Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  Nerd. Who wears suspenders in the 2020s?

  Unfortunately, that nerd. The one who happens to make suspenders ridiculously sexy.

  A tattoo ripples under his rolled sleeve, but I can’t make out what it is, only dark ink. He stretches his arm, reaching for another file, and the sleeve comes up.

  It’s an eagle crossed with barbed wire.

  Whoa. Hardcore.

  Ward has a military background, apparently. That might partly explain why he’s such a raging hardass.

  Guess it’s par for the course when you’re sporting the whole lady-killer package.

  Stoic attitude. Rock-hard body. Bitter black coffee attitude.

  He lifts his head and meets my gaze with those summer eyes from Hades’ pool. He lifts an eyebrow, as if to say, well? What are you waiting for?

  Send help.

  Blood rushes to my cheeks. I spin around to face the display case and start dusting like my life depends on it. Honestly, it might.

  The Warden chuckles behind me. It’s a dark, deep rumble like bass in my ears, vibrating through me.

  “Are you well, Miss Holly?” he asks.

  “Never better,” I force out.

  “Then why are you so red?”

  I wave my hand in front of my face and say the first thing that comes to mind.

  “Sunburn.”

  “Oh, you must have gone out at lunch. I didn’t notice it was that hot earlier.”

  Technically, the burning heat is confined to this room.

  The more annoying he gets, the more the fire in my face subsides. When I’m confident I’m not morphing into a lobster anymore, I face him.

  “So, do you spend a lot of time looking at me?”

  “No—I—you’re hard to miss,” he snaps off. “Your office is in the lobby. You’re my assistant. How the hell could I miss you?”

  “Oh, okay,” I say with a hint of sarcasm.

  “I’m serious. You’re—” He pauses, a scowl on his face, struggling to find the words.

  It’s cute when he’s forced to be tactful.

  I smile. Sometimes keeping a straight face with this guy is the hardest part of the job.

  “Mr. Brandt, I understand. I just need to get back to work, okay?”

  He glares at me, his eyes napalm pools. “Give them a second dusting. Please.”

  Holy crap. He said the magic word. First time I’ve ever seen it in his vocabulary.

  “I’d be happy to, if you can tell me where to find a refill head for the duster. Since I’m not on the janitorial staff, I don’t have access to cleaning supplies,” I say sweetly.

  “Just get out of here,” he growls.

  “But how will your models be dusted then?”

  He stands and waves his arm at the door, his face so tight, so conflicted.

  “Miss Holly, go.”

  Lordy, he’s sizzle when he’s mad.

  I close the door behind me and make it to my desk before I laugh. Not only did I best him—again—I got out of dusting more models.

  Score.

  Nick’s the first to leave that evening. He doesn’t even wait until four. The guy’s a one-eighty to his brother, a total rake, but he doesn’t have a serious bone in his body.

  He’s fun. I like him.

  Beatrice, whom I love the most, goes next. She says she’s been a little tired lately and thinks she should rest. So I’m left alone with the third of the equation I despise.

  At eight o’clock, that third comes out of his office to torment me.

  “Why are you still here?”

  “Hello to you, too. I’m looking for errors in your grandmother’s latest design.” I glare at him. “I might have finished earlier, but someone decided they needed their models dusted today.”

  “Just go home already. Grandma’s designs have no flaws,” he says.

  I shake my head. “This is the kind of experience I took this job for. I’m not losing out on design work because I shined your toys so well it got you mad.”

  “You—” He pauses, biting back whatever curse was on the tip of his tongue. “Suit yourself, Miss Holly, but you’re wasting your time. I told you, Grandma doesn’t make errors.”

  Slowly, I look up and meet his stormy eyes. “That’s funny because...I’ve already found three.”

  “What?” He stalks around my desk and looks at the screen.

  I click back to the first slide of the interior.

  “Look here, the Presidential Suite.” I point to a door entering a room and then to the closet. “Granted, I’m no architect, but this seems out of place.”

  “Rooms need doors, and people usually like closets. What’s your point?” he demands.

  “From what I can tell, one of these doors has to swing in a different direction. Otherwise, they’re going to hit each other,” I tell him.

  For a long, deadly second he’s quiet.

  “You could just not have both doors open at the same time,” he says weakly.

  “Huh. Do all of your upscale clients work on that assumption?” I bat my eyes.

  He sighs, a hint of redness behind that beard as he reaches up and scratches his face. “Fuck. You’re right. What gives? Grandma never makes mistakes. And if that’s truly what this is, it would’ve been caught well before the final draft, you know.”

  “Everyone makes mistakes. No one produces perfect art on the first try. You’re welcome for saving her some time.”

  He crosses his arms. “It’s not the first draft. She wouldn’t have asked for feedback unless she’d already looked at it a thousand times. She’s a lifelong perfectionist.”

  I shrug. “Hey, bossman, I’m just helping.”

  “Well, thanks,” he grinds out reluctantly. Then he goes to the elevator and calls over his shoulder. “Don’t stay here all night.”

  I’m done by midnight.

  The next day, Beatrice compliments my work, and she’s so grateful for the error report. She tells me I’m doing an outstanding job and if I keep it up...I just might be her protégé.

  Holy crap. I’m beyond honored, walking on sunshine, but I hate that she’s as uncomfortable as Ward about some of the mistakes I caught.

  They’re just little things.

  What’s the big deal?

  And yet, it’s like she’s deflated, looking like a woman who feels a superpower slipping away.

  I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s definitely something odd with her.

  It’s after lunch on a sunny Friday.

  I’ve officially survived a month now at Brandt Ideas, and I’m actually giddy at the accomplishment.

  “Can you repeat that?” I ask.

  The marketing director, Andrew, is presenting a plan to attract new clients. The Brandt brothers are out pitching Winthrope, and Beatrice is at another charity event this morning. Everyone will need detailed notes, and this guy talks faster than I can type.

  He points to the top line of his presentation pad again, tapping it like a human hummingbird. “Did you catch all that? If you need me to, I’m happy to start over.”

  “Good news, people!” a gruff voice booms over us before Andrew the Marketing Guy can machine gun through his talk a second time.

  Ward.

  His voice has always been whiskey smooth, but out of the blue like this—when he isn’t supposed to be here—it rakes goosebumps down my arms.

  Andrew the hummingbird wouldn’t let anyone else get a word in edgewise. He doesn’t try that with Ward.

  The Warden walks up to the center of the table like the proud lion he is. He makes a show of leaving everyone in suspense for just a few more seconds before he clasps his hands in front of him and makes his announcement.

  “Ross Winthrope has tentatively accepted our offer to create the finest hotel on the Chicago skyline. The cherished dream of my grandparents lives, and it’s all thanks to each and every one of you.”

  Marketing Guy Andrew and I are the first to start clapping over the wave that follows.
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br />   Sure, Ward Brandt pisses me off like nobody can, but this is a success I’m happy to share. And it was so important to Beatrice. She told me once that the grand hotel would fulfill her husband’s dying wish, and it’s too perfect having her grandsons close it.

  “Since I’m here, I’ll stick around for the meeting,” Ward says.

  Andrew nods. “Of course, Ward. There’s an empty seat beside Paige.”

  What? Oh, no. There has to be another one.

  I scan the table.

  Nope.

  The only empty seat in the whole conference room is next to lucky me.

  He sits down beside me. I’m wafted with a wave of espresso and mint. He would have to smell like a mint mocha.

  No lie, the man smells good enough to drink and he’s close enough to touch. My fingers tingle.

  Hello, torture. But I quash the agony as fast as I can.

  Remember, he thinks I’m a drunken idiot because he met me on a bad night. A little girl to be rescued—even if I needed a little hero action that night. I just don’t need his lectures and scorn.

  He leans closer. My traitor lungs inhale my boss and adore it.

  My fingernails skim up my thighs under the table. A decadent heat that shouldn’t exist crackles through me.

  Okay, never mind, I haven’t quashed anything.

  “Where’s Grandma?” he whispers, looking around.

  “Charity conference,” I say quickly. “She left this morning. Something in affordable housing co-sponsored by Heron and Heron,” I say, smiling at Brina and Mag’s company being involved.

  “She’s usually here.” He shakes his head, a disappointed look on his face. “Well, since Grandma and Nick are out, make sure you take good notes. She’ll want to know every word that was said.”

  I give him the deadpan cheese-grin that always pisses him off so much.

  “Best notes ever. Got it.” I turn my computer so he sees the open document on my screen. “However, Mrs. Brandt prefers summaries, so I’ll make sure to condense everything before sending it on to her.”

  Andrew goes back to his whiplash presentation, so Ward doesn’t even have the chance to respond. Ha.

  An hour later, Marketing Guy has another meeting to get to, so the meeting ends. I’m glad it’s almost lunchtime.

  “Go ahead and send me a copy of the notes now, Miss Holly,” Ward says.

  “Sure.”

  Naturally, I couldn’t resist having a little fun. Every time his name was mentioned I used Wardhole.

  Yes, I’ll clean it up before I send the notes to Beatrice and Nick, but Ward needs his copy now. Unedited.

  Here you go, Wardhole. Happy reading.

  I type in his email and click send.

  He opens the document before I stand. He has to quality inspect everything I touch, you know. It would be entirely too much for him to just assume I’m smart enough to take one damn hour of notes.

  He scans the first page. “These are very detailed.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t respond.

  “Wardhole?” he grunts.

  I shrug. “Well, if the shoe fits...”

  “You. And here I thought it was the barista all this time.” His eyes skewer me, sending another balmy flush down my body.

  “Are you serious?” I ask.

  He glares at me. “No.”

  “Oh, good.” I laugh. “I was gonna say if you believed that, then—never mind.”

  I close my laptop, tuck it under my arm, and slide off my chair.

  He stands. “You know I’m your boss, right?”

  “Actually, I don’t report to you ‘exclusively,’ last I checked. And your grandma doesn’t care that I ruffle your feathers. She thinks it’s funny,” I say.

  “Grandma talks to you about me?” His face becomes stone, and he closes the space between us, reminding me just how big and imposing that body can be.

  My boss eclipses me.

  He’s like a giant with a little boy’s expression when he gets mad. I bite my lip, but I can’t hide the grin.

  We talked about him once, technically.

  Beatrice told me to shrug off his shenanigans and match them with my own. Good advice. But I’m not about to tell him his name casually comes up sometimes.

  “I’m afraid I could never betray her confidence, Mr. Brandt,” I say pointedly.

  He follows me to the elevator I summon, ready to hit the café on the main floor.

  “Why are you discussing me with my grandmother?” he demands.

  I punch the elevator button. “Ask her. Like I said, I’m not discussing my personal conversations with Mrs. Brandt. It’s unprofessional.”

  The elevator opens and he follows me in.

  Being stuck in a confined space with a walking Adonis who smells like mint mocha would be hard enough, except now I have to focus on not laughing my butt off. All because this uptight suit is actually worried about what I did or didn’t say to his grandmother.

  “Since when are you professional? When we met, you were stumbling through a museum with some scumbag cornering you,” he growls.

  My smile wilts.

  Dude. I’m so tired of hearing about that night. I stare him dead in the eye.

  “If you ever mention that incident again, I’ll—” I stop mid-sentence.

  I’ll what? He’s the boss. I can’t threaten him with HR. He’s like a foot taller than me and a whole lot broader. I’m not sure I could kick his ass with a whole case of pies.

  “You’ll what, Miss Holly?” he whispers, boxing me in with another step forward, his body and scent and those dark-lagoon eyes stealing the air from my lungs.

  “I’ll...I’ll tell your grandma!” I burst out.

  He quirks a brow and scoffs. “She already knows what happened. I told her, remember? When I tried to talk her out of hiring you?”

  “I’ll tell her you won’t quit harassing me about it then. It’s not my fault the guy was a creep. I had no idea who you were. I just needed help from a decent man who wouldn’t keep guilt tripping me. I thought I found him that night, but...I was wrong.”

  The elevator door opens, thank God.

  Ward hits the CLOSE button.

  “I did help you. I ran him off in full retreat, if memory serves.”

  “Yep. Then you tried to get me fired from the best job I’ve ever had and decided to remind me of it every time I see you. I had one rough night. I’m sorry it messed with you so much,” I say, hands on my hips, entirely ready to shred this man. “I could be like Nick and tell you that what happens in my personal life is none of your damn business, but...you’re trying to protect your family’s brand. I get that what I do in my personal life could affect that, and I take it seriously.”

  His eyebrows pull down like storm clouds. “Miss Holly, you—”

  “Let me finish. I had one bad night before I started this job. One, Wardhole.” I hold up a finger. “So unless you’ve never had a bad night, please just—fuck off. Leave me alone about it.”

  His eyes snap open, and so do mine.

  Part of me can’t believe I just said that, but I’m not exactly sorry.

  Sucking in a breath for support, I mash the OPEN button. I’m sick of sharing a cell with this anti-gentleman.

  As soon as the doors open, I dart out.

  “Pai—” he starts to say. I slow a step before he yells. “Miss Holly, wait!”

  Right.

  Because I’m such a peon he can’t even use my first name.

  I spin around to face him.

  Of freaking course, my heel tilts, and I go tilting mid-turn.

  Lovely. As if I’m not in deep enough trouble, suddenly I’m sprawled on my back against a marble floor in the executive lobby of Brandt Ideas.

  Ward steps toward me, offering a hand. I shrink back, salvaging my tattered pride.

  No way in hell is he helping me again so I can hear about it for the rest of my life.

  Hand up, palm out, I push him away
with the most force I can muster.

  “Don’t. Seriously.”

  “But—”

  I scrape myself off the floor and stand. “Unless you have more models for me to dust, or a hundred more unreasonable requests before morning, I have real work to do.”

  Later, after lunch, I walk to my desk in silence.

  Ward looks up from talking to Andrew and stomps into his office without speaking to me, the door slamming shut behind him like a vault.

  I go back to reviewing some files a messenger left Beatrice for the next hour. She needs to see them, so I put them with a stack of stuff to deliver before I leave the office today.

  Come to think of it, I haven’t heard from her since she left this morning. Weird.

  She must not know the big news about the Winthrope deal. Otherwise, she would’ve said something or sent me an email, if not a company-wide memo.

  I pick up her stack for delivery. If she doesn’t know, I can tell her about the tentative acceptance from Winthrope and enjoy the smile on her face.

  I peek in her frosted glass door. There’s a shadow behind her desk. Someone’s in there, but the shape, the posture, seems strangely off somehow.

  I tap on the door.

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Beatrice?” I call, my heart climbing into my throat.

  Then I hear it.

  Thud!

  And a smaller thud on the heels of the first.

  I shove the door open, ready to burst inside. I get two steps in before I’m gasping and covering my mouth.

  Beatrice Brandt has collapsed on the floor behind her desk, her chair tipped on its side.

  Everything I ever learned about CPR gallops through my brain as I rush inside.

  Shit! Please be okay. Please be okay.

  Mrs. Brandt, wake up!

  6

  Slippers (Ward)

  Paige’s words from earlier sting like a scourge.

  She hates me so much she wouldn’t even let me help her up.

  Nick’s annoying question floats back at me. What the hell did you do to Paige?

  Now, I wonder what my clumsy ass did do, and I hate it.

  Since I have time between afternoon calls, I open her notes to see what happened before I joined the meeting. The notes are impeccable as usual.