Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

I shrug and click the link.

  “About twenty years ago—” She gasps. “Oh my God. Wait. Paige, he...he died on a boat with Ward’s parents!”

  Holy shit.

  She’s right.

  I’m reading it now with my heart scaling my throat.

  “...they were accused of murdering him. Huge messy court battle, but since the yacht sank, there was no definite evidence. Wow, looks like Parnell’s family still thinks they killed their son. This makes no effing sense.”

  I sit up, bewildered, fingers fumbling.

  My phone hits the floor with a thud.

  Brina sets her phone on the coffee table in front of the couch. “God. There are so many links it has to be true. But the Brandt family is independently wealthy, and they don’t seem to have a problem attracting media attention on their own. So, what reason would they have for killing an actor?”

  My eyes are glued to the screen. I’m numb from the shock and at the same time the wind has been knocked out of me.

  “Last thing I skimmed made it sound like drugs were involved. Maybe that was the motive?” I say.

  Were they all high?

  Was it just a tragic accident?

  My stomach clenches, and I remember Ward reacting like an electric fence to the box.

  He was in control like the lion he is, but visibly upset. His fist clenched when that boat appeared.

  I knew I had to get him out of there before he went nuclear.

  No wonder.

  “Jesus Christ. Hold on, Brina.” I reach for my phone and text him.

  Ward, are you okay???

  “What is it?” Brina asks.

  My phone buzzes. Dandy. I’m surprised you care. You were in a big hurry to get away from me.

  Sigh.

  That’s not it. I was pissed and confused that he wouldn’t trust me to help.

  Brina’s staring at her screen again. “Victor and Giselle used to go to all the famous beaches and Europe for months at a time on ‘publicity tours’ before the boat thing. Giselle had an acting career once. Looks like they’d leave Ward and Nick with their grandparents. They sound pretty self-absorbed.”

  There it is.

  That twisted freaking moment when I start to hurt for Ward Brandt...and Nick, too.

  “What a horrible way to grow up,” I say.

  I shake my head and text him again. I didn’t understand the situation. But I’ve done some searching around and...I do now. I’m sorry.

  His response is immediate. Not everything you read online is true. Only, in this case, it might be.

  Ward, are you all right? I sound like a broken record, but I’m worried.

  There’s so much I still don’t understand.

  Why would Victor want to drag this out with Beatrice recovering from a heart attack? It’s bad for his family and awful for his mother’s health.

  I can’t see how it helps him. Ward’s last message is ambivalent enough, neither confirming nor denying...

  But. What. Is. Happening?

  I’ll be fine if you promise to stay the hell out of it, Paige. You don’t know everything and honestly you don’t need to. This isn’t your problem.

  The bearish response makes me think he’s back to his usual walking middle finger state of mind, at least.

  But he still doesn’t trust me to help, and it sucks.

  Fine, dude. Be that way.

  My phone pings again. One more thing. Don’t mention the box to Grandma or Nick. I haven’t decided if I’ll tell them about it or not, but if I do, it needs to come from me.

  With every stab of my fingers at the tiny letters, I feel something raw in the back of my throat.

  Fair enough. But why would your dad do this? I can’t see how this helps anyone.

  Another immediate response. He wants something. He always wants something, but I’ll handle it. This is what I do.

  I put my phone down and look at Brina with this dull recognition glazing me over.

  “I just remembered, at the art museum, it was the boat. The curator pulled out a replica of this fancy yacht Beatrice designed. That’s when he really freaked, and I get it now. It’s the same ship.”

  “Oof. Is that why you texted him?”

  I nod. “I just don’t get it. What’s his father after? It was forever ago and there are still so many nasty stories about it. Bring it up now, and it’ll be back in the news. Beatrice is recovering from a major heart issue. It’s like he wants to kill his own mother.”

  Brina blinks. “I mean, people say—okay, I say—my mom is crazy. But she’s crazy in a different way.”

  I smile because it’s impossible not to love Brina’s mom.

  “A fun, silly, crazy way. She’d never lob a grenade like this. This is straight-up book villain shit. Your mom would kill off anyone in a book who pulled this crap.”

  Brina laughs. “You know her too well. Does Ward have any guesses what put his dad up to this?”

  “Victor wants something, he says, but I have no idea what that could be. His mother and sons are billionaires. It seems like if he wanted something, he could just ask.”

  But he didn’t. So, is the boat supposed to be blackmail?

  “Don’t mention this to anyone, Brina. Ward isn’t even sure if he’ll tell Nick and Beatrice.”

  “Hey, I signed the NDA, remember?” Brina winks.

  “Right.” I sink back into the couch, twirling my hair. “What kind of father does this to his kids?”

  “The kind who doesn’t deserve children.”

  “You’re always right,” I say. We share a worried look. “You know, before today, I would’ve killed to know what makes him such a Wardhole...”

  “But now?” Brina asks impatiently.

  “Now, I just want to hug him.” My voice strains as I continue. “And I want him to hug me, and take away this sinking feeling that it’s about to get really, really messed up.”

  16

  The Big Moment (Ward)

  As soon as Paige was safe at Sweeter Grind, I texted a private investigator I’ve used before and had Reese drop me at my building.

  My phone buzzes.

  I don’t have time for this shit, but it might be Paige again.

  Nope, my PI. Damn, this guy works fast. Never mind the fact that I was wishing it was her.

  He’s staying at the Express Inn near the airport, the investigator says.

  That doesn’t sound right. My dad isn’t the type to settle for a place so normal—not to mention affordable.

  He cares way more about his creature comforts than Nick or I ever have.

  Are you sure? I send back.

  The next message is an image of my father lounging on a bed in a room with stained carpet and knicks in the wall.

  Fuck. He’s really staying at the Express.

  So that’s a clue. He’s blown his wad again, and he’s looking for a payout to keep him in imported cigars and breezy beach rentals in the Keys.

  I put a checkbook in my pocket and head for the parking garage, taking a deep breath that burns my lungs.

  Now that I know what his money-grubbing ass wants, I’m less concerned.

  I park the Tesla and fire off another text. What’s the room number?

  Room 413. Top floor on the right side of the building, sir.

  In seconds, I’m pounding up the stairs and beating his door down.

  He answers in a yellowing undershirt and slacks. My nose wrinkles before I even smell the cheap booze wafting off him.

  “Hey, Ward. Come on i—” He sounds like someone who expected to see me.

  “How much?” I snap.

  “What?”

  “How fucking much will it take to get you out of my life for good? Gone from all our lives.” I sound like a meat grinder, every word flung with visceral hatred.

  He clucks his tongue and levels a lazy, assessing look at me.

  “Ward, Ward...you always loved to make a scene. No point in doing this in public. Why don’t you come in and have a
seat?” He opens the door wider.

  Now this asshole is shy? He was anything but the night he firebombed my engagement.

  I hesitate.

  Going in puts this on his turf, and I don’t want that.

  I’ve learned the hard way not to put anything past him.

  Sure, there’s a need for discretion, but who here will care about Brandt drama or even know who we are? He’s hiding like the viper he is.

  Fortunately, I know a thing or two about skinning snakes.

  He’ll tell me what it’ll take for him to disappear for good, or else I’m going to let him know he won’t be the first man I’ve shot.

  Not that it’ll ever escalate that far. He’s too chickenshit. I stalk past him, swallowing a growl.

  He shuts the door.

  I survey the pea-green carpet with dark stains, the beige bedspread that’s coming apart, and the dented walls.

  “Nice digs you’ve got here,” I mutter.

  He gives me that cringe-inducing rattle of a laugh.

  “It’s a hard life when you’ve been disinherited and thrown to the curb, son.”

  For a microsecond, my eyes flinch shut. I can’t stand it when he reminds me we’re blood, cynically expecting my sympathy. Old man, that died long ago.

  “Of course, you wouldn’t know about that,” he sneers in his cocksure tone. “You’re not even her kid. You’re her grandson.”

  “Grandma’s still alive, you twit. There isn’t anything to inherit yet. Until her recent health crisis, she was still working. You could do the same being twenty years younger,” I bite off.

  He holds up his hands, wiggling long, thin fingers.

  “I wasn’t built for hard labor, Ward.”

  What the fuck do I say to that? He’s telling the truth for once.

  “Your parents built an empire. All you had to do was man up and run it.”

  “And waste my entire life chasing more coin? Besides, you and your brother took over that role so well, don’t you think?”

  “You had so many chances. If you’d just tried, Grandma would have taught you everything she knew. Just like she did for us.”

  “You got my gift, didn’t you? I take it that’s why you’re here ruining my evening?”

  Straight to the point and nasty as ever.

  My hand balls into a fist. “You’re a sick son of a bitch. I can’t believe you sent those letters to the Art Institute. Private letters between your loving parents. The letter about Grandma’s miscarriage...Dad, you fucker. I didn’t even know about that.”

  I have to pause and breathe. Otherwise, I’m going to hoist him up and slam him right through the wall.

  “It’s history, Ward, and Mother’s a famous artist. People eat this crap up. Don’t you think they’d gush sympathy all over her if they knew?” He actually shakes his head like he tried to do her a favor. “I know you’re used to jumping to conclusions, but—”

  “Shut it. If she doesn’t talk about it, she doesn’t want all of Chicago blabbing either. Private letters to Grandpa about needing him to submit her work, so she could be paid because people wouldn’t hire a woman in those days. She didn’t want anyone reading that shit, and you know it.” I rake a hand down my face. “What’s your malfunction? Why are you so...you? Your own mother’s recovering from a serious heart defect, and you just had to go shit on everyone.”

  “I shit just fine, boy. You want to know? Really?” he snaps. “Here’s my biggest worry—the bitch dies before she puts me back in the will. You don’t know what it’s like to grow up a Brandt and then be disowned.”

  “She didn’t disown you—you did that to yourself!” I roar, lurching toward him. “I assume the letters were to embarrass Grandma. I’m just not sure how that helps you get back in her will. Why would she want to leave you money for hurting her again?”

  The turd I’m ashamed to share DNA with doesn’t answer.

  He never does when hard questions slug him in the face.

  “Why the boat, you ass? Are you suicidal?” I’m shaking as the rancor pours out of me like pus. “You realize there’s no statute of limitations on murder—”

  “I didn’t kill that prick! It was an accident. We talked business. We partied too hard. Then there was a freak storm on the lake, and...tragedy.”

  He’s rattled, but I can’t take any pleasure in it.

  “They’ll haul your ass into court if they ever find evidence. It’s in your best interest and everyone else’s that the Parnell crap stays forgotten. It’s not the time for you to be dragging this shit out. We’re in the middle of closing a massive deal with Ross Winthrope. Would you really deny your parents their lifelong dream?”

  For a second, he looks almost human. Then the illusion disappears in a grin with teeth too sharp.

  “Fuck her and her shitty hotel! She disowned her only child—all over that dumbass and the stupid boat. Let the world beat off over it until the sun goes out. I don’t have anything to hide.”

  “She disowned you because you killed a man. Not because her boat sank.”

  “Ward, I didn’t kill that jackass. I just sank the yacht.”

  “With him on it. Unconscious. Did he still have a pulse, or were you too high off your ass to check?”

  He shrugs coldly. “Your mom and I had to jump off when we did. Anything else, that was his fault. He was younger and in better shape than us. We thought he could make it. God, after he talked up that stupid deal, we thought...never mind.”

  How is this piece of shit my father?

  I’m glad Maria changed her mind, and my relationship with Paige is fake. No one else should be subjected to this clown show of a family.

  It almost makes me sick to imagine continuing this psycho’s bloodline.

  “Whatever. Just name a price to get you out of our lives before you give Grandma another heart attack.”

  “I don’t care. If she wants me to give two shits about her dream of designing a hotel, maybe she should consider me for once.”

  I sigh. “Joke’s on you. I have the trash you sent to the museum.”

  He glares at me, his eyes going watery with rage.

  “So you came to gloat, then? That’s just fine. I have plenty of other options if the museum doesn’t want to play ball. I’ve never had a hard time getting press, and I’m good at kicking up dust. I know low people in high places.”

  Enough!

  My hand flies up and snags the bastard’s neck in a chokehold. I slam him into the wall hard enough to shake the whole room.

  “Last warning. Stay the fuck away from my family. Leave us alone.”

  I storm out the door while he’s still coughing, slamming it so hard it bounces open again.

  I’m downstairs and back in my car before I realize I didn’t do the one thing I came here to do.

  I grin. That piece of shit didn’t get the one thing he wanted.

  My checkbook is still in my pocket, no bribe written.

  Guess that’s what happens when you’re such a colossal fucknugget people won’t even pay you to shut your yap.

  Paige wears a black and gold thin-strapped dress with a cowl neck.

  My eyes are in flames.

  The way it dips between her breasts drives me crazy. If this weren’t a business arrangement—if it weren’t expiring—I’d be the luckiest man in the world and I’d damn sure have her in my bed.

  A hand slips around her hip and I pull her closer, holding in a lustful purr. The move feels normal after doing it the past few days.

  Like Nick said, we have to act the part. Happily engaged. Blissfully gliding on everything but the agonizing ache in my balls.

  “You’re beautiful. I mean that sincerely. You always are, but the way that dress fits you today...fuck. No one’s going to be able to rip their eyes off you, Paige.”

  Her green eyes shine when she smiles and bites her lip. “Well, thank you.”

  “She is beautiful and no one ever takes their eyes off of her,” Reese says.

/>   How did I forget we have an audience?

  She’s right, though. The way Nick stared her down when she started working with us, I thought she’d end up another notch on his bedpost. I would have strangled him.

  “Ward, you’re cruising with a lady way out of your league. Be good to her,” Reese chimes in again.

  I roll my eyes for the thousandth time. Why did Grandma hire such an annoying driver?

  “And you’ll be jobless if you keep up the rolling commentary,” I growl.

  “Just trying to help you out, man,” she says with a shy shrug.

  Paige hasn’t broken eye contact with me yet.

  Her smile deepens. “I’m not sure he’d be that easy to replace.”

  Shit.

  Does she mean that, or is she just playing nice?

  “Sure, he is,” Reese says. “It’s Chicago. Billionaire bad boys are a dime a dozen around here.”

  “But they don’t all have Poseidon eyes, right?” Paige says, twining that sunshine hair around one finger.

  Now she’s calling me the god of the sea?

  It’s like she’s on a mission to destroy me today.

  She’s wearing some perfume that throttles me with every whiff, and she’s so close I could devour her.

  My head inches forward, magnetically drawn.

  She doesn’t pull away.

  Does she want it too, or is she just faking? I lean a little closer and raise the screen between us. If this happens, it’s private. For our eyes and wandering mouths only.

  Our lips are practically touching.

  She hasn’t moved away.

  If she isn’t backing out, I’m not either.

  Before I can flog myself back into denial, my lips claim their target. She leans in, a flutter slipping out of her. I lick her lips for the faintest second, but pull away before it goes further than a wet peck.

  “I probably should have asked,” I rumble.

  “I’m wearing your ring.” Her cheeks go rosy pink.

  She reminds me of our words from the night we agreed to this.

  The rules are different.

  They are, and right now, they’re turning me into a raging bull.

  My arm around her tightens and I’m about to lay it on thick when the car jolts. I look up, annoyed.