Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “And Milah’s been clean for a long time, Mom. She just needed help, and Liv got through everything and landed a hot new husband. I wish I could have those Enguard guys cleaning up my problems. Besides, Milah’s married to her music. It can’t be easy when you’re famous.”

  My art will never rival hers. She has a dedication I’m still chasing, and a talent made to tap the sweet spot of eighty million people looking for their next earworm.

  “Back in my day, people kept that kind of drama quiet.”

  I laugh. “Now you sound like Gran.”

  “Sorry. She did raise me, after all. But our family doesn’t need more scandal. I don’t. I didn’t sleep for weeks when I was worried sick over your poor cousins.” She sighs.

  “Oh, Mom, I’m not in that kind of danger. Thank God. If you want to fret over me playing charades with a man who has his crap together and just gets a little growly sometimes, stock up on melatonin,” I say with a smirk.

  “All I’m saying is, think about things, dear. I don’t want you hurt.”

  “And I’m just saying it’s too late now. I signed a contract with a mammoth payoff. I have to see it through.”

  Also, I can’t bear to see it end.

  Not after the frantic nights we’ve shared under the hot glow of fiery kisses. When the contract is up, it’s going to suck royally, coming back to real life. I can’t tell her that, though.

  “I don’t understand why this circus has to go on if it’s over. When the client signs, are you still keeping up the ruse?”

  “Ninety days, Mom, and we’re about a third of the way there,” I say. “I can’t leave Ward hanging.”

  “Why not?”

  I don’t answer.

  “Paige, you’re going to be crushed if you’ve gotten some foolish notion in your head. That man can’t possibly care about you, or he never would’ve involved you in this. Men don’t toss women they care about into their little games.”

  She’s right, of course.

  They don’t, but at least Ward was open about his. That’s what makes this so confusing now. I might as well wait for the fall out to be crushed.

  “I’m doing a job, Mom. Is this all you called for?”

  “I called because I miss you. I haven’t seen you much since this crap started—” She stops.

  I don’t point out that she didn’t see me much before I became a phony bride-to-be, either.

  “Just remember, Brandts are notorious for trouble. You’re going to meet a very nice man someday who wants nothing more than to be with you, and you don’t want to have to explain this involvement with them,” she continues, stressing the last word like it leaves a bad taste in her mouth.

  “Mom, they’re titans in the art world. The freaking skyline would look different without Brandt designs.”

  “Uh-huh. So respected that—that Warden—just has to pretend to be betrothed to my daughter for his precious appearance. That should tell you something.”

  I try not to burst out laughing when she realizes how well Warden fits. Guess I didn’t fall far from the tree.

  “Well, guess what? Hearing you tell me I’m stupid isn’t helpful, okay?”

  “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Ugh. What did she mean to do then?

  “Whatever, it’s okay. I have to get ready for a conference this afternoon. Call you later.”

  She doesn’t say goodbye immediately, and I know there’s more. I’m not in any mood to hear it.

  “Can I say one more thing?” Mom asks quietly.

  “Would it matter if I told you no?”

  “You’re not a child anymore. Be serious, Paige.”

  “Fine. What, Mom?”

  “I think you should talk to him about ending the contract early if his client signs. It’s not helpful for either of you to drag this out.”

  Yeah, no way am I doing that.

  And unfortunately, the reason why I won’t validates her concerns.

  “We’ll talk later. Love you,” I say, punching End Call.

  But even when it’s over, her words echo in my head. Men don’t toss women they care about into their little games.

  Maybe I should just accept this isn’t real and move on.

  My phone pings with a text from Ward. Reese will pick you up for the conference.

  I squint at the unexpected thing at the end of the sentence.

  A heart emoji with an arrow through it.

  Stop literally everything.

  Who knew Ward Brandt could be so adorable?

  I find myself gawking at it, wearing a smile so crooked it hurts, and physically have to slap my own cheek.

  Mom’s right. I can’t lose my head...

  ...and if it’s gone, I need to get it back.

  I go to the guest suite to change clothes. At least my clothes still keep their own closet.

  Sure, my heart leaped when Ward asked me to stay in his room, but now I realize how dangerous that might be.

  My dresses are probably smarter than I am when separation is key.

  “You look uptight today,” Reese says.

  I slouch in the back seat.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, even though I do.

  I’ve gotten myself too deep in a situation that’s guaranteed to end badly.

  “Hope this helps.” She turns and hands me a bouquet of purple flowers being clasped by a fluffy teddy bear. “Full disclosure, I grabbed it, but he picked it out. He pretty much insisted on purple roses. They’re super rare.”

  Stupid sexy Wardhole.

  Abandon all hope. A smile spreads across my face as I take the flowers and their fragrance hits my nose.

  My fake fiancé bought me flowers. A feat my almost-real fiancé never accomplished.

  I’m beaming, and it occurs to me that Ward Brandt is the only man on Earth who makes me go from sad panda to overexcited hamster in all of two seconds.

  What if I’m the stupid one?

  I can’t argue with everything Mom warned me against. Then again, it’s in her nature to second-guess everything I do. I shouldn’t let her get in my head.

  Flowers and a bear. A nice gesture. Nothing more.

  Can’t I just leave it at that?

  I pick up my phone and start typing. Thank you, dah-ling.

  Must’ve made your day if you’re doing accents by text. Enjoy the conference. I miss having you in the office, he sends back.

  Reese pulls up in front of the Palmer House, and when I look up, my face resembles a sun-ripened tomato.

  “I’m going to leave the flowers in the car so I don’t have to carry them around, if that’s okay?”

  “Totally cool!” Reese tosses back with a grin.

  I hand her the bouquet.

  She lays the flowers in the passenger seat. “I have to say... Ward never struck me as the flower buying type before. You really did a number on him, lady, hacking away at that glacier around his heart.”

  Do not read into it, Paige. Repeat: Do not.

  “And all it took was a whole lot of messing with his coffee,” I joke, smiling as I get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”

  The sessions are each at least an hour long. I type notes until my fingers might fall off.

  I raise my hands in front of me, shake them out, and keep going until the laptop battery dies. By then, they’re calling a break with catered food.

  Awesome. I’m starving and I can’t wait to find a place away from the crowd to recharge my computer. I pack up my stuff, head to the lobby, pile a plate with cheeses, fruit, mushrooms, cured meats, and olives, and escape the boisterous crowd.

  I set my stuff down at the end of an oversized couch, plug in the lappy for the final leg, and cut into a cheese-stuffed mushroom. So good.

  Deep in snack time heaven, I don’t notice the shadow blocking the light from a window I’m sitting at right away. When I look up, she almost makes me jump.

  A frowning older woman with da
rk frizzy hair. It’s a nice color, though. A good hot oil treatment would work miracles on her.

  “Paige,” she says.

  How does she know who I am? I search her face and it’s a little familiar, but I just can’t place it.

  She points at my chest. “Your name tag. How are the mushrooms?”

  I smile tentatively. What does she want?

  “Heavenly,” I throw back. “You should grab a plate and try them.”

  The corners of her lips turn up, but it’s not really a smile. She nods and moves to sit beside me.

  I scrunch over to the other side of the couch as far as I can.

  “I’m surprised he sent you here to represent the whole company at an event this big. This is normally Beatrice’s turf, you know. He must trust you a lot,” she says softly, greenish eyes flashing.

  Okay. Who is she?

  She’s way too old to be a jaded ex. Not that I’m jealous, perish the thought.

  Her head turns as she fluffs her bob of hair. “I didn’t think my son had any trust left in him—especially for a woman.”

  Wait. Back up.

  Son?

  My heart stops and I try not to choke on my bottled tea.

  This is the terror who birthed Ward? The narcissist who was all about drinking herself into a crater, and wound up getting that kid killed on the yacht?

  I squint at her, trying to remember the photos from the articles I’d Googled.

  Yes, she’s older, but there’s no mistaking that face. If you could make a thin, petrified lemon rind into a pair of lips, it’d be a good stand-in for the sly almost-scowl she wears like an accessory.

  Like she knows too many appalling secrets nobody should.

  “You’re Ward’s mom. Giselle,” I whisper through my numbness.

  She laughs like a dry door hinge. “Took you long enough. Congratulations on the upcoming nuptials, by the way.”

  Woof. Is she being sincere?

  “Thanks,” I clip, realizing that if this was a real wedding—and if Ward wanted anything to do with her—she’d be my mother-in-law.

  Big yikes.

  She pulls a cigarette out of her purse with her bony fingers and lights it, blatantly disregarding the hotel’s No Smoking signs.

  “Um, I don’t think you’re supposed to smoke in here,” I venture.

  She puts the cigarette in her mouth and exhales a cloud of smoke. “Oh, honey, I’m technically still a Brandt and before that I was a Simms. I’ll do whatever the hell I please. I suppose I should welcome you to the family. Hope he’ll have more time for you than he ever does for me.”

  Welcoming me to the family is pointless when she’s not part of it. But I hold my fire.

  I say nothing, straining to even look at her.

  She blows a puff of smoke too close to my face.

  “Let me give you some friendly advice for my son’s sake. Don’t let that bitch put you under her thumb—”

  Oh, no. She can’t possibly mean who I think she does.

  “Beatrice is a sweetheart,” I say, meeting her eyes with an anger I can’t hide. “How could you have anything against her?”

  Giselle snorts, the one mannerism she might share with Ward.

  “Keep believing that, missy. Oh, she might start off perfectly charming, but it’s all for show. She’ll run you off the instant you step out of line.” She takes another drag from the cig. “My ex-husband was a flawed man. I’d never deny it, but he had to learn it somewhere, didn’t he?”

  If she wants an answer, I’m not coughing it up.

  I don’t want to play whatever twisted game she’s after.

  “Sometimes the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she continues. “I know people think Victor’s a disgrace, a spoiled brat gone rotten. You weren’t around when his dad was alive, but you can take my word for it. Godfrey Brandt was a very nice man. He learned that shit from his mom. She screwed her son up so bad he’s a total basket case, and then she wanted my poor sons so she could play with them like dolls, too.”

  I don’t mention that’s because Giselle was a chronic alcoholic and a danger.

  “You think I’m full of horseshit, fine, but let me tell you this,” she says sharply, wagging a finger at my face. “Beatrice Brandt wants to be the only woman in any Brandt boy’s life. If you get under her thumb, God have mercy.” She scans me up and down. “You’re not his usual type, but you look like a nice girl. I’m sure you’ll make Ward very happy—assuming you’re real.”

  Assuming we’re real?

  So, our farce isn’t even believable to this wretched woman?

  Panic time.

  “What do you mean, Giselle? Why wouldn’t we be 'real?'” I throw back my most dismissive eye roll, making finger quotes on that last word in the air.

  With a dead look, she puts out the cigarette on the bottom of her pump and tosses the butt in the trash can at the end of the couch.

  “I’ve heard a lot of things lately. Like Ross Winthrope becoming awfully interested in using Brandt Ideas for a new hotel development.” She pauses long enough for the air to solidify in my lungs. “Look, I’m sorry the old crone had a heart attack, and I hope her ticket isn’t due to be punched anytime soon. Still, I wonder...what extremes would Beatrice use to get her way if she’s had a brush with the undertaker? The grand hotel was on her bucket list forever. Would she get her sons to lie for her? Would she recruit a sweet little slice of arm candy to keep Ward company for an engagement based on less noble things than love?”

  Holy crap.

  I don’t say anything, flattening my face like a stone. It doesn’t really matter if it was Beatrice’s idea or not. It is a scam to close the hotel.

  And if I give Giselle the tiniest hint she’s clearly fishing for that she’s right...who knows what this strange, scary woman might do?

  I wrinkle my nose and try to stare her down.

  “Look, lady, if you’re here to insult me—”

  “It’s not you I’m insulting. The fairy god-bitch was always a schemer—she had to be to get as far as she did—and she’s always had Nick and Ward twisted around her finger. They’ll do anything she says.” She shrugs with a sad sigh. “For Ward’s sake, I hope this time around it’s less damaging, anyway.”

  Damaging? What?

  Ward said she has drinking problems. Maybe she’s drunk or high off her butt right now because she’s making no sense.

  “What damage do you mean?” I ask, hating that I’m too curious not to.

  “Oh, you know, his last engagement...it was over in the blink of an eye. I don’t remember how long they were together, but he clearly loved her.”

  Loved her? My world is spinning.

  Ward made it sound like he didn’t talk to his mom. And flipping engaged? Before me? Not that we’re really—

  No. No, she’s not getting in my head, and I’m letting her.

  She’s got to be wrong. Ward would’ve mentioned a past engagement, I think.

  “Get help,” I bite off, standing, inviting her to get the hell away from me.

  “I see I’ve upset you. How unfortunate. This time will probably be different,” she says flatly, without budging from the sofa. “But if you guys have kids, they can’t call me grandma.”

  Who would want to? I think with a sickly twist of my stomach.

  “They’ll have to call me Gigi or something like that. I’m too young to be a grandma.” She winks, and I can’t tell if it’s a real attempt at a joke or a torture tactic.

  I’d never allow kids around this odd cataclysm of a woman.

  Or maybe I just want there to be something wrong with her because she’s telling me things I don’t want to hear. The worst part is, I can’t dismiss everything as pure insanity. Or deliberate sabotage.

  Ward never mentioned being engaged, and Beatrice did give this sham engagement her stamp of approval...

  I frown, hating the Googling I’ll have to do later to prove this lady crazy. She could be lying or embellishin
g a lot.

  “Well, I have a conference to get back to. It wasn’t nice meeting you,” I quip, not bothering to look back as I gather up my things and slip away.

  Once I’m back in the conference room, I cringe while my fingers punch “Ward Brandt engagement” into my search bar.

  A few links pop up but they go to 404 error pages or old blog posts long since deleted. There’s just a single remaining piece from the local gossip mill, The Chicago Tea.

  And holy monkey balls.

  Ward was engaged to a supermodel distantly tied to the Spanish monarchy.

  Maria Duchessny.

  Figures.

  So bad mom wasn’t lying. Why did he hide it, though?

  I can’t be mad. It’s none of my business who he dated before I even knew him.

  Besides, this is a contract. An arrangement with mind-blowing sex. I shouldn’t care.

  Still, I blink back poison tears that shouldn’t be there as my heart starts pounding. There’s no picture in the article, but I imagine she’s gorgeous and refined and exactly right for Ward’s bulging, ink-covered arm.

  I clench my phone and rush to the ladies’ room. I don’t even bother packing up. I call Brina in a desperation fever.

  Pick up. Please. You can’t not answer.

  “Hey, Paige,” she says a second later. “Is something wrong?”

  “Ward...Ward was engaged to this Spanish princess slash supermodel and...he never bothered to mention it,” I say between harsh breaths.

  For a moment, she’s quiet.

  “Why would he? It’s just a contract, right?”

  “No, you’re right. I’m being ridiculous and I know it, but...Brina, I’m being ridiculous. I’m freaking out over a Wardhole.” A searing tear rolls down my cheek and my lip quivers. “Wait. Did you know about Maria?”

  “No, of course not. Paige, what set this off?” she asks gently.

  “His mom found me at the Built Better Conference. She said a lot of nasty things about Beatrice Brandt, and then she told me all about his past engagement. She also thinks we’re probably only engaged because his grandmother was desperate to close on the hotel. She sees right through us, and I’m worried. If she gets in touch with Winthrope...”

  I swallow a jagged rock in my throat.