by Snow, Nicole
Perfect Grump
An Enemies to Lovers Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in August, 2021.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Wander Aguiar Photography.
Contents
About the Book
1. Losing Sleep (Reese)
2. Double Take (Nick)
3. Class Notes (Reese)
4. The Real Me (Nick)
5. Charming Mirage (Reese)
6. Things Change (Nick)
7. Nick the Prick (Reese)
8. Sobering Thoughts (Nick)
9. A Family Matter (Reese)
10. Dollhouses (Nick)
11. Hidden Bruises (Reese)
12. Best of Intentions (Nick)
13. Cannonball Proof (Reese)
14. Make Yourself At Home (Nick)
15. Here Comes Muscle (Reese)
16. Frisky Business (Nick)
17. Spilling Psketti (Reese)
18. Until Sunrise (Nick)
19. Gone With The Rain (Reese)
20. Special Favors (Nick)
21. Six Whole Hands (Reese)
22. War Stories (Nick)
23. Say It (Reese)
24. Self-Destruct Sequence (Nick)
25. Closing Statements (Reese)
26. Just Call Me Atlas (Nick)
27. Big News (Reese)
28. One Last Chance (Nick)
29. The Tantalizing Truth (Reese)
30. Big Decision (Nick)
31. Cinderella-ish (Reese)
32. Pink Chariots (Nick)
33. Is This Real Life? (Reese)
Bossy Grump Preview
About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
I've caught a raging case of bosshole.
Signing on as a company driver for Brandt Ideas felt like a dream.
Big-girl salary. Stellar benefits. Glorious people—minus one.
Nicholas Brandt was put on Earth to drive me insane.
Of course, he's my bossman.
He spent the first month mistaking me for a dude.
Then he “apologized” with the grace of a drunken moose.
A perfect grump with a brutal reputation.
A heart-thief sculpted like a fallen angel.
A master at making me question all of my life decisions.
Why is it always the terrible ones who make a girl tingle?
The longer I'm stuck with Satan in endless Chicago traffic, the faster he wears me down.
When he needs a “date” at this rich-people charity dance, I crack.
I say yes.
I kiss my incurable, broken, off-limits boss—and God help me, I like it.
I invite disasters fated to rip my heart out.
And just when Nick Brandt can't cut my life into tinier confetti, the unthinkable does.
Guess who wants to save me.
Now guess how much barbed wire I've got to keep Mr. Anti-Perfect in exile...
1
Losing Sleep (Reese)
“Reese, you can’t keep blowing money on Millie like this,” Abby tells me over the phone as I’m weaving through busy Chicago traffic at rush hour.
“Why not?” I whine back. “It’s my money and my niece.”
“Um, that last doll you bought her came with a convertible and her own high-end makeup kit. Like, better than we can afford in our non-plastic lives. You need your money. Besides, she’s getting spoiled.”
I toss my head back and laugh.
Maybe she has a point, but I wonder...why complain now?
I’ve been buying my adorable bumblebee stuff for years, and my sister never minded. Why does she suddenly care? It’s not a contest. Everybody wins when you’re lavishing a smiley little girl with gifts.
For once, it doesn’t strain my purse, either.
But I guess that’s what older sister single moms do.
They worry.
“Don’t worry, sis. I told you; I got a new job that pays. It’s not like the other places stiffing drivers left and right. I’m making ninety-freaking-thousand per year plus benefits. Big girl Chicago money.”
“Congratu-freaking-lations, Miss Big Shot.” Abby laughs. “I mean it. Your last gig barely covered rent. I’m happy for you.”
“I think it’s going to be good. I mean, nothing’s ever perfect, but—”
“But? You’re already finding flaws in a job that pays that much?” Abby laughs again.
“Well...so you remember that architect lady I picked up a few weeks ago? The older one who designed that insanely cool cabin-like building on the lake? She basically insisted I come in for an interview to drive for her permanently. I wasn’t expecting much, especially when I found out she’s kind of a big deal...I definitely didn’t expect a job offer. But I got it, and yeah. A woman could get used to not being poor.”
“That’s awesome! But driving downtown Chicago in rush hour?” I swear I can hear my sister physically wince over the line. “Yuck. They’d need to add another zero to that salary if it were me.”
“Oh, Abby, it’s nothing new to me.” It’s my turn to laugh. “I love driving for her. Beatrice Brandt’s an angel with badass wings. Sweet, whip-smart, and classy. Surprisingly down-to-earth for a billionaire artist. She’s kinda like the grandma we never had.”
After a brief silence, Abby says, “Yeah. I guess that’s nice. So all you do is drive her around all day in hell-traffic?”
“Almost.” I swallow at the image trying to invade my mind. A maddening image of a very annoying man who’s built, tall, sexy as sin, and—no. I will not let it in. Not. Today. Satan. “Look, if she was the only person I had to chauffeur around, this job would be paradise—”
“Oh. But it’s never that easy, is it?” Abby asks.
“I chauffeur her two grandsons around, too,” I say with a sigh. “One of them is ice-cold, growly, and has an entire tree stuck up his ass. Everybody calls him the Warden—”
Abby giggles. “What? Why?”
“Oh, his name’s Ward. But he’s not so bad if you stay on his good side, which isn’t that good...”
“You mean, the other guy’s worse? How?”
“The other guy, he’s...” Even though I’m in a locked town car with the windows up, I look around to make sure no one’s in earshot.
Where do I even start with describing the enigma that is Nicholas Brandt?
How do I explain what happens when ice-cold arctic air impacts a tropical front, and the storm settles into an emerald-eyed beast-man chiseled from pure stone?
“He’s hot, for one,” I venture. “Abby, I mean, really, really hot. Think GQ model meets Instagram fitness freak with lasers for eyes.”
“And that’s a problem?” she asks.
“Looks, no. He’s just weird. Hot and cold with everybody he works with, kinda reckless, unpredictable, armed with terrible jokes and brutal pickup lines. With me, he’s also almost too friendly.” I shudder.
“What, he’s trying to coax you into bed so you lose your job? Holy shit, tell me where he lives right now and I’ll show him reckless.” Abby’s to
ne goes stern.
I giggle. “No, no, not like that. He’s not coming on to me or being gross. You don’t have to worry. The guy’s just...well, oblivious. I think I’ve chewed bubblegum that’s more perceptive than this dude.”
“What does that mean?”
“He won’t leave the privacy screen up whenever he’s in the car. I feel like he’s lonely because he keeps talking my ear off.”
“Okay. So? Last I checked, lonely rich guys weren’t invented yesterday.”
“You don’t get it, Abby. He’s treating me like his confidant because he...he kinda thinks I’m a guy.”
That’s not quite accurate, but it’s close enough.
Technically, I think confidants carry on actual conversations.
Definitely not the kind of hilariously one-sided ego monologues I’ve heard since the day my boss slid into the back seat.
“Wait. What?” Abby pauses. “No way. There’s nothing manly about you. Is he blind? Deaf? Both?”
My stomach tightens.
I can’t decide whether I want to laugh or cry at how incredibly stupid this is.
“Try telling him that. The dude talks to me like I’m a frat boy. He runs his mouth so much, I never get a word in edgewise. I doubt he’s ever heard my voice. I think he’s probably one of those bosses who needs to be every employee’s best friend. I mean, the less said, the better, right? If people are mistaking me for a guy, maybe I should wear some makeup and business skirts. Nix the bulky coat. But it gets so flipping cold this time of year, even with the heat on. Spending all day roaming the streets gets frosty even with the heat cranked up.”
“Nah, don’t need to get rid of your coat for this clown. Mistaking you for a guy? He needs to get his eyes checked.”
I look up from where I’m parked and see movement.
My heart jumps in my throat.
Here he comes.
There’s no mistaking his toned silhouette. He’s stuffed in a sleek black suit with silver pinstripes and a green shirt under his blazer that matches his piercing eyes far too well.
“Speak of the devil. I’d better go,” I say, already hoping he just needs a quick hop across town and not a forty-minute trek to his brother’s lakeside estate.
“No problem. Talk to you later. You should have some fun with this!”
Easy for her to say.
Nothing about driving for a self-absorbed egomaniac falls under fun.
Millie squeals in the background, forcing a smile from me.
“Reese, are you still there?” Abby asks.
“Yep. Ten more seconds.”
“Millie wants to say hi. Do you have a second?”
Not really—Captain Oblivious is like five paces away from the car—but I’m not turning down my three-year-old chatterbox niece.
“Make it fast,” I say.
“Auntie Reese!” Millie says in her adorable baby voice.
“Hey, baby. I’ll see you soon, okay? Be good for me.”
“Otay.”
“Love you. Bye-bye, bumblebee.” I cut the call and toss my phone in the seat beside me before she says anything else in her adorable babble that hooks me into a conversation.
Just in the literal Nick of time, too.
Bossman’s built frame approaches like a snow leopard, stalking the cold streets, focus shining in his eyes. I wonder if this man only checks his sharp brain when he climbs in my car.
God.
For the briefest second, my eyes strain like they wish they had X-ray vision.
Does he carve that lethal muscle in the gym or is he a military man like his brother? Either way, it’s breathtaking. I can’t look away even when every nerve I have screams bad idea.
He circles around and touches the handle of the back passenger side door.
Lose the thought, Reese. It’s none of your business where he builds his body.
I wish it was that easy.
Oh, but it gets easier the second he opens his blackhole of a mouth.
“Reese Halle! Get pumped. We’re going to have ourselves a great fucking time tonight,” he chuckles, slapping his slacks the second he’s seated.
Umm—we are? Awesome, now a whole other set of seedy images starts flashing, unbridled, through my head. Him, me, and whatever “great time” actually means in Nick-speak—
Stop it. Really.
I force a nod, knowing I don’t need to verbalize before he belts out the rest of whatever asinine thing he has planned.
“We have to head to the airport to pick up Jorge, then we’re going to take him to the coolest nightclubs Chicago has to offer. You know how many clubs this guy owns back in Brazil? I promised him Brandt Ideas could one-up any of Chicago’s finest. Tonight, I seal the deal.”
Yay!
Lucky me.
I’m going to have a great time, all right.
Stone-cold sober, cabbing Nick and his client around all night. Probably trying not to stab them when I imagine the bosshole he could become with endless booze plus a need to impress a foreign club owner.
Ugh.
Nodding again, I pull onto the road. I can’t stop my eyes from flicking back at him.
He flashes his best bad boy smile in the rearview mirror—annoyingly handsome, and an orthodontist’s wet dream—and says, “This guy has a reputation for living life large. Things might get a little crazy tonight. Don’t worry, though. I know where to draw the line. I think we’ll get by without a defibrillator.”
Sweet Jesus, no.
No.
I’m starting to hope I never hear the phrase “great time” for the rest of my life. This colossal jackass talks like he can barely handle himself, let alone a drunken club hop with a guy who might just stage an international incident.
“You know how the press loves to sniff around, especially that Osprey dickhead and his minions from The Chicago Tea. It comes with the territory when you’re a billionaire and a Brandt. We may have to make some quick exits if they follow us—but you rock at that, right? Tactical driving or whatever? Grandma says you can do anything. That clown just won’t get off my ass.”
I roll my eyes while I move my head in something resembling a nod for him.
Then I have to stifle a laugh.
Nick Brandt, refusing a chance to talk about himself until he’s blue in the face? What gives?
Sure, he’s pretty fabulous and all, and he knows it. He also never knows when to shut up and spends half his time outside the office inserting his polished shoe halfway down his throat.
I feel sorry for Granny Beatrice and Ward.
“How far do you think we are from the airport?” Before I can answer, he taps his phone. “Never mind. Looks like twenty minutes or so. So, how are you liking the job so far? You started—what? Two weeks ago? You’re probably over the moon. Everybody loves Grandma. You know what my bro says about this place? 'If it’s not made by God, then it must be a Brandt.'”
Inwardly, I groan.
That slogan would be the height of suit-and-tie arrogance if it wasn’t true. Brandt Ideas really is that good at what they do. Beatrice Nightingale Brandt would be worshiped in sermons around the world for her designs, if she’d let the masses do it.
Sadly, with her grandsons, the apples fell too far from the tree and rolled in mud.
I love how I don’t have to open my mouth when he gets into his nonstop rambling. He’s already on the phone with someone, boasting loudly about how he’s going to need a stretcher for his Brazilian client tonight.
I nudge my hands together over the wheel, muttering a silent prayer that he doesn’t mean it literally.
“...what? Ward, go to hell. There’s a reason Grandma let me take this bull by the horns. With you, the dude would be asleep and heading back to Rio with another firm’s contract.” He pauses. “Like hell. Everybody loves my stories—just ask our buddy Halle here.”
He leans forward, tapping the back of my headrest.
Seriously.
Don’t let me get my h
ands on any sharp objects tonight, or I’m walking away with a pink slip in handcuffs.
Ignoring the mega-idiot in the back seat, I focus on the road, and level my breathing.
It’s not all bad.
Driving has always been my stress relief. I love making decent money doing what I do best. There’s a certain peace in every mile of traveled road, the same inner calm other people get from watching a rolling river or burning through a blistering workout.
After Ward hangs up on him, the conversation is all-Nick, all the time, all the way to O’Hare International. And when I say conversation, I mean monologue.
Every question he asks me, he auto-answers for himself.
We approach the airport, and I’m about to ask which lane I should be in. I open my mouth, and the second I do, he starts pointing.
“Go to international arrivals,” Nick says sharply. “We’re looking for Brazilian Airlines. His flight’s coming in straight from Rio. I know the nightclubs here can’t compete with Carnival there, but I’m going to blow his hair back with a good time. You ever been? I’m telling you, last time I went down there...wild times.”
Oh, no.
No, no, no, and also no.
Now he’s telling me about these triplet dancers he met with ginormous assets, who didn’t understand a word he said, but gave him the best body shots he’s ever had, with glasses balanced off their—
I swerve into the lane for commercial cars and shuttles, behind an airport bus, praying it saves me from the rest of this twisted fairy tale.
