Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “I’ll handle client relations. If you ever have to talk to him, I’ll be there.”

  “Do you really think we can do this?”

  Good question.

  Our last few projects were rave successes worth hundreds of millions. But carving a hotel from the sky for one of the world’s richest men is next level.

  “We’ve been doing it our whole lives,” I say, steeling my voice.

  “We’ve been helping Grandma do it forever, you mean. Without her...”

  “No.” I shake my head. “We’ve always been a team, Nick. She’s one of the best designers on earth. You implement those designs, and I deal with the clients, contracts, and money. The Winthrope concepts are all but done. And we’ve got Paige, the first competent assistant ever. We’ll pull her in if we need to. We’ve got this.”

  “I hope you’re right, Ward. Because if something goes funky with the Winthrope property, Grandma could have her heart wrecked a second time,” he says darkly.

  “Nothing’s going wrong. I promise.”

  The doorknob clicks as it turns, and I sweep out of the way.

  Four people push Grandma in on a rolling bed, moving her into the room. Nick and I get out of the way and stay silent. She’s sleeping and needs her rest.

  Once they’ve moved her, three of them leave and a nurse stays to take her vitals. She writes the stats on a dry erase board bolted to the wall and punches them into a tablet.

  Her gaze falls on us. “It’s okay to talk, you guys. She’s sleeping, but she’s out good. She’s on a post-surgery drip.”

  I read the stats on the board, but they’re gibberish to me. I don’t speak medicine. I veer my head toward the wall and point.

  “Those numbers. Are they good or bad?”

  The nurse studies the wall, then meets my eyes. “They’re about what you’d expect for a woman in her seventies who just got out of surgery successfully. In other words, nothing to worry about.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “No problem. If she needs anything, just push the call button.” She walks out of the room.

  Nick watches Grandma sleep for a minute, her small chest rising and falling.

  “Where’s Paige?”

  “Huh?”

  “She was with us. Now she’s just...gone,” Nick says, a bewildered look on his face.

  Oh, hell. I forgot all about her after the coffee run.

  I look at my smart watch. We’ve been in this room for half an hour, and she hasn’t texted. Is she still here?

  “Hang on,” I tell him. “I’ll go find her.”

  “I can do it if you need to stay with Grandma since you’re the POA.”

  “Yeah, in case there were any hard feelings, I didn’t know about it until the doctor told us. She probably just had to name someone and—”

  “You’re the oldest,” he finishes for me. “I shouldn’t have freaked about it earlier.”

  I nod. “I’ll find Paige. I need to talk to her.”

  He grins. “Yeah, whatever, dude. Bet you feel bad for trying to talk Grandma into axing her before she started now. And you should.”

  I say nothing, just dart him a glare.

  Few things suck more than admitting your little brother might have a point, so I’m not giving him the pleasure.

  I exit the room. If she hasn’t caught a ride with Reese, she’s probably in the waiting room, but I don’t need to search far.

  When I open the door, Miss Holly stands beside it, arms crossed neatly across her ample chest and wobbling.

  I look down at her feet.

  Of course, she’s wearing six-inch heels today.

  “You could never be a model without dying.”

  She wrinkles her nose and lets out an annoyed huff. “Smooth, Wardhole. Do you say that to all the girls?”

  I grin. “You’re gorgeous, and I’d never tell you otherwise. You just can’t walk in heels. I’ll give you a hundred dollars to take those off right now.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Her arms fall to her sides. “Uhh—they’re three-hundred-dollar shoes, for one, and I’m not walking around here barefoot. That’s gross. I could catch hepatitis or something.”

  “Fine. Four hundred bucks. Also, I’m fairly certain you don’t get hepatitis from walking around a hospital floor barefoot. Do you have any clue how much they sanitize these places?”

  “Do you, Doctor Grump?” She turns up her nose and then shakes her head. “It’s still gross.”

  Wrong. The only grossness is all the filthy things I want to do to that mouth.

  “Look, I’ll buy you slippers from the gift shop and pay you five hundred dollars for your stupid shoes. Deal?”

  She cocks her head, fixing me with a stare that questions my sanity.

  “You’re joking? Why do you want my shoes so bad?”

  “I don’t. I’m worried you’re going to break your neck, and I’ve had enough damn ER visits for one day,” I grind out.

  “Psssh. I wonder when you’ll get your fill in sniping at me over ridiculous things?”

  I came outside to apologize, so I’m trying not to bite her head off, but seriously. The girl’s exasperating.

  “I don’t know, but I still think you should apologize to the floor in my lobby.”

  She sighs and turns her head. “Fine, but buy me the slippers first, jerk. And I guess since you have time to harass me, Beatrice is okay?”

  I’m bristling an iota less. She’s such a sweet girl, her eyes shimmering like an emerald forest with worry.

  I shouldn’t be such a Wardhole all the time.

  “She’ll be cooped up here for a few days, but she’s fine, thanks to you. I came looking for you because I wanted to thank you again.”

  She gives me a long, wondering look and then shrugs. “Well, no need. It’s what any normal human being would’ve done. I had to help her.”

  “And I’ve been a little bit of a hardass on you,” I say.

  “A little?” Her eyes flash.

  “A lot, are you happy?” I shake off my annoyance and offer my hand. “Truce? For real this time?”

  Miss Holly stares for a moment before clasping my fingers. She feels so small, so fragile, so much like something I came too close to breaking like the staggering fucking moose I am.

  “Truce,” she echoes, a faint smile on her lips.

  She’s still hanging on my hand. I must be out of my mind from today’s events, because I pull her closer, then move so she’s backed against the wall, and do the most idiot thing possible.

  I press my lips to hers in a kiss that’s unholy.

  It’s greedy. Electric. Unrepentant.

  I kiss her with a maelstrom of hunger that ends in a rushing growl, pawing at her hips, sucking in her gasp. All while a panicked voice buried in my head screams, what the ever-loving fuck are you doing?

  She should slap me blind, if she doesn’t just progress straight to stabbing me first. But incredibly, she opens her mouth. I lick her lip with animalistic need, slide in, and caress until she moans against my tongue.

  Goddamn.

  Miss Holly.

  Paige.

  She cups my arm with her hand, sinking her nails into my flesh. Her fingers tremble.

  The seething bulge in my pants grazes her thigh when I shift, and I swear, if we weren’t in public, I would hump her like a feral dog.

  Another kiss.

  Another molten groan.

  Another whispering moan like a smoking campfire from her lips.

  That’s when I move away with a furious jerk, fighting off disaster.

  Holy fuck.

  What kind of jagoff am I? I just made out with my assistant in front of my grandmother’s hospital room. Right after I spent the day on a roller coaster from the height of my career before plunging down to fear, loathing, despair, and bad decisions.

  Yes, I’m going straight to hell, and I deserve it.

  “W-Ward?” she gasps. “Mr. Brandt?”

  I get even d
umber. I lean in, placing a kiss against her hair. “Go into the room, please, and park your butt on the chair until I’m back with your slippers. Do not walk around.”

  She flashes me a red-faced smile. “That’s kinda tyrannical, you know. You’re as bad as Magnus Heron.”

  “Nah, I’m not a showy marketer midwit like him.” I shake my head. “I told you, one ER visit a day is my limit. Can I ask you something?”

  Her throat pulses as she swallows, green eyes so glittery and full of light.

  “Sure,” she answers softly.

  “How did you know what to do back at the office?”

  “I was a lifeguard at YMCA summer camps in high school. I’ve kept my CPR certification up, because you never know when you’ll need it. But I’ve never used it before today in a real emergency.”

  “God, you’re amazing,” I whisper, my throat so raw. I need to get the hell out of here. “Go sit.”

  She beams and retreats into the hospital room.

  My head comes unscrewed, trying to sort out what this day even is.

  Damn it all.

  I kissed her.

  I tasted my very off-limits assistant, and I fucking liked it.

  No clue how to deal with this tomorrow, but I know how it ends.

  Certain cataclysm.

  7

  Mad Men (Paige)

  I pinch my nose to swallow another sip of triple espresso loaded with sugar.

  Six days ago, I wasn’t a huge coffee drinker, aside from those sticky sweet cinnamon lattes I’d always get with Brina.

  Six days ago, I didn’t hate my job.

  Six freaking days ago, I didn’t know Ward Brandt could obliterate a woman in sixty seconds flat with an apocalyptic kiss.

  No, we haven’t discussed it since.

  Hell no, I haven’t forgotten.

  Could you forget a perfect sunset sliding down your throat? Thawing parts you didn’t even know were frozen?

  Calling his kiss divine would be an insult. Those lips were pure precision wrapped in a halo of hot tease, velvet sledgehammers dead set on breaking me apart.

  And I’m a little afraid to admit they succeeded.

  I don’t think I’ve lived an hour since that kiss without remembering it. His heat, his hunger, his playful softness shifting into wild abandon. Ward kissed like a man laying claim to a woman he wants.

  Needs.

  He kissed like he flipping needs me.

  What do I even do with that? Besides feeling my toes curl up until they hurt every time he walks by, I mean?

  Besides feeling butterflies tickling my belly with insistent little wings, total confusion, and no answers. Butterfly wings aren’t as easy to read as tea leaves, apparently, and neither is my blackhole of a boss.

  Right now, I’m just trying to forget the whole incident because I’m here on a mission.

  I tap on the outside of a tall glass office that has Trista written neatly across the screen in glittery purple letters.

  She doesn’t answer, but I see her sitting at the computer, a lovely round woman with pink highlights in her jet-black hair.

  “Pssst. Trista!” I hiss, pawing at her cube like a cat wanting attention.

  I don’t have time for this. I slide the screen back.

  Ick. I’m acting like Ward. Hopefully his bossholery didn’t rub off in that kiss?

  She doesn’t look up, and I realize she’s wearing headphones.

  I knock louder and wave. “Hey, Trista!”

  The woman throws her hands back and gasps in surprise. I can’t help but giggle as she steps out and invites me in.

  “Oh, shit, sorry, Paige. What’s up?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I just need to know where we’re at on the Winthrope designs.”

  She rolls her chair away from her desk and spins it to her screen, then faces me again. “The entire team is working on creating a model for final approval now. I’m sourcing materials to put together a quote.” She’s quiet for a minute, her face tense.

  I can tell there’s more.

  “But?” I venture.

  She lets out a tired sigh. “Well, Paige, my team has never been asked to pull a rabbit out of their hats so fast. The Winthrope project is a world-class luxury property requiring a lot of detail. Far bigger than anything this firm has tackled. All of that detail has to be present in the model. Don’t tell me this is a rush contract? I was under the impression we’re still working off of a tentative acceptance.”

  Her eyes are pleading.

  “That’s right. Tentative,” I assure her.

  She’s not wrong about the intricacies involved, and the many worries. I jot down her concerns to discuss with Ward later on my tablet.

  I’m not even shocked by the gaping yawn she releases in my face.

  “Sorry,” she mutters.

  Don’t be, lady.

  For the past six days, I’ve slept a max of four hours a night, so I know the feeling. This poor woman looks more frayed than me.

  “Are you okay, Trista?”

  “I’m...surviving. Same as the rest of the crew. It’s just, because this project is so upscale, there’s a lot being imported. Sourcing for this contract as fast as the Warden wants me to means I’m up all night ‘e-meeting’ international vendors.”

  I snicker. “You call him that too?”

  She grins. “We all do, but as long as Beatrice was around, we rarely had to work with him breathing down our throats. Is she okay? When’s she coming back anyway?”

  I pause, unsure what to say.

  Ward has me checking in with every team daily to make sure they’re all on track. He’s determined there’ll be zero hitches with this contract on his watch.

  Trista’s reaction is the same I’ve already heard from at least a dozen people. Every employee and project manager I’ve talked to tells me they’re not used to being micromanaged by Captain Wardhole. They’re also having an angst fit over Beatrice’s return.

  Being the messenger for chief micromanager feels like being the grim reaper.

  No one wants to see me coming to peck at their progress.

  But I put on my best diplomatic smile. “Beatrice Brandt is on the mend, don’t worry. I’m sure she’ll be back soon. This place is like her second home!”

  Trista gives me a skeptical look and starts to open her mouth, but my tablet pings with a scheduling reminder. Time to move.

  I hate cutting things short, but I still have three other teams to check with.

  My next meeting is with Andrew the Marketing Guy. For a guy who always jabbers a mile a minute, he’s shockingly slow to get to the point today.

  It’s two o’clock before I’m back at my desk, feeling like I’ve just come from a marathon.

  I plan to hit the café downstairs and grab lunch when I look up.

  Susan the HR director hovers over my desk with an impatient look. As soon as she sees me she hits me with a question. “Paige? Can you get a meeting with the Brandt boys?”

  I giggle. “Why does everyone call them that? It makes them sound like a couple of neighborhood brats up to no good.”

  Then again, doesn’t the description fit?

  Susan shrugs. “It’s how their grandparents always referred to them.”

  I pull up Ward’s calendar, and it’s full of back-to-back meetings for the rest of the week. Maybe Nick can help her. I check his schedule. Not as booked as Ward, but he doesn’t have time to add meetings either.

  “Oof. They’re pretty full all week, Susan. I’m sorry, is it urgent?”

  She purses her lips. “If you want to keep this place running, it might be. I have three employees ready to quit including Trista Chisholm, the project manager.”

  My heart drops.

  “Oh, no. I just talked to her. I had no idea it was that bad.”

  Susan’s face falls. “She says she doesn’t see the point in working her team around the clock when we don’t even have final acceptance yet, and she can’t do any
more midnight meetings for the next week. I pointed out how badly we need her right now, and how much Beatrice is counting on her. She says that’s the only reason she’s stuck it out this past week, and she didn’t think Beatrice would approve of such harsh expectations.”

  I tap my fingers off my keyboard, searching for words.

  “Tell you what, I’ll quit visiting the project team for updates and just gloss over it when Ward asks. That puts it on my head, so the first time she thinks she might hit a snag, she needs to reach out to me. I’ll risk the hit to keep up morale.”

  “I’ll talk to her. I’m not sure it will be enough,” Susan says glumly.

  “I’ll alternate days with her for the midnight meetings, if she can send me instructions on what she needs.” Might as well. It’s not like I remember what sleep is.

  Also, maybe a teensy part of me would rather not have time to dream about a certain workaholic monster of a boss.

  “That’s generous of you,” Susan says.

  Actually, the reason I’m killing myself over it is because Ward and Nick are too worried about their Grandma to have to fret about key staff deserting them too.

  That’s all.

  It has nothing to do with the way Ward kissed me senseless in the hospital, or how I haven’t been able to get him out of my head since.

  I curl my toes in the fuzzy slippers he bought at the hospital that day. They’re supposed to stay in my desk drawer, but I’ve been banned from wearing heels in the office. He says I’m a liability.

  Cute. As if the tidal wave of crap he brings down isn’t a bigger one.

  “See if Trista’s happy with that,” I say, nodding at Susan.

  This is what I’m here for. Keeping the wheels in this big Brandt machine turning at its finest hour.

  I just hope I don’t wind up getting flattened.

  Nine hours later, I’m walking up the stairs to my apartment, sticky with the humid summer night, when my phone vibrates with a text.

  Wardhole: How are the teams? I need an update.

  Umm—maybe once I’m inside my air-conditioned apartment. But another message comes from boss Crankyface before I can get the door open.

  I need the Winthrope files pulled as soon as you’re in tomorrow, then check with all of our other clients. That might be voluminous. If you need help, pull someone off whatever team you want to assist.