Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  It sounds rehearsed even to me, like a jury foreman reading a verdict, but Reese bought it this morning. Maybe Nick’s bait for the press was a smart move after all?

  It has to be more authentic than Ward’s cringe announcement, anyway.

  But everyone breaks into applause. More than a few whoops fly out.

  Susan the HR honcho stands. “I need the wedding date so I can get an appropriately timed wedding shower planned.”

  “Leave it to HR,” Ward mutters under his breath.

  “Shut up before someone hears you.” I try not to move my lips when I speak.

  “Thank you, Susan, but let’s leave it to friends. No big shows on the company’s dime,” Ward barks back.

  I gaze out at the sea of people we’re lying to and try to force a smile that looks halfway natural.

  Nope. Not happening.

  They’re supporting us, grateful for some good news, and we’re lying to their faces.

  Ugh.

  I visualize the three-hundred-thousand-dollar check I’ll deposit before the end of the day. That helps flog my lips to curve up a little.

  “How’d you guys keep it a secret this whole time?” Andrew the marketer says.

  I look at Ward, fluttering my lashes with a loopy grin.

  “Yeah, Ward, how did we keep this a secret? It wasn’t easy hiding how madly in love we are, right?”

  Those eyes are a turquoise dagger, flaying me open.

  “Great question. I’m glad you asked, because I wanted to talk about that too. You all know me well enough to understand my personal life doesn’t affect my work.” He shrugs. “Hell, I rarely have a personal life. Working with a beautiful woman hasn’t changed that. Miss Holly and I fell in love over memos and planning sessions. Simple as that. She’s still the executive assistant. I’m the CEO. That hasn’t changed one bit, and we’d ask that you respect our privacy when we’re off the clock.”

  The room quiets.

  Everyone looks on expectantly while I pray for a hole to open up under me.

  “That’s it. You guys can go,” Ward says.

  People start filing out.

  Chelsea from earlier shuffles up to me. “Sooo, how long have you been a couple? Since the first day when he chased the weird guy off?”

  “Uh, kinda,” I lie. “It wasn’t official or anything but...yeah, sure. He’s such a charmer. How could I resist?”

  Ward’s gaze attacks me again.

  I can’t decide whether I want to laugh my head off or be vaporized.

  She pats my arm. “That’s so adorable. I’ll catch you later. Let’s do lunch sometime, Paige!”

  “Of course,” I say.

  Eventually, it’s just the three of us, my tomato of a head next to two sullen Brandt boys’ long faces.

  “Holy shit, you guys.” Nick stands, adjusting his tie. “Holy shit, no. If this is going to work, you two have to do a hell of a lot better than that.”

  “Come again?” Ward snaps, his brows slamming down.

  “Act like you’re in love,” Nick strangles out. “You two look like you’re ready to tear each other’s throats out. You’re always arguing. Flirt a little. Be cute.”

  “We don’t flirt,” I say, wincing. “We just—”

  Ward cuts in with, “Great advice. Because my deranged little brother knows everything about being madly in love.”

  Nick stares at Ward, his eyes half lidded.

  “Call it what you want. It doesn’t look anything like whatever the hell that was. And ‘don’t ask about our personal lives?’ You’re paying her so people will ask.”

  “I’m paying to close the Winthrope deal,” Ward says sharply.

  “Which we won’t do if no one believes this is real,” Nick says.

  I bite my lip. “He’s right.”

  They both look at me.

  “Who?” They say together.

  I laugh. “The way you guys argue makes me wish I spent more time with my sister. Nick’s right.”

  “Bam!” Nick says, gunning up his fingers.

  Not amused, Ward’s raised brow screams.

  “Do I even want to know?” he asks.

  “We argue a lot, Ward, but I’m usually more comfortable with you than I was lying to a room full of people. We have to work on that.” I sigh and my shoulders slump.

  Ward’s face is tight before he says, “There’s room for improvement, I’ll admit.”

  “So, will you two let go of your egos and act like you’re in love?” Nick asks.

  “I’ll try,” I say.

  Love is hard to fake. Then there’s the fear that faking it might lead to not faking it, and this sham has a ninety-day deadline.

  “We’ll make the best of it,” Ward promises.

  “You guys better figure it out fast. We can’t afford to lose this deal,” Nick reminds us, wagging a finger.

  He isn’t wrong.

  To make this look real, we have to convince ourselves first, I realize.

  Can we feed our hearts the biggest lie ever without inflicting permanent damage?

  Reese drops us at the curb, and I follow Ward into his building, a sleek luxury condo stabbing at the sky like a middle finger.

  “This is my working residence. I stay here during the week because it’s so close to the office. If you don’t like it, we could stay somewhere else over the weekend.”

  It’s instant shock and awe even though it’s not the first time I’ve been here.

  The floor is marble. Glass elevators circle a fishpond with a cascading waterfall. Gold trim gleams from every corner.

  “I don’t belong here, but I’m not sure I’d belong at any place you own, Ward.”

  “Why do you say that?” His eyes soften.

  Is that a hint of concern in his voice?

  I give back a lazy shrug. “My dad does well for a living. My family’s upper middle class, and my mom only ever worked part time.” I look around the building. “But I’m way more middle class than this...this castle.”

  I let out an awkward giggle. But I’m not laughing the second his firm hand grips my shoulder, his fingers sinking into my skin.

  “Get used to it, beautiful. You’ll be richer when this is over. If you stick with your art, the payment you’re getting from me won’t be your last million. Get comfortable with the finer things, Paige.”

  It’s a sweet thought but so far off.

  After this sham, I’ll sink my payout into a studio, work out a business plan, and scrape by more firmly middle class than my parents.

  Maybe, there’ll be enough left for a down payment on a basic condo somewhere in Chicagoland. But he doesn’t need my worries, so I just smile.

  It’s going to be hard living in a personal luxe hotel for three months. I can’t be the only one who notices I’m like a fish out of water.

  Ward pushes the button and we step onto an elevator with an old lady in a fur coat that I really hope is vintage. She’s holding a gold leash tied to a dog whose designer collar costs more than my whole outfit. She glances at us, but her eyes linger.

  Yeah, lady, I know. I’m an intruder in Elysium.

  On the top floor, I step out of the elevator in front of Ward, then wait for him to pass so I can follow him into the penthouse.

  The hardwood and silk of his couch catch my attention immediately when we step through the door. I was too tired to notice last night, stumbling into my room and settling into the posh bedroom.

  “Oh, you have a settee.”

  He grins. “Grandma insisted. It’s an authentic piece from the Victorian era.”

  “Wow. You would be a fan of the Victorian stuff. Everyone had whole trees up their butts then, too,” I say with a teasing flick of my tongue. “Or was it a walking stick? They loved those.” The techno-magic Tesla from our ride home that first night pops into my head. “So, wait. You have a thing for Victorian furniture but electric cars?”

  “What can I say? My style’s eclectic.”

  I roll my ey
es. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

  “If you’re hungry, I don’t cook—”

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  He chuckles. A deep, dark, and to my burning ears, seductive sound.

  “What should I order us for dinner?”

  “Italian,” I say. “And I’ll order dinner. Darling,” I add.

  I say it the same way you’d call someone an asshole.

  Soon, I order up our food from this cute little Italian bistro I used to love, Mattarello’s Italiano, but haven’t been to much since Brina got married. It sucks losing your wing-lady.

  When I finish, I hide in the guest suite that’s bigger than most million-dollar condos until dinner arrives.

  The bed space in this room rivals Texas and costs more than everything in my parents’ place. But if I pretend like I’m on vacation in a luxury suite, an escape from real life—and that’s what this is, isn’t it?—I’m able to feel a microsecond of comfort.

  Lounging on this bed feels like floating on the sea. I’m about to email Brina the NDA, so I can fill her in on the details, when my phone dings.

  It’s an email from Beatrice Brandt. I haven’t heard from her since the hospital.

  Hello Paige,

  I’m sure you’re settling in. I wanted to send my best wishes along with my personal gratitude for taking up the adventure of an engagement with my grandson.

  I know my boys are Neanderthals, and Ward can be a bear. Know this—he’s a good man under his gunmetal. He has a guarded heart for reasons that are his to tell.

  If any woman can melt that glacier and find the gold underneath, it’s you, dear. Take care of him for me.

  My deepest thanks,

  Beatrice N. Brandt

  She...she knows it’s fake...

  Right?

  I’m floored.

  I swallow the lump in my throat. I’m going to talk to the Wardhole like a human being.

  Shocking, I know.

  We have to live together for three months without tearing each other’s faces off (or kissing ourselves into a terrible mistake), so we might as well be friends.

  Break past the secrets and be civil.

  That might make living in this opulence less awkward too, and accomplish Nick’s goal of making people believe we’re deeply in love.

  I square my shoulders and stand, straightening up in the mirror. Reaching down inside myself, I find my inner badass and put on her mask.

  Damn it, I’ll do this.

  For Beatrice.

  For Brandt Ideas.

  For freaking Ward.

  And above all else, for me.

  14

  Life Is A Shipwreck (Ward)

  I peel off my suit and hang it for Grayson’s next dry-cleaning run, change into sweats, get the fireplace started, grab a bottle of wine, and collapse on the couch.

  Paige isn’t comfortable here. Her body tensed up the moment we arrived, and she did that last night too.

  Hell, I’m not at ease with Paige around either.

  My blood thrums with every glance, every quip, every hot second our eyes connect too long.

  It’s a cruel, self-inflicted joke that I’m fake-engaged to a woman I can never haul into my bed and ravish. And perhaps it’s a crueler one that my unruly dick intends to remind me of that fact every aching second we’re sharing the same room.

  This sprawling penthouse suddenly feels claustrophobic.

  It’s going to be a long three months.

  Yeah, forget the glass. I put the bottle to my lips and regret not choosing something stronger.

  Paige prances in barefoot a second later, wearing a sleek black dress that hangs halfway down her thighs.

  Fuck.

  Is the skin hidden by her black silk as creamy as what’s visible?

  Do I even have to ask? She’s an angel with a devil’s tongue and a medusa’s gaze.

  She watches me drink from the bottle and laughs when I wrinkle my nose.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Should’ve gone straight for scotch,” I mutter.

  She holds her hand out and I pass her the bottle.

  “It’s white,” I warn. “Would you prefer a red?”

  “Actually, I would. How did you know that?”

  My eyes meet hers and I try to ignore the static, the way those jade gems bomb my soul.

  “You just strike me as a red wine kind of girl.”

  She nods, a tussle of gold falling over her shoulder I try not to think about in my fist. “I don’t like to taste the alcohol much, but I enjoy the buzz.”

  “Be right back,” I say.

  I pad over to the kitchen and snatch the sweetest red wine off its rack, then pour it into a goblet. When I return to the living room, Paige sits on the couch, still holding the wine bottle.

  I scoff. Ten bucks says she hasn’t taken a single swig.

  Holding out the goblet, I offer her a smile.

  “Trade me.”

  She looks from the bottle to the glass. “Hmm, why would I trade you a whole bottle for a glass?”

  “One glass is all you’ve ever needed, isn’t it?” I quirk a brow.

  Her lips twist in astonishment, then bloom into a giggle. “Man, you’re never going to let me live down that night.”

  She lets me take the bottle from her hand and accepts the glass, taking a loud slurp from the goblet.

  “Paige?”

  “Hold on.” She takes another lengthy sip and pulls the glass away. “I may need to be drunk to get through this. Putting up with your crap, I mean.”

  And I thought she meant this whole surreal situation.

  I gulp several pulls straight from the bottle again.

  “Your grandma thinks you’re nice. Why won’t you let anyone else see it?” she asks.

  It’s my turn to laugh, a bitter edge in my voice. “She’s Grandma. She has to think that. Has she been talking to you?”

  She nods with a syrupy smile. “Maybe I shouldn’t be so hard on you, Wardhole.”

  “We’re supposed to act like we’re in love, remember? Dropping Wardhole feels like a good place to start,” I growl, loving how her face heats when my eyes sink into her.

  “It’s a term of endearment,” she says softly.

  Is it?

  She doesn’t call Nicholas anything like that.

  “Did Grandma tell you not to be so hard on me?” I ask.

  “Eh, something like that.” She brings a finger to her pensive lips, pretending she’s deep in thought. “I’m giving her advice the consideration it deserves.”

  Shit. I’ve got to talk to Grandma tomorrow. This is awkward enough without her butting into my fake relationship.

  “How’s the guest suite treating you?”

  “Unfamiliar, cold, lonely...but very luxurious. Hard to complain.” She smiles as she lifts the goblet to her lips again.

  “I’m sorry. Once you’re used to it, it won’t be unfamiliar. As for the temperature, I can put a space heater in, or you can change the thermostat anytime to warm it up—”

  “Oh, Ward, I didn’t mean cold as in frigid—I meant uninviting.”

  “Bull. It’s a beautiful living space,” I say, careful not to feel wounded.

  “It’s lovely, it’s just...” She purses her lips. “It’s too much. It’s unlived in. Feels like a hotel room, even a very nice one. I don’t know. It needs some warmer hues.”

  “You can change it up however you want. I’ll pay for any renovation.”

  “Nah, that’s too extreme for a few months.”

  “It’s my place, but for the next ninety days, it’s also yours. I’ll decide what’s necessary to make you feel at home.”

  She shakes her head, splashing my vision with blond-gold. “Yeah, but you’re already paying me to be here and fronting money for all my necessities. You shouldn’t have to redecorate on top of it. What’s three little months?”

  We share a look that says exactly the kind of crushing weight it is.


  I take another gulp from the wine bottle, breaking the awkward silence. “I think when you agree to live with a woman, a man expects to redecorate.”

  Her laughter fills my ears.

  “Warmer hues, am I right? I can tell you like the idea,” I say, pressing her.

  She rolls one shoulder in a half shrug. “I mean...maybe just a little something to make it cozier.”

  “Done. I’ll have Grayson take care of it tomorrow. See? We can resolve our issues like human beings.” I clink my wine bottle against her goblet, celebrating a rare agreement.

  Of course, she loses her shit in a belly laugh.

  Of course, I’m worried about my ears getting all too used to that warm serenade of good humor.

  “Were you serious about opening a studio?” I ask, holding her dancing eyes.

  She nods firmly. “Probably. I haven’t made a final decision but...yeah, it sounds nice. I love sculpting more than life. I’d like to be able to create without limitations again. Art can be a hard sell, and it takes time to nail the market, but I could always teach classes to make it profitable.”

  “What limitations?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you want to create without limitations again.”

  “Oh—at Northwestern, the studio was always accessible as long as you had a code, and I had all the equipment and space I needed. I have a table kiln now, but it’s not full-sized. I also have pretty limited workspace. Still, I can’t complain. My apartment isn’t bad by Chicago shoebox standards. I just can’t bring everything to life there. It gets dark pretty quickly too. The lighting just isn’t the best.”

  “You’re serious about your art,” I say, mulling over the obvious.

  She nods and smiles. “Art makes pain beautiful and life make sense.”

  Hell of an observation.

  Still, I wonder. “If you’re so passionate about your work, why did you come to the firm for an EA role?”

  A slow smear of a smile shows her pearly teeth.

  “What’s not to like at Brandt Ideas? The pay rocks, and architecture is art, on a grand scale. You can’t be Beatrice’s grandson and not know it. She’s only said it a million times in interviews.”

  “Touché,” I whisper, smiling in turn when I remember it was practically Grandma’s motto at every big speech for younger crowds.