Bossy Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

by Nicole Snow

I thought losing this contract and letting my grandmother down was the worst thing that could happen.

  However, my priorities were misplaced, and I was wrong.

  Losing Paige Holly over my lies has been a cataclysm.

  If I thought it would win her back, I’d trade any deal, any dollar amount, and fall on my sword any way she wanted a thousand times over. Of course, that’s entirely my problem and not yours.

  But I had to come clean.

  I apologize sincerely for this whole fiasco and hope you’ll find the right firm to partner with on your best endeavors.

  Thank you,

  Ward Brandt

  Senior Partner, Brandt Ideas Inc.

  27

  Dreaming Alone (Paige)

  After three weeks of hardcore moping in my apartment, I’ve almost watched all of Netflix.

  Now I’m jobless, Wardless, and have to face the fact that I’m not good enough.

  Again.

  Oh, and Brina’s not here.

  She can’t be around nonstop the way I was for her when Mag went on a heart-smashing spree. We’re not roommates anymore and she has a life that’s fluid. Progressing. Evolving.

  Wonderful changes and movement I’ll never have.

  My phone rings, jolting me out of my stupor.

  That stupid unrealistic hope pops in my head like it does every damn time my phone makes a noise. I glance at the screen and—

  Nope. Not him. Ward remains MIA with my heart.

  I dread taking the call, but she is my mother.

  She was also right. I shouldn’t have let the fakery with Ward leave me open to sticking my heart in a bear trap.

  Blech.

  As soon as Winthrope was ready to sign, I wish I’d insisted on collecting his signature and severing ties. But I didn’t, and I’m so not in the mood for another “I told you so” talk right now.

  Still, I slide my finger over the answer call button, steeling myself.

  “Hello?”

  “So, I guess he’s snagged his client?” Mom asks.

  How would I know?

  “I guess,” I say flatly. “What does it matter?”

  “Milah called today. She’s worried about you. She saw your breakup news online.”

  Oh, good. The whole world knows now, and I guess I’ll get gossip obsessed bird-people chirping under their breath wherever I go, desperately snapping pictures of the poor girl who got dumped by a Brandt.

  I fake a shrill laugh into the phone.

  “Well, you know the truth, so you don’t have to worry.”

  “I do, though, because this is another scandal.”

  “This is America, Mom. Engagements end all the time. It’s not that big a deal.”

  “So when you meet Mr. Right, how will you explain your pretend engagement? And how do you think he’ll respond?”

  “If he’s got my glass slipper, he’ll laugh about it and we’ll split the cash.”

  “Paige! At least tell me you’re hunting for studio space and not sleeping all day?” Mom says in a rush.

  It sucks that she cares, even if she can be annoying and way too concerned about appearances that are actually a me problem.

  Also, I refused the rest of the payment.

  I’m kind of afraid to spend the deposit when I didn’t technically finish the contract. It’d be the ultimate parting shot from a self-absorbed Wardhole to slap me with a lawsuit.

  There isn’t going to be any studio. Not anytime soon. I might as well tell her.

  “So, I think you know I kind of fell for Ward a smidge,” I say. A massive understatement, but I know she’s been talking to Liv since doomsday hit. “We got involved, and then he played me like Austin did, so I packed my stuff and left before the ninety-days were up. I didn’t finish the contract. He offered to pay me anyhow, but...I told him I didn’t want his money.”

  I close my eyes and wait for a mortified “what?”

  Instead, she’s deathly quiet before she says, “Oh, Paige. What did he do to you? You knew the engagement was fake.”

  “Yeah, well, the engagement was fake until it wasn’t. I know that’s my fault for opening the door, but...” I trail off, closing my eyes.

  But what?

  Ward asked me to stay in his room. I was totally good enough to fuck. Not up to snuff for anything more.

  I can’t tell my mom that, though.

  I’m not that big a sucker for punishment.

  “Honey, what are you going to do now?” she asks. “You can’t keep working there, I’m sure.”

  “Yep. No idea. But I have a lot of savings and they didn’t dispute my unemployment claim. I have time to figure it out.”

  “This is what I was afraid of...” she whispers.

  Awesome. Here it comes.

  “I knew this would happen.”

  That counts, right? Totally an I told you so without using the words.

  “Do you need me to make you a trophy saying you’re right, Mom?”

  “I’m sorry, dear,” she says after a long pause. “Why don’t you come home for a few days? I’m sure we could still convince your dad to invest in your studio. Whatever else happened, now’s the right time to go after your dreams. You’re young, you’re free, and I’ve been telling you for years that you’re too dang talented for anything else.”

  See? She can be sweet.

  Even so, I’m frowning. I don’t want Dad funding my studio, and no big fat mistake with Ward changes that.

  I’m a grown woman. I don’t admit defeat.

  “I don’t know. I’ll probably just go back to freelancing or something.”

  “Come home anyway,” she insists.

  “We’ll see. Today, I’m just staying in. I don’t feel well.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. I just need some sleep.”

  “Should I bring you soup? Tea? Something with rose hips will have you doing cartwheels!”

  I let out a low sigh. If only rose hips could mend frayed hearts.

  “I need a nap, not gymnastics. I’ll let you know what’s going on this weekend,” I tell her.

  “Okay. Rest up, sweetheart.”

  “Love you,” I say.

  “I love you too.” She ends the call.

  Thank God.

  To think I used to like talking to my mom before I went and hooked up with my boss.

  Still, I can’t waste another three weeks like I’ve wasted the last three. I have a comfortable savings nut built up, but I can’t hide away from life forever.

  I need a plan, but I’m so miserable it’s hard to think. I force myself into the shower.

  A trip to Sweeter Grind and then the art museum has to make things better.

  After I’m cleaned up, I put on a summery green dress and try to forget how Ward used to say it brought out my eyes, then head for the door. A large white envelope snags my eyes, sticking out of my mail slot.

  It freezes me in place.

  I came home from Brina’s one day and found it under my door, my name written across the top in Ward’s chicken scratch.

  I should just rip off the bandage and open it...

  ...but I promised I’d wait one year.

  That’s long enough to resist his excuses, his lies, his bait.

  My fingers itch with curiosity, though.

  I sigh, pick up the envelope, and carry it to my top dresser drawer.

  Out of sight, out of mind.

  I’ll last a full year without opening it on pure willpower, but not if I have to see it every day.

  There’s no dialogue left with Ward flipping Brandt and the Pandora’s box of feelings with sharp little teeth he unleashed.

  We’re over.

  Done.

  Kaput.

  Later, I go through the barren members only line of the Art Institute.

  The first place I ever laid eyes on Ward. He was a couple paces ahead of me and my dating wreck. He looked like a dark knight from the back, broadside shoulders ready to face d
own anything.

  Then I saw his grumpalicious face, already taut with frustration at the seemingly drunk girl and her horrible date.

  Why did I come here again when everything reminds me of us?

  That’s how bad this lovesick virus is.

  He’s even invaded my favorite place, leaving scorch marks everywhere on the fabric of my life.

  Ridiculous. I blink back tears. I’m not going to cry.

  Straightening up, I wander through the abstract paintings and contemporary photo section. I must want to punish myself—or maybe I just have Ward on the brain—but I’m also facing my demons.

  I don’t even pause when I get to the architecture exhibit.

  All the snarly, hurtful barbs in the world can’t murder the beauty of Beatrice Brandt’s work.

  He won’t ruin this for me.

  I won’t let him—or will I?

  My stomach sinks. Every step feels like weighted cement in this exhibit.

  Around the corner, there’s the place where Tinder-freak had me cornered. I twisted my ankle, slid across the floor, and plowed headfirst into a sculpted god’s very human knee.

  He did the pretending then.

  He took me in, a stranger damsel in distress, already entranced by his smoldering charms.

  But it didn’t take long at all for the raging, arrogant jackass to come out, did it?

  If I could’ve seen past his physical perfection and through my raging hormones, I would’ve kept a safe distance.

  A man who does a good deed and then tries to punish someone for it isn’t worth a single second of love fever.

  Memories attack me like kitten claws, darting through my brain, demanding attention.

  Ward the handsome, too intriguing stranger at my apartment, feeding me a sandwich.

  Ward the bosshole, working me half to death, always spitting coffee when I struck back.

  Ward the man, the lover, the fake who got too real.

  Ward the bitter memory, the hole in my heart, the grumpy, sexy, cruel thing I have to keep in a vault and bury in the center of the Earth.

  And I’m doing a pretty pathetic job of that right now.

  I take a deep breath, release, and retreat to the stairwell. I’m not strong enough for this exhibit yet.

  That’s okay.

  I know where I’ll find my true love. I walk downstairs and out the back door to the sculpture garden.

  The eclectic statues never hurt, but they don’t offer me much peace today. They’ve lost their magic. Their normal beauty feels tainted, and I can’t enjoy it.

  I sit down on a bench, hugging my arms around my waist like I can hold myself together.

  This sucks rotten eggs.

  I feel like a crazy person, wandering around this beautiful place and suffocating, too trapped in the past to enjoy the art.

  Maybe I should just Netflix and chill with my bad self until I feel human, and worry about it then. I could go home and start emailing old clients to see if anyone needs help with a project.

  My creativity might be tapped out, but if someone bites, it could be the jump-start I need.

  A woman in a grey dress wearing dark sunglasses with a burgundy scarf over her head sits beside me. I’m a little annoyed when there must be five other benches, and only one of them is populated.

  “How are you doing, dear?”

  What? That voice?

  “Beatrice?” I blink, wondering if I’m hallucinating.

  Shock knifes through me.

  Jesus. He’s using his sick grandmother to harass me now?

  But then again, would she ever agree to being Ward’s messenger?

  Nah.

  One look at Beatrice Brandt’s tense expression tells me she wouldn’t be here unless she wanted.

  “Do you know why I hired you?” she asks quietly, looking over her shades.

  “No clue.” I rub one eye, checking one more time to see if she disappears.

  Nope.

  “You attached a personal statement with your application,” Beatrice says. “In it, you called yourself a dreamer, and it resonated instantly. Dreamers are something we all needed then, and still do. My family was short on dreams, and has been for a while, including yours truly.”

  I tilt my head, unsure where she’s going.

  “No one ever recovered from my husband’s death, and the boys just wanted to not be mistaken for their parents. They grew up in the firm. I’m not sure it’s something either of them would have chosen under other circumstances.”

  “I can’t speak for Nick, but I can’t imagine Ward being anything but a CEO,” I say, wondering what she’s looking for.

  She gives me that regal smile. “He loves to be in charge, but ordering people around isn’t his true passion. I know my grandson.”

  Do you? I wonder.

  “Some people just find something they’re good at and stick with it,” I say, hoping I don’t sound bitter.

  Beatrice nods.

  “Maybe so. The point is, I wanted you around, Paige, because we all needed to learn how to dream again. I needed to dream. I’d let my own vision of designing a breathtaking hotel grow stale and lifeless when we accidentally caught it like a butterfly in the spring. I couldn’t let go. I let my big, clumsy beast of a dream shove other dreams aside, and I forgot something simple—no one should ever dream alone. And my dreaming hasn’t been the same since I lost my husband.”

  I slump back in the bench, mulling over her words. They’re a lot to ponder, but why?

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper. Maybe I should come up with a reason to leave before she brings up Ward. “How are you feeling these days?”

  She looks over her shades like a woman who can spot a change of subject from outer space.

  “I just came back from Hawaii. I stayed longer than intended, but it was good for my heart. Then Nick told me about the mess going on here.”

  Yep. We’re going to end up in Wardhole territory. I’m not sure what to say.

  I don’t want to dis a brilliant old woman who feels like my grandma sometimes, but I can’t do this.

  “Beatrice, respectfully, if you’re here on Ward’s behalf—”

  “Oh, no,” she whips out instantly, shaking her head slowly. “I’m here to apologize for my own part in your suffering, Paige. The rambling prelude is my way of telling you this whole thing is my fault.”

  I have no words.

  “Young lady, I held on to my own dreams too tightly. I let the Winthrope deal come before something far more important—my grandson’s happiness, and yours. I know we joke about him being part grizzly bear, but he’s always felt responsible for taking care of everyone around him. He’s not a bad guy. He simply cares too much.”

  Maybe for some people, he does, but not for me.

  “I don’t understand. How did your dream come before Ward’s happiness?”

  “He did all this for me. I told him to go through with Nick’s scatter-brained idea to propose to you without actually meaning it. It was selfish, and the rest was pure stupidity. I was blind to how intense a sham love could be, and honestly, I thought you two were perfect together. I expected to come home to a real wedding, however, my instincts were dreadfully wrong. What I’m saying is, I meddled, and I messed up everything.”

  My eyes are stinging again.

  I crane my neck in something resembling a head shake.

  “It’s not your fault. We didn’t quit speaking over the fake engagement. We stopped speaking because he’s a—” I’m about to call him a jackass and don’t want to insult his grandmother. “He doesn’t care about me. Not like you think.”

  “He does,” she says firmly.

  “No, he said so himself, Beatrice. He told me if he were going to marry anyone, it wouldn’t be me. No other way to read that.”

  A pained smirk pulls at her lips. “Ward can be such an overgrown moose sometimes, but whatever dumb caveman thing he’s done—I’ve spoken to Ross Winthrope personally. Did you know Ward came cl
ean about the fake engagement?”

  He—what? Why?

  Because it looks better than another broken engagement?

  I mouth a silent “No.”

  Beatrice closes her eyes and opens them slowly.

  “He confessed to the hoax to clear his conscience, but he said the ultimate joke was on him. He didn’t care about losing the contract. He fell in love with an angel, and her loss cost him everything.”

  Holy crap.

  I’m being pulled at opposite ends. My heart sinks. I know how cruel the fallout will be if I’m hoping against logic, and yet some small part of me can’t resist.

  “Why would he do that?” I don’t think Beatrice would lie about this, but she’s probably confused.

  “From everything Winthrope told me and Nick, I don’t think Ward could have faked your engagement if he wasn’t truly happy. If you two weren’t right for each other. He would only go along with the scheme if you were his faux bride-to-be.”

  “Really?” I want to slap myself.

  Why do I care? This big reveal shouldn’t make me happy. It’s as fake as a three-dollar bill, just like the lie we lived.

  “That’s what Nick concluded, and I think he’s right,” Beatrice says. “He knows his big brother.”

  “Ward sent me a letter, but I never opened it,” I admit. “Maybe I should.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Don’t?” I echo, totally surprised.

  “Good grief, you sweet thing, go talk to him in person. Sort this out. It’s not going to happen passing notes back and forth like junior high,” she says with a soft grandmotherly smile.

  “No promises. Maybe I’ll read it and decide if I want to talk to him...but I don’t think I can handle having my heart ripped out again.”

  “Ask yourself one thing,” she says, her scarf billowing in the breeze. “Why would he take the time to write a letter if he simply didn’t care?”

  I don’t know.

  Maybe for the same reason he wrote Winthrope—guilt.

  His conscience can’t carry the load.

  “I need to ask you a question. I don’t have the right, but this is my grandson, so I need to know anyhow,” she says.

  Jeez. What now?

  “Do you love him?”

  She’s a hell of a shot. My mouth drops. I wasn’t expecting that.