by Nicole Snow
She’s more than cute, and it’s doing a horrific number on my last nerve.
“No one’s ogling your feet in this office. They’re too busy. Also, you’re dangerous in heels,” I growl, refusing to meet her eyes.
“Does that mean you accept I only had one glass of wine that night if you’re blaming the shoes for my balance?” She purses her lips.
Fuck, I could bite them.
“Not a chance. Why are you in my office, anyway?”
“Oh—nothing.” She holds her arm out, offering me the tall white Bean Bar cup clasped in her hand.
The name on the cup says “Warden.”
Lovely. She’s been talking to Reese.
I snatch the cup from her hand. When I plunk it down on my desk, under the name, I see Paige’s handwriting scrawled across a pink Post-it.
A sweet morning pick-me-up. Truce?
“Enjoy, bossman,” she whispers, turning to exit the room.
She swings her hips with every step.
Goddamn, is she doing it just to taunt me?
Does she know I feel like an armed grenade every second I look at her?
There’s nothing to truce over anyway, but it’s never a bad time for a double shot. Lifting the cup to my lips, I take a loud gulp—then promptly spray dark muck across the room.
Fuck! If this was any sweeter, it’d be liquid black cotton candy.
This is her peace offering? Trying to poison me?
If she wants a battle, let’s roll.
I jump on my laptop, forwarding her every meaningless assignment that’s ever touched my Inbox over the last six months, busywork I couldn’t muster a single shit about. All due tonight.
Half an hour later, she taps on my door.
“What?”
She opens it and steps inside, clearing her throat with this nonchalant smile that draws too much attention to lips worthy of a hundred hate-kisses.
“I got your emails, Mr. Brandt.”
“Yeah? Then you have plenty of work to do.”
“Looks that way.” She smiles ever so slowly. “How was your coffee?”
I don’t give her the pleasure of a tantrum.
I just point to the trash can beside my desk.
“Yay, I’m glad you liked it so much! Vanilla honey-cream syrup is the sweetest they have, but if you mix it with guava, you can create a sugar coma. Same order tomorrow?”
I’m surprised my hollowed-out eyes don’t set her on fire.
“Get out,” I order.
Her smile grows wider and she waves before she shuts the door.
The next day my whole office smells like coffee.
A new tall cup sits on my desk with Wardhole written across it. I stare at it for a minute, wondering if I want to drink it after yesterday.
What if she’s stepped it up? What if she’s set up the lid to blow off and splatter me with pure syrup the instant I take a drink?
At least then I could fire her ass.
But it smells so good, I brush my fears aside.
I pick it up, sniff cautiously, and take a smallest swallow, not wanting to stain my office again.
Black. Plain black coffee with the scent of Kona heaven.
I clutch it like mana and head to the conference room, where we’re prepping the final Winthrope bid today.
With my laptop connected to the projector, I sit in a high-back chair, waiting for everyone else.
Nick comes through the door holding his mocha with a scowl aimed at me.
“Hey, what the hell did you do to Paige?”
“Miss Holly, you mean—we have professional moral to maintain around here—and what are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? Didn’t you notice? She recoils whenever you enter a room like she’s just seen Lucifer.” He pulls at his tie.
She has been moving to the other side of the room, lately, I guess.
I’ve noticed it too.
Comes with the territory when we’re like two violently repelling magnets.
“And it’s like she’s memorized your schedule or something,” Nick continues, raking a hand through his hair. “She knows exactly when you won’t be in your office and waits to deliver anything until then. She doesn’t do that with anyone else, so I figure you’ve said something. One of your asshole things that makes you so lovable.”
I shrug. “I told her to lay off the bottle while she’s at work. Nothing more.”
For a second, my brother stares at me in disbelief, as if he hasn’t done far worse in his party animal life.
“You’re such a jackass, Ward,” he mutters.
Jackass or not, I look away from my computer now to catch his eyes. “We need to get something clear. She’s our executive assistant. She’s not here to be anyone’s hookup, or to make a spectacle of pissing me off. I’m after a competent EA, and well within my rights to ask her to shape up.”
Nick laughs too long before he straightens up.
Covering his face with his hand, he leans in and groans, “Oh, man. You pay a lot of attention to her, don’t you? No one said anything about hooking up before you did. Look, you need to relax with this dumb hotel and go on a real date. It’s been—what? Two years since your—since Maria, I mean—and you’re still reeling and taking it out on people like Paige. Not fair. Just live your life, brother. If you have subconscious urges for the EA—”
“What? You’re the one hanging over her desk every time I—”
“So you’re jealous?” He winks. “Thought so.”
“Dammit, I have zero urges, and this ‘dumb hotel’ is a lifelong dream for our grandparents. Grandpa didn’t even get to live to see it while Winthrope was dropping hints for years, but always walking away at the last second. Buck up and get serious.” I pause to see anger flash across his face. “Everything we have, we owe to them. This is our last chance to leave a legacy for Grandpa Godfrey. And the press loves to serve up Brandt family drama. Assholes like Roland Osprey are always out there lurking for scraps.”
“Don’t remind me,” he slurs, falling back in his seat.
“Exactly. We’ve got to be a hundred percent scandal proof right now. Winthrope’s old school, strange, and British. Scandal will scare him off. We’re not fucking this up.”
“Yeah, no, he’s a crazy boomer with a pylon up his ass a mile long. He’s obsessed with talent, quality, and precision. My personal life has nothing to do with the quality of my work. I can bring home a different model every night and still make sure our designs are executed flawlessly, if I want.”
“You’re so full of yourself,” I say with a snort.
“Whatever. At least I’m not stomping around the office like a jackboot.”
“He’s just old-fashioned and protecting his brand. Can you blame him? If I had an image like his to protect, I’d be skeptical of working with us after what our parents did too. It took us years to repair the damage, Nicholas.”
“You’re too worried. We’ll sell him so hard his top hat flies off. If he doesn’t take the contract, it’s his loss. Tell me, who has better designs than Brandt? Name one person who designs better than Grandma.”
“God,” I quip. “After that, no one.”
He chuckles, but his smile is real. He wasn’t a fan of the slogan I came up with at first, but now it’s grown on everyone.
More importantly, it’s accurate.
If it’s not made by God, then it must be a Brandt.
Grandma’s designs are always a stroke of creative genius.
Hell, maybe I am too worried, and dealing with it by lashing out at Paige.
On the other hand, with deals as lucrative as this, Murphy’s Law is king. Everything can go wrong.
My gut tells me not to get too comfortable.
Minutes go by in silence while the senior staff file in. I sift through the slides, rereading the notes to help me remember what I need to highlight with each point when the time comes to touch base with Winthrope’s team again.
Nic
k watches me and finally says, “You know what your problem is?”
“I didn’t even know I have a problem.”
“You’ve got a bigger stick up your ass than Ross Winthrope, just like Grandma says. You don’t mind people like Winthrope trying to protect their image because he’s going to be you in forty years. Minus the circus outfits, I mean.”
“Ross Winthrope is a few notches below Elon Musk. I’m trying to decide if I want to be insulted by your crap.” I pretend to think. “You know what? No, I won’t be. Last time I checked, he has more money than you, me, and Grandma combined.”
Nick bristles while I go back to work, wishing I could shut down Paige Holly just as swiftly.
Only, the fact that she’s still in my head—rent free—annoys me to no end.
I’m not losing my mind.
I’ll win the deal, the money, the dream, and the prestige without getting sloshed on Miss Holly.
5
Sunburn (Paige)
Don’t freak out.
Not even when he piles on insane amounts of work with impossible deadlines.
Just smile, research how much time similar projects take, and vow to get it done. If Mr. Grumpyface Brandt wants to play hardball, I’m ready to swing.
But I’ve also decided I’m not losing sleep over meeting the master of the universe’s demands.
After all, he’s one of three bosses, and Beatrice Brandt and Nick are very happy with my work.
Deep down, the Wardhole is too.
He just can’t admit it.
“Can I borrow a marker?” I ask the barista, waiting on the latest order at The Bean Bar.
She glances at the silver counter beside her, finds an extra marker, and hands it to me. She’s written The Warden on this black drip, per my request.
It’s always The Warden or Wardhole depending on the day of the week. Today, I’m adding a more personal touch.
I quickly sketch a set of handcuffs under the name and smile at my cartoonish work.
Oh, he’ll enjoy his coffee today.
I can’t help giggling as I pick up the drink carrier and traipse out of the café.
Two hours later, I’m sitting at my desk, working through the deluge of assignments from yesterday. I’ve completed half of them by working past midnight and coming in early this morning, and I’ll be done before he expects it.
Ward comes out of his office rubbing his eyes, yawning like a bear.
He strolls up to my desk at a snail’s pace.
“Sorry.”
“For the yawn? No worries. I feel like doing the same thing every time we talk,” I say.
Those gas flames for eyes beam hot death.
“I don’t know what the deal is, but my coffee isn’t doing it lately. Would you go to the bar downstairs and get me a triple espresso and a Red Bull?”
I smile, trying to hold back a snicker. “Of course, Mr. Brandt.”
His eyes follow me to the elevator.
I bite the inside of my cheeks.
“Wait. What the fuck did you do to my coffee?” he hurls at my back.
Oops. Maybe I didn’t keep a straight enough face. Kinda hard when you’ve been messing with the boss’ precious brew for this long without him noticing.
“Excuse me?” I turn, innocently twirling a lock of my hair.
“You did something. Christ, you’ve been doing it for over a week, haven’t you?” He bows up, casting a figure that’s all muscle, all jaw, and all ragey.
I tuck a strand of blond hair behind my ear. “Mr. Brandt, if you’re getting too old to keep up with your schedule, you don’t need to blame me for it, or The Bean Bar.”
“You tampered with my brew,” he grinds out, his eyes shifting around suspiciously.
“Whatever.” I shake my head. “You’re nuts.”
The elevator doors open. I step inside, punch the button to shut them, and immediately burst into a manic fit of laughter.
Oh my God.
His face.
His stupid, arrogant, chiseled, upset face.
In no time, I’ve ordered his triple espresso the same way I did his black drip this morning. Decaf.
Too bad he asked for a Red Bull, too.
No way to fake that one.
Since he’s decided to torture me with impossible workloads, inhuman deadlines, and yes—I’ll admit it—those deliriously good looks that keep showing up in my dreams, I’m fighting fire with fire.
I’m going to do everything to this jackass Brina should have done to Heron before they had to go and ruin their fun by falling in love—okay, except maybe the pie to the face.
He deserves a nice thick banana-caramel cream pie, but I might actually get fired over that one. And I want to keep this job, even if it means putting up with a tyrannical lunk stuffed into the world’s sexiest suit.
At lunch, he passes my desk, heading for the elevator. I look up from my work. “How was your coffee this afternoon? Any improvement?”
He glares at me. “Awesome.”
I spot the Red Bull in his hand. Has he figured out the rest of his drinks were decaf?
“Y’know, if you need two coffees and an energy drink by lunchtime, maybe you should get to bed sooner. Don’t stiff the Sandman or you’ll pay!” I call.
He stops, his huge shoulders rippling with a sigh.
“Don’t you have work to do? Or do I need to assign you more?”
I flash him a smile and turn my eyes back to my screen.
He sent me half a dozen “special assignments” on top of my normal load yesterday. But they’ll all be done before I leave today because I rock and roll.
Take that, Wardhole. I’m too good at this and you suck at getting under my skin.
Around four, I submit the last of his projects and open an email from Beatrice that makes me gasp.
She...she wants feedback on her latest designs. I mean, sure, it’s sent to the entire creative team, but she CC’d little old me.
Beatrice Nightingale Freaking Brandt wants my input.
This woman is so amazing I’m not sure there’s anything I could tell her. You can’t improve on genius, and even if I’m educated in art, I’m not a licensed architect or designer.
But part of feedback means weighing the feeling, the mood, the soul of her creations. We’re also going to work through the process, how she makes revisions, and I’ll be there at the same table with her entire team.
That’s worth more than any salary or any appalling bosshole.
My computer pings again with something less exciting in my Inbox.
To: Paige Holly
From: Ward Brandt
Subject: Your Capable Hands
Miss Holly,
I have a new use for your hands away from the keyboard. See to it that the scale models in my office are dusted and shined before 5:30. I’m expecting a meeting with a VIP client tomorrow. Try not to break a nail.
Thanks,
Ward Brandt
Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.
What the eff? See to it? Break a nail?
Ugh-city.
Still, Beatrice doesn’t need immediate feedback before tomorrow and five thirty p.m. comes first. I suck in enough air to puff my cheeks and blow it out slowly. I don’t even know where to find cleaning supplies since I didn’t realize I was part of the janitorial staff now.
Freelancing might not have been so bad.
Not knowing what else to do, I go to the bathroom, unroll a sheet of paper towels the length of my arm, and wet them.
Ward’s office door is flanked by two tables of imposing models cast in what looks like pure silver. I start at the left table, dusting his stupid models.
Yes, they’re beautiful buildings.
No, the phallic symbolism isn’t lost on me, especially when I wind up stroking up and down a tall skyscraper the company worked on refurbishing years ago.
“Make sure you get the ones in my case, too. Nice and slow so you don’t miss a spot,” he says, emergi
ng from his private bathroom.
Oh, God.
I whip around, letting out a squeak as I catch my balance. The bastard smiles, one hand fixing his tie, a hot glint in his eye.
How long has he been watching me?
My only response is a dagger-eyed glare.
He leans against the doorframe with one dark-brown wave hanging in his eye. I’ll admit, the purple tie and silver suit looks good on him today.
“It’s a pleasure working with you sometimes. You’ve been a decent hire after all,” he says slowly.
It’s an odd, sincere burst of praise I’m not expecting.
I try to come up with some quip, some joke to throw back, but I’m actually speechless.
Again, he hits me with that Hercules smile that could hold up the world—and I’m a little afraid it’s captured my heart.
Oh, I’d like to slap him, or do—other things.
Rough things I’ve wanted to do since the night I met him in the art museum and he started calling me a drunk like the cruel dolt he is. But I need this job, so...
All I can do is shine his freaking toys and nod, hoping I’m just imagining his eyes undressing me as I work, and I conjure up every unsexy thought in the universe.
Furnace outages in winter. Rotten fruit baskets. Saggy old billionaires in boudoir photos.
Only, somehow Ross Winthrope’s skin tightens in my head. His face morphs into a bearded halo, an immaculate chin, and thick hair screaming for my fingers, all perched on a titan’s body belonging to Ward Brandt.
Argh.
At least I don’t have to smile about it.
I save Ward’s glass case against the wall for last, hoping he’ll go get his stupid coffee, or have a meeting or something, so he’s not there while I am.
No such luck.
He’s sitting at his desk with his coat off now. His sleeves are rolled up and my eyes can’t help but wander.
His arms. They’re big, taut with muscles, corded in a way that says he didn’t get those guns in the gym. His head tilts down as he reviews a file. He can’t see me taking in the view.
His suspenders line that hard slab of a chest like fine licorice-black ribbons.
I bite my lip to keep from giggling.
