Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “Holy—” Her jaw drops. “Wow. And the assignment?”

  She’s holding her breath, every nerve stretched on tenterhooks.

  Yeah, fuck, she’s not the only one. It’s now or never.

  “Play my fiancée for ninety days. The breakup would be on your terms. After that, I’ll move you over to the design team, or relocate you somewhere else. Anywhere you’d want, really, where you won’t be answering directly to me.”

  Deafening silence.

  My jaw could break from the tension. Cutting in when someone needs to make a decision like this comes across pushy. It doesn’t close deals.

  She’s considering it, at least. That’s a good sign when hard noes come quick.

  Her face turns red but her voice is even, quiet, strained when she speaks. “Ward?”

  “Yes?” I tent my fingers, leaning forward.

  “I might just be a drunk idiot who didn’t belong at your museum, but I don’t make stupid a habit. I don’t fake relationships. Not for three hundred thousand dollars a year and not for three million,” she says, lancing me right in the chest before she continues. “But I have to ask...why? A month ago, you were worried I’d single-handedly trash the company’s image. Why the hell would you ever want to fake marry me?”

  My head might pop right off.

  I’m so awful she can’t even fake a relationship for three hundred grand?

  Damn.

  I expected resistance and put on my best sales face, but this? This isn’t just no.

  It’s a ball crushing hell no that hacks up my pride in little pieces and buries them in the desert. Still, I clear my throat.

  “Paige, truth be told, I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions that night. I damn sure shouldn’t have made it my mission to get you a pink slip. I was out of line,” I force out, sincerely and painfully.

  She smiles, her eyes flitting up to mine. “It’s fine. I’m the one who keeps bringing it up, you know, and I shouldn’t. It worked out how it was meant to...and I’m happy to keep it that way, boss, without any fakery.” She cocks her head. “But if you really want to know...you were in front of us in line that night. There’s a guy I’d like to meet, I thought, even before you came charging to my rescue. It certainly wasn’t my best moment, and you thought I was worth ghosting—”

  “Paige—” I growl.

  It isn’t fucking like that, I want to scream, but she isn’t finished.

  “Then there was the hospital. I get it, you were keyed up. Scared for your grandmother. You didn’t mean to kiss me that day, and I just sorta fell into it. You didn’t intend to make such a cute scene with the shoes when you—”

  “Paige,” I snarl sharply.

  I expected a hard sell.

  I didn’t think she’d eviscerate me with the saddest rejection ever.

  She shakes her head before opening her eyes, dark-green seas churning. “Nope. I’m not worth it, and you’re not worth faking it for. So, if you and Nick really think a scheme like this will help close the deal, I’ll hunt down a talent agency and set up some interviews. I’m your assistant, Mr. Brandt. Not your toy.”

  Gutted.

  I sigh, hellfire burning out of my nostrils.

  “You don’t understand. I need someone I can trust with this. If it’s moving forward, you’re the only realistic—”

  “Use an airtight NDA,” she says sharply. “Did you need anything else?”

  Only a heart transplant after she speared her damnable heel right through it.

  “You’re dismissed,” I huff out.

  She gives me that shitty grin she only uses when she’s being sarcastic—or putting up a wall I want to beat down with my bare hands.

  “How kind of you,” she quips, before sashaying away with an anticlimactic switch of her hips.

  Poison.

  This woman is a lioness, and I still want to stick my idiot head in her mouth.

  No, and I don’t mean the phony marriage proposal, either.

  Fuck. Being shot down for a fake engagement is almost worse than being shot down for a real one. I hit her line on my office phone ten minutes later.

  “You rang?”

  “I need a black drip. Now.”

  The least she can do is deliver a caffeinated potion to take the edge off my misery.

  Something dark and bitter, just like my life.

  11

  For Realsies (Paige)

  Ward Brandt may be many things—bosshole, control freak, espresso-blooded, lightning-eyed beast-man—but the one thing he isn’t is a man who accepts defeat.

  The texts and emails arrive almost nonstop.

  He keeps refining his offer. It’s up to five hundred thousand now.

  Part of me thinks I should take it.

  I mean, I could do a lot with half a million dollars at the end of ninety days—including finding a job that isn’t a fancy nuthouse.

  But I want nothing to do with another fake relationship. Especially not one with a man I originally dubbed the Dark Knight right before he proceeded to power slam my heart to smithereens like a shaken snow globe.

  I’m also getting sick and tired of the messages.

  Digging my nails into my thigh, I pick up the phone and call him.

  “You’ve come to your senses. I knew you would,” Ward says with an easy tone that almost sounds like he’s joking.

  Dear Lord.

  “Not even a hello? I actually called to tell you to grow some balls.” I channel my inner Brina.

  “What?”

  “Stop harassing me over text. My thumbs are sore. If you won’t give up, at least pick up the damn phone.”

  “Noted. So five hundred thousand for ninety days. Deal?”

  “No deal. I told you. I’m not faking a relationship.”

  Silence.

  He mutters something under his breath. But it doesn’t sound like a slur, or even necessarily angry, more like something weirdly...sad?

  “Am I so horrible you can’t even fake a relationship with me for three months to save my family’s company and a lot of people’s job security?” he asks, his voice like cement.

  Oof.

  “No, it’s not that. Obviously, you’re—never mind.” Crap. We’re not going to go down that road. Because it ends with me admitting he’s just about everything, a fallen angel with the devil’s good looks and a cocky attitude to match. “Tell me, though, do you always lay the guilt trip on so thick?”

  “It’s not what? Not the fact that you curse the ground I walk on? So, what is it, Paige?”

  It’s that I’ve always secretly wanted my very own dark knight, and I’m kind of tired of fake relationships.

  Fake just seems so smarmy. So disingenuous. So wrong.

  “I deserve someone who doesn’t begrudge me a bad day.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  “And I’m not into fake love. That’s better saved for middle school, don’t you think?”

  “Six hundred thousand,” he says. It’s not even a question. “Do we have a deal?”

  I think my soul might be leaving my body.

  I flump back against my seat with a sigh.

  “Ward, I’m going to level with you. If you repeat this, I’ll deny saying it, so tread lightly. Here goes...you’re hot and rich. There are a million women in this city who would’ve jumped at the three-hundred-thousand-dollar offer to not-marry you. Actually, they’d probably do it for free, if you just asked nicely enough. You definitely don’t need me and I think you’re a little obsessed.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” he mutters too easily. Cocky jerk. “The difference is, I...I trust you, dammit.”

  What? For a second, I hesitate, stunned.

  “I’m glad,” I say, shaking my head. “But you know that’s not a prerequisite for a fake relationship. I’m not even a great actress. Get an NDA, hire a girl who did theater, and happy trails to you and your fake fiancée. I’ll still be here to fetch your stupid espresso.”

  “It
’s believable,” he says, his voice like distant thunder.

  “What?”

  “You and me. I’m not about to start telling Nick he’s right, but with us, he might be. Our relationship’s believable. People have seen us together before. We love art. We have a certain dynamic that’s easy and rare when we’re not at each other’s throats. We make sense, Paige Holly, and don’t you dare deny it.”

  Holy hell.

  I’m folding up into the fetal position, my head spinning. All because I can’t deny his sudden impassioned plea.

  Damn you, Ward.

  I know what it looks like on paper.

  Perfection.

  In reality, he’s still my grump of a boss who I wasn’t good enough for until I happened to be at the right place at the right time to save Beatrice.

  I’m not about to agree, so instead I say, “I’m sure you’d make sense with a lot of women in this city. I’m hardly the only chick who’s capable, educated, and into gorgeous architecture. A thousand girls would bend to fit whatever mold you want, no questions asked. You don’t want my smart mouth or my baggage.”

  “That’s the problem, Paige. I fucking do,” he rumbles, something like a tiger’s low purr in his gruff tone. “Intelligent women in a city this size aren’t a rare commodity. Smart women with your brains, your looks, and your lady-stones to stand up to me...that’s another matter. I’ve been in this business for a long time. Everyone has a price. Name yours.”

  Oh my God.

  I feel like I can’t keep my feet on the ground.

  Not with this crazy, sexy, downright desperate bull of a man determined to drag me away, whether I like it or not.

  “Name it,” he demands again.

  “W-what?”

  “What do you want, Paige? Like really truly want? It’s yours. Tell me and I’ll write it into the contract.”

  I try not to ask myself that, but he’s posed the question so perfectly I can’t avoid it. I sigh.

  “What my friends have,” I whisper.

  “Care to elaborate?”

  “A business they love, an adoring husband, a family.” All wishes this genie in a tie can’t grant. “Just happiness at winning life, I guess.”

  “Well, I don’t know if I can deliver all that. Not legally, anyway. But I can help with one of those. What kind of business would you want?”

  Is this really happening?

  I wouldn’t even know where to begin with a business, a life rich in art, and a family. I look at Sabrina and my cousin, Liv, like they won the lotto. Brina got herself a billionaire, while Liv hits the charts all the time with her books and wound up hitched to a fire single dad, Riker Woods, who’s constantly playing superhero at Enguard, a world-class security firm.

  I’ve never really thought about making a serious grab for my dreams. Not after Austin.

  The row of handcrafted miniatures on the faux mantle above the television catch my attention, all pet projects I sculpted by hand. The tongue-in-cheek anthropomorphic cat I made last year in the pose of The Thinker really hits home.

  I know what I want to do. What I love. What I need.

  “You really want to know? I’d like an art studio, but I’m not sure that’s a viable business,” I say, crossing my fingers.

  “What kind of art?” he asks.

  “I sculpt. Mostly a lot of figurines and busts because I’m limited to what I can do at the kitchen table. But back in college, I crafted a life-sized statue and it sold for a pretty penny at a gallery. With a studio and the right equipment, I could make bigger projects rather than just conforming to what’s available. But I wouldn’t know the first thing about turning an art studio profitable.”

  “That’s the trouble with art schools,” Ward grumbles. “Tuition should pay for a course in how to make a living with an art degree.”

  I laugh, harder than I should, considering the gravity. “I think that was included in the whole ‘most artists need a day job’ lecture that never happened.”

  “Most people who want a day job don’t pay a hundred thousand dollars for a degree.”

  “True, but it was a fun four years.”

  “A hundred grand worth of fun?”

  I laugh harder. “This is where I sound like a spoiled brat, like you and your brother—”

  “So I’m a brat now?” he challenges.

  “Come on, Ward. There has to be a reason I won’t fake date you for six hundred k.”

  He laughs. “How are you a brat?”

  “My parents paid my tuition, so I didn’t really think about the cost. I spent whole days cooped up in the studio working on my projects. Brina had to remind me to come back to our dorm and eat. I was the only person in my class to sell something for more than ten bucks before graduation. I thought I had it made. I was going to be the one art major out of ten thousand who actually finds fame and fortune. Maybe not Beatrice Brandt success, but at least I’d make a name for myself and scrape by doing what I love.”

  He falls silent as I blush.

  I’m rambling. Why would he even care?

  But then his question comes like a shot.

  “How have I worked with you all this time and not known that?”

  I don’t know if he wants the truth, but he’s about to get it. “I think you decided who I was, and this doesn’t fit your narrative.”

  “I was a jackass. I’m sincerely sorry.”

  “Nah, you were a Wardhole.”

  He snorts. “Right. Thanks for the reminder. Now how much would it cost to open a sculpture studio?”

  Yikes. He’s serious.

  I try to come up with an estimate on the fly. First I’d need a kiln and a space with good natural lighting, and that’s just the start. Real estate around here isn’t cheap.

  “Hm, probably around six or seven hundred thousand to own, including tools and space. And that might be the low end.”

  My lips twist.

  How many sculptures would I have to sell to make that profitable? The thought scares me.

  “It’s yours. Partner up for ninety days, and I’ll give you a cool million and help you write your business plan so we can get your dream off the ground.”

  My stomach drops.

  “What? Y-your serious? Why?”

  “Because, Paige. I need to turn into less of a pumpkin, and that’s your price to be my Cinderella. Deal?”

  This can’t be real life.

  No one pays a million smackers for ninety days of lying, even if it’s the fake betrothed kind. But this conversation borders on flirty and surreal, and I can’t resist having some fun.

  “A million dollars, plus you get your own coffee and teal-blue ties. Those jobs are below a fiancée, even a fake one.”

  He snorts loudly.

  I smile.

  “You drive a hard damn bargain. Fine, then, one point five million dollars and no more coffee runs. But you’ll pry tie-duty from my cold dead hands. I won’t be caught dead without my lucky tie, and I rather like your touch making them luckier.”

  Dead.

  My face heats so much I need a temperature check. I can’t breathe.

  One. Point. Five. Million.

  Dollars?

  Yes.

  Shut the front door. In ninety days, I’ll be a millionaire.

  I swallow back the giddiness threatening to send me jumping to the rafters and tighten my grip on my phone. I suck in a tortured breath and release it slowly.

  “The color you’re looking for is called cerulean-emerald. If you asked for the right thing, getting the tie wouldn’t be such a big kerfuffle.”

  “My girl knows what to ask for,” he throws back.

  His girl?

  Ward flipping Brandt just called me his girl?

  Because I’m his assistant, or because he wants me to be his counterfeit bride?

  Gah. Too bad it’s not real. Being his. Because I know I’ll regret it soon, but right now, it sounds nice. Really nice.

  Can I even do this, though? Be
in another fake relationship after Austin?

  It’s been years, and I’m still not really over him. My frustrated single status is a testament to that.

  A pained laugh slips out.

  “What’s so funny?” Ward asks.

  “Sorry. I was just remembering something. Didn’t mean to laugh.” I’m such a dork, but it’s out there now.

  “What?” His voice hits my ear, hot and demanding, before his voice gentles. “What were you remembering?”

  “Nothing. Honest. I just...I need to think this over,” I say.

  Not that there’s much to mull.

  A debt-free studio would put my life on the fast track to eureka. I’d be living out my dreams, and I’d be wealthy beyond my wildest imagination.

  Even if the art didn’t work out, I’d be set to figure out a badass backup plan.

  “What if I just want the million and a half and to be retired from tie duty? No studio?”

  “What you spend your money on is none of my business.”

  “Are you serious, Ward? This isn’t some sick joke, right?” I still have my doubts.

  “Hang on, Grandma’s calling.”

  He clicks off the call.

  Fine. I need calm to digest this, without him and all his grouchy hotness breathing down my neck, tempting me from the other end of the phone.

  Besides, Beatrice should come first.

  It’s her company, she’s his grandmother, and she’s still in recovery.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve made my decision.

  I might hate myself in the morning, but I also can’t help it.

  He drives a hard bargain, but a fair one.

  I’ll just steel myself and make sure I don’t fall any deeper. Resisting Ward Brandt shouldn’t be so hard. There’s plenty to hate.

  It’s only ninety days. It’s only fakery. It’s only one little yes to get paid.

  But he never calls back.

  Ugh. Why negotiate so hard if he wasn’t that serious?

  Oh, yeah, I forgot.

  Wardhole.

  I make a spinach-artichoke dip with focaccia bread and flop down in front of The Great British Baking Show when my phone dings.

  Sorry, she wanted to talk and her medication makes her loopy, then Trista called to check-in on logistics. Can you meet Nick and I at my home base outside the city tonight?