe my hand over my eyes with a groan, slinging off strawberries and cream, just as my phone rings.

  “Can I at least have a towel?”

  “No. But I’ll take those.” I feel her reach out and yank the truffle box from under my arm.

  Right before she kicks me in the shin again.

  I stumble back, stunned and dazed from the pie to the face and my phone blaring.

  The door slams.

  The lock clicks.

  Someone passing by in the hall smothers a surprised laugh.

  This is not my fucking day.

  I wipe my pie-covered hands on my trousers—this suit’s ruined anyhow—and answer the phone.

  “Heron,” I growl.

  “Mr. Heron, this is Nurse Becky from Northwestern Memorial. Miss Quail is awake and asking for her son.”

  Fuck.

  Just when I thought things couldn’t get worse.

  “Again? What did you tell her this time? I’m on my way.”

  “I told her I’d call you and see if you could bring him in.”

  “My father left the country with the kid,” I grind out, hating everything. “I’m working on it. Is Marissa more conscious than the last few times?”

  “I’m afraid so.” She takes a long, audible inhale. “You may need to request a social worker sit in on the visit. This kind of information could be too much for her to handle right now.”

  So not only did I let Baxter Heron run off with Jordan, now I might just kill his mom?

  This whole sick scenario is my fault.

  I shouldn’t have given Baxter Heron the option of leaving almost a decade ago.

  I wish I’d spared him nothing, outed him and burned everything he owned down to the ground. He wouldn’t have Marissa’s son hostage in the Virgin damn Islands.

  “Does she really need to know right now?” I fire back into the phone.

  “Well...the nurse in me wants to tell you no. But the mom in me is ready to slap you for trying to weasel out of telling that woman you let someone take her kid while she was in a coma. How could you?” She sighs. “Besides, she’s asking about him.”

  “Uh—in fairness, I tried to stop him. I’m not his legal guardian, and your lovely security stopped me from getting physical with the flying monkey who carried him off.”

  “Well. Talk to the doctor and see if he thinks she can handle it,” the nurse says.

  It’s a statement. She doesn�
�t leave room for argument.

  “I’m coming now,” I grumble.

  I stagger down the building’s stairs knowing two things.

  One, I have to get Sabrina Bristol out of my system, for both our sakes. I owe her space to move on, and I should be entirely focused on my company and getting Jordan home.

  And more importantly, I have no fucking clue how I’m going to get through this next thing I have to do. Not without Brina’s kind heart there to help.

  * * *

  Marissa Quail blinks several times when I come into the room. The last time she manages to hold her eyes open.

  I don’t know what to say, or even if she knows who I am.

  “Hi, Marissa,” I try. “It’s Magnus.”

  “Hi.” Her voice is low and dazed. She sounds drugged.

  I’m sure she is.

  “How are you?” I ask, a stupid question.

  She’s still got tubes and wires attached to her body. That alone doesn’t scream well.

  She sighs and moans simultaneously. “It hurts. Everything just...hurts.”

  “I’m so sorry for what you’ve been through.” Thoughts whip through my brain as I try to think how to help her. “Should I call a nurse? Maybe you could get more painkillers?”

  “They told me...I can’t have more. Not yet.” She stares straight ahead. “Thank you for coming.”

  I sit down in the chair near her bed, nodding.

  “Has anyone talked to you?” I pause, hoping she’ll jump in so I don’t have to say more. “About Jordan?”

  “The social worker came. She told me he’s with Baxter and you...you have more information?”

  I’m so gutted I can barely speak.

  “Baxter found out you were in the hospital. I don’t know how. I haven’t spoken to him in years, not since the day he threatened you, until he showed up here.” Guilt gnaws at me, and I look away, gathering the courage to face her again. “He told Jordan he always wanted to be in his life—the bastard liar—but you wouldn’t let him. It’s my fault—”

  “Y-your fault? How is it your...” she trails off, uncomprehending.

  Oh, boy.

  I close my eyes and squeeze the back of my neck with my hand until it hurts.

  “The night you came to the hospital, they called me to pick up Jordan. He was freaked out about leaving, he didn’t know me. I told him I’m his brother to calm him down the next morning. And when he asked where our dad was, I just...I told him he was dead. Never in a million years did I expect Baxter to show up in person. I thought Jordan was better off not knowing.”

  “But I’m confused. What does that have to do with Jordan leaving?” She blinks and shifts in her bed. “He should know better.”

  “He said you wouldn’t tell him anything and I lied to him. He was confused. He thought Baxter was the only person being honest.”

  The reality eviscerates me yet again as I narrate. How the fuck did I let this happen?

  She doesn’t speak for a long time. I can’t tell if she’s mad, but she should be.

  “Where are they now?” she asks softly.

  “Jordan will be back soon.” I rub my throat, my voice so raw. “I have a whole surveillance team watching him, and the best law firm in the country working on getting him back. Your son will be home soon, even if I have to go in with guns blazing. I promise.”

  Her eyes narrow. She can tell I’m stalling. “Magnus, where are they?”

  “Saint Thomas,” I say.

  “Come again?”

  “Saint Thomas. Charlotte Amalie, to be specific.” I sigh. “It’s in the US Virgin Islands. But I’m working on getting him home. I know this was my fault—”

  “Oh, my God. Is he safe? Baxter isn’t the fatherly type, Magnus. You know that.”

  Fuck, yes, I do.

  “The private investigator tells me he seems healthy and in no clear danger, but I’m working like a dog to get him home. And now that you’re awake, it’ll be easier. The only reason I haven’t already brought him back is because I’m not his guardian.”

  “Tell your attorney I have full custody. Baxter has no rights. At all. I don’t care what happened...”

  My mouth drops. “My dad wanted custody?”

  He never wanted to say two words to me.

  She sighs. “He threatened it at first, when he knew I was pregnant. He wasn’t really interested in Jordan. It was just one more tool to bludgeon me.”

  That animal. My hand flexes into a fist.

  “He’s controlling. Horrible. I was determined that he wouldn’t use Jordan to control me...that he wouldn’t turn my beautiful son into the kind of monster he is. So I went to the police right after Jordan was born, claimed he was abusive, and filed for emergency custody. By the time his lawyer tracked him down to let him know, they’d already missed a court date. I got lucky. The judge was a woman raised by a single mom. She granted me custody and gave him zero visitation rights. He didn’t contest it, because he didn’t want anyone knowing.”

  “Marissa, you were twenty-two when Jordan was born.”

  “Twenty-one. I graduated early.”

  “You’re a smart lady,” I tell her, wishing like hell her brains were around to help this situation.

  I wouldn’t have blown several lives to kingdom come.

  There’s a long silence.

  I’m about to excuse myself so I can go home and call the attorney. Marissa’s custody agreement should help us get Jordan back to Chicago. Then when I get off the phone, I can resume drowning myself in scotch because I’ve lost the best thing in my life.

  I stand. “I’m going to call the attorney and—”

  “Wait. Don’t go yet.”

  “Okay.” I sit again.

  “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  I’m shocked. This woman has been in a coma for weeks, woke up to find I’ve lost her only son, and she’s thanking me? What the fuck?

  “What for?”

  She starts laughing and stops a few seconds later.

  “Don’t make me laugh again, Magnus. It hurts.”

  “Sorry? I don’t understand.”

  “Thank you for taking care of Jordan and bringing him to see me. I know you guys were here almost every day. I’ll never forget it.”

  I cock my head, unsure what she means.

  “Jordan’s my little brother. I was happy to help. I’ve told you that ever since the day I found out he existed, and what my father did to you. It’s rough being an only child. And just between you and me...I always wanted a kid brother.” I smile.

  Of course, I never expected said brother to come from my dad’s disgusting affair with his intern, but I’m being honest.

  Even if J-man curses me for the rest of his life, I’ll never regret the time we had.

  “How did you know we were here every day? The nurses told you?”

  “Oh, I could hear you. I thought I was dreaming, at first, but once the staff convinced me I’m in the hospital and this isn’t a dream...I knew it was real. I missed some things, I think. I had a hard time hearing everything and it was hard to follow your voices. But I knew Jordan was here. I heard your voice and a woman’s. She was here a lot too. Did you finally get married?”

  God. That’s like a punch to the gut. I wish.

  The light in Marissa’s eyes kills me. Just like it leaves no doubt she heard us wishing her well in her coma.

  And did I really talk to Brina like she was my wife? I must be even more fucked in the head than I thought.

  “No,” I say slowly. “Not quite.”

  “So she’s your girlfriend, then?” Marissa looks up with these hopeful eyes.

  “She was my assistant,” I whisper, my throat so dry.

  “Oh, wow. I was sure you were together. You seemed too perfect. It was almost like you were co-parenting Jordan. He sounded like he liked her too. He liked her a lot. I could tell.”

  I laugh because it’s the only thing I can do not to feel shredded. “You got all th
at from our visits, while you were in a coma? Damn, you’re good.”

  “Funny thing about being stuck in bed—you get a lot of time to think, and you guys were my only entertainment except the gossipy nurses...” Her smile is all warmth, and it makes me fucking abhor what my father did to her.

  “Brina and I weren’t perfect together. We couldn’t have been.”

  Though I’ll admit it made me wonder...what would having a kid of my own be like? What would it be like with her?

  “You couldn’t be perfect because she’s your secretary?”

  No, because she dumped me.

  “She’s not interested,” I say.

  “I seriously thought she was with you. Her voice usually came from the same place as yours. I even thought I heard you kiss a couple times. Maybe I was dreaming.”

  “You thought we were perfect because we stood close together?” I stare at the floor, remembering one or two occasions when I stole a quick peck, usually when she was trying to coax Jordan away for the night and being so sweet about it.

  “She just always seemed to know...when you needed space and when you needed her,” Marissa says with a weary smile.

  Damn it all. We should be talking about Jordan.

  Still, I wonder.

  If Sabrina was perfect for me, was I ever perfect for her?

  “Forgive me, I think we’d better move on bringing Jordan home. I’ll call the attorney about your custody agreement.” I stand, heading for the door.

  “Magnus?” she calls after me.

  “Yes?”

  “Am I seeing things or are there a couple of strawberries on your collar? I need to know for the doctors.”

  I look down, holding in a growl.

  Sure enough, there’s a shameful strawberry hiding under my collar and another tucked under my lapel. I pick them out and trash them. “It’s strawberries. Good eye.”

  She laughs and then winces. “Oww! I’ve got to stop doing that. I just asked because they told me I need to let them know if I see anything funny.”

  I have no idea what to say to that.

  “Um, why are you walking around with strawberries on a three-piece suit?” she asks.

  “My former assistant’s roommate pied me,” I grumble, immune to her knowing the truth at this point.

  “Pied you? Oh my God. What did you do?”

  “I left. What could I do?”