by Nicole Snow
Ward extends his hand to her.
She shakes it warily.
“We’re hitched. Are we cool now?” he asks.
She cocks her head. “I’m convinced you plan to stick around, so sure, for now. But try something stupid and I’ll come at you with a fork, dude.”
Mag comes up behind her, chuckles, and slips an arm around her waist. He looks at Ward. “I’d apologize, but I think I’m doing you a favor with a glimpse of your future.”
Ward gives a shrug that says a screaming meteor impact couldn’t ruin this night.
“No problem. At least she didn’t pie me.”
One Week Later
Somewhere in Fiji, we stop to rest on a soaring cliff overlooking a mess of fairy-tale rocks surrounded by translucent waters.
It’s almost sunset, and the way the orange light stabs into the sea turns it into a perfect match for my husband’s ever electric—yes, I got it right this time—greenish-blue eyes.
Which I’m a little lost in as Ward pulls me close, slinging my legs over his lap, gingerly rubbing my foot with one hand.
“Seriously. If you don’t stop, I don’t think I’ll be able to bring myself to call you a Wardhole again,” I tell him, running my hands across his face.
“Damn, what then? For your information, I never stopped being your Warden.” He grabs my hand, brings it to his lips, and lights me on fire the second they meet my skin.
“You know this is forever, right?” I say with a sugary smile. “You’re going to get the worst of me, Ward. My venting, my bad hair days, my less than perfect skin after I eat my weight in cheese...you’re going to get my freakouts when our kids scrape their knees, and my questions about Nick’s sanity every time he does something majorly dumb.”
“Majorly dumb is what Nick does, so I’m with you,” he throws back with a laugh. “I’m surprised you think it matters.”
“...it doesn’t?” I ask, my brows pulling together.
I hear the happy sigh breezing out of him as he takes my face in his hands and delivers a kiss that stops my heart.
“I’m ready for the worst, woman. Lay it the fuck on me. Because I’ve had you at your best, and I’ve already seen good reason why I shouldn’t bat an eye.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Ever since we got back together—for real—you’ve given me a sweetness I never knew I needed,” he says.
Is that a challenge? I bite back a smile and gaze into his eyes that seem like they were pulled straight from the Pacific foaming below us.
“But all my whining about how bad my feet hurt on the way up here—”
“Gave us this beautiful sunset and a chance to feast on my gorgeous bride,” he finishes, digging his fingers into my heel. “Besides, I’ll have you back to feeling like you’re walking on air, won’t I?”
My smile deepens.
“When I dragged myself home and collapsed after my last class before we left for this trip, I promised to make you dinner and I was out like a kitten.”
“Beauty sleep, Snow White. You napped with your head in my lap like a feline, all right, and then I woke you up with a damn good tikka masala.”
“I mean...I’ll give you that. But, Ward, I’ve gotta say, forever is a long freaking time...” I pause, fully aware I’m making his life difficult right now with these silly questions. “Do you really think we can keep this up without going back to hating each other?”
“I hope we do get pissed. Just for a little while. Truth be told,” he growls, lowering his face to nip at my ear. “I was jacking off half the night and getting very little sleep the first few months we worked together, Paige. And I couldn’t just slam you against the nearest wall, spread your legs, and have the hottest make-up sex of my life then.”
Yowza. What do I even say to that?
A frantic pulse between my legs tells me to shut up and just kiss him.
“Fair point, hubby. But what about the coffee? You know I’m going to spike it with a sugar lick sooner or later—”
“And you’ve already given me a damn sweet tooth. I might just learn to swallow your cinnamon latte shit without gagging if I spend the next year doing this.”
No words.
No sassy comebacks.
No doubt whatsoever about how much he loves me.
When this perfect grump brings his lips to mine again, I’m swept away with the Fiji breeze that makes this the best moment ever on our honeymoon—at least until we’re back in our luxe room at nightfall.
Then Ward Brandt takes me places I never knew existed in the dark with roaming lips and fevered touches.
And even when we jet back to Chicago, I know I’m never going home to anything resembling my old hot mess of a life.
The sky has shifted, and my stars will always have Orion’s shine.
Thanks for reading Bossy Grump! More bad Chicago bossholes are coming soon.
Wondering what true love looks like for Ward and Paige long after the fakery ends?
See what dreaming together whole looks like in this special flash forward story. - https://dl.bookfunnel.com/5txabevy3r
Then read on for a preview of another grumpalicious billionaire as Magnus Heron meets Sabrina Bristol in Office Grump.
Office Grump Preview
Happy Friday (Brina)
I know the moment I open my eyes that it’s going to be a day.
It’s Friday the Thirteenth, the worst day ever invented in the history of time.
A date belonging to screeching black cats, tumbling salt shakers, and broken clocks.
Not a day where good things happen to hardworking girls who wake up on the wrong side of their beds—and the achy crick in my neck tells me today’s black magic already started on my pillow last night.
Awesome.
Somehow, I manage to crawl out of bed and get showered and dressed, without losing any limbs. But as I hop out of my bedroom in a brand-new outfit, still zipping my knee-high boot while trying to check my phone for the time, I realize what else feels off besides my poor neck.
I’m flipping late.
Apparently, the alarms on my phone love this infamous day just as much as I do.
“Ohhh, Brina, big date tonight? You look amazing! But you’re late.” Paige holds out my purse and a paper coffee cup with an easygoing smile.
“Where would I be without you?” I mutter, unsure whether I’m rolling my eyes at her for going all Captain Obvious or the fact that I would be worse off without a friend like her.
I jerk the boot zipper the rest of the way up, then snatch the cup and purse from her. I’m wearing a sweater dress with a jacket thrown over it and high heeled boots, an ensemble pulled together more for Chicago fall warmth than fashion. And I’ve thrown my walnut-brown hair into a ponytail this morning because it’s the quickest fix.
“No dates written in stone yet. You know how flaky Tinder dudes are,” I say, checking my phone again, willing time to slow down.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make it,” Paige says with a sunny confidence I wish I had. “Personally, I think you should rock the Miss Superstitious vibe. You’ve already got the name and we’ve been through this before—”
“Right, and it always ends with the same question. Do I look like a teenager or a witch?” I watch her lashes flutter as she bats her eyes so innocently.
God. I’m starting to wish I was magic because if I don’t make my bus...hello, doom.
As I’m lunging for the door, I realize it’s way too early for my night owl of a roommate to be out of bed. “Why are you awake, anyway?”
“I’m going to Lincoln Park to meet a potential client.” She runs a hand through her blond hair like it’s totally natural for anyone to be so beautiful this early in the morning.
So maybe I wish I could steal her confidence along with her style mojo, too.
“It’s Friday the Thirteenth,” I remind her. “Be careful.”
She sips her coffee with a loud snort. “Oh, you and your hocus pocus. Some of th
e best things ever happen on Fridays ending in thirteen.”
“Like what?” I call over my shoulder, but I don’t have time to wait for her answer. I power stomp down the stairs without a second look, hoping she’s right.
But seriously?
Good things?
Today?
No. Nope. Never.
Racing down the block, I glance at my bus stop...
...just as the bus drives away.
“Sonofa—” I cut myself off mid-curse when an old lady out for a stroll casts me a dirty glance.
Rather than daydream about how heavenly it must be to waltz around this early without panicking over a job, I push my lips against my coffee cup and slurp so loud I hope it scares someone.
Third time this month I’m late. Happy happy, joy joy.
Luckily, no one at the office ever said anything the last two times. Mostly because I work my ass off and I always make up the time in the evenings.
I rage-gulp my coffee and then toss the cup in the trash, waiting on the next bus to come, keeping my eyes peeled for more bad luck.
So far, no velvety black cats on a personal mission to ruin my day.
Small consolation.
When I finally catch the next bus and stumble into the building’s elevator, the metal doors start closing in slow motion right in front of my face.
I’m already forty minutes late. Again.
No freaking way am I letting these doors shut before I’m in. Stretching one foot in front of the shiny doors, I jiggle it, hoping to set off the sensor so they reopen.
Instead, they close.
Right over the spike of my high-heeled boot.
Oh.
Oh, God.
I gasp, terrified by the loud crunch! that erupts through the silence.
Bones?
Heart pounding, I wiggle my toes, bracing for the worst.
But my foot doesn’t hurt at all.
It only caught my heel, tripping the sensor—though the second the door pings open, my mangled heel hits the floor. I throw myself in as fast as a girl on one heel can and scoop up the broken part with a sigh.
These things happen.
It’s Friday the freaking Thirteenth.
If shearing off a heel and a late bus are the worst things today? I’ll be fiiine.
Except, from the instant the elevator stops on my floor, I know something’s off. It’s weirdly quiet inside Purry Furniture & More’s downtown headquarters, and I’m half expecting to see the cutesy black cats on the posters come leaping out after me with their claws drawn.
I also spot Vanessa, my boss, as soon as the steel doors pull apart. She stands at the front desk and smiles.
Not a nice one, exactly. More like a wooden smile that says, oh, hey, I’m trying to pretend I have it all together, but I’m actually juggling atomic bombs, and I’m about to drop one in your lap.
What now? Is it my timing?
I step out, brandishing my heel.
“Vanessa, so sorry I’m late. My alarms were off and I had a little mishap with a hungry elevator, so...” Before I can even get my whole sob story out, she stops me with a raised hand, her fingers splayed apart.
“No big, Sabrina. Can you come into my office for a sec? I need to talk to you.”
Odd.
So is her ominously formal use of my name. Why didn’t she just call me Brina like always? Like everyone always has, since the dawn of time.
As I follow her, limping on my broken heel, I swallow a cold, bitter rock in my throat.
Friday the Thirteenth.
My boss wants to “talk.”
How screwed am I?
She wheels herself behind her massive glass desk with another awkward semi-smile and tents her fingers in front of her.
“Well. Sabrina, there’s no easy way to say this and you’re too good for me to sugarcoat it, so here goes. You’ve been a fabulously talented, hardworking member of our Purry creative team. We absolutely love your designs; however...I’m afraid we’re facing budget cuts.”
“Oh.” That sounds like a downer. But I’m a valuable member of this team. I get things done! “I...I thought you told me the designs I did were phenomenal? Half of them are hanging around the office.”
“And they are, yes. But the hard truth is, Mr. Tillis, the owner, believes it’s time to take a look at hiring talent to save costs in the same places where our furniture is manufactured. Jack found a way to get similar graphic designs from Bangladesh at about one dollar a piece. They’re not quite as polished as yours, of course, but...”
I’m not listening anymore.
Jack? Did she just say Jack? Jack-ass?
“You mean the frat boy I’ve been training—um, I mean, the—Jack the Intern?”
Frowning, Vanessa clears her throat and nods.
Holy Hannah. It’s hard not to roll my eyes right out of their sockets.
Now I get why the kid was so interested in buzzing around my desk to find out what parts of the process we—meaning he—could automate or outsource. All for a shiny unpaid internship to slap on his college resume.
“So this means I’m fired?” I ask numbly.
Her eyes widen in a Goodness, no! kind of way.
For a flimsy second, I think this day might not sink into the tar pit it’s heading for.
“Let go,” she whispers, as if that softens the blow. “Mr. Tillis prefers the phrase right-sizing.”
I choke on the air in my lungs and focus on trying to breathe through cement so I don’t flip her the bird by reflex.
You’ve got to love whatever evil genius came up with comically brutal corporate speak like right-sizing.
Whatever we call it doesn’t change the cold, hard facts.
This is the third entry-level position I’ve lost this year.
The last time, in the spring, I had to beg Paige to cover my rent for a couple months. Hardly a burden for a girl who’s grown up semi-wealthy, but I hated it with a vengeance.
I also chowed down on ramen noodles and instant mac and cheese for every meal. Going out for a six-inch sub felt like an extravagant use of my funds.
I’ve known young adult poverty in the big Windy City, and it sucks to suck. Definitely not something I want to revisit.
Vanessa stares at me with a worried look from across her desk.
With the resume-dusting, pavement-pounding, ass-kissing horrors of the job search swirling in my mind, I wonder if it’s not too late to rewind and salvage this job. Make such a good impression during my exit interview that she decides she’s making a terrible mistake.
If I could just get her to sweet-talk surfer dude cat furniture mogul CEO Tillis into keeping me on...
“Vanessa, tell me one thing...is there anything I could’ve done differently? To help me at my next job?”
She gives me a relaxed, sad smile. “You’re a hard worker and a positive employee. You haven’t even been here long enough for me to give you any kind of real appraisal beyond that, I’m afraid. These things happen.”
I feel my eyeball twitch.
Why, yes, these things do happen on a craptacular day when the entire universe spins on its bitch axis.
“It really is a budget cut. Nothing personal and no reflection at all on your impressive skills,” she drones on. “Your last paycheck will be direct-deposited next week. I’ve paid you for today, but once you’ve packed up, you’re free to leave.”
Lovely.
“Isn’t there like, um, another job here I could take? Maybe a position that pays less?”
Pity flashes in her eyes. So that’s a hard no.
“With the business plan to lower operational costs, most of our personal assistant roles are being handled in the Philippines. If you’d like, I’d certainly be happy to keep your resume on—”
Nope.
Done.
Let her file this.
I scurry up from my chair and walk out without looking back, feeling like I’ve been slapped across the face. Really, tho
ugh, it’s par for the course in Sabrina Bristol’s career world.
My first job was with a start-up firm. They went belly up when a big, bad G rolled out its own revolutionary app update, rendering their company obsolete a couple weeks after I started.
After that, I took a temp-to-hire position. The pay sucked, and they never kept any of the temps, so that was another dead end.
Purry Furniture & More seemed like an ideal fit. I mean, witchy black cats aside, I love animals.
Once you get past the idea that the entire job was marketing pet furniture, it was a pretty sweet starting place. Crap pay, sure, but it was supposed to be good experience, an open door, one more step up the ladder, dammit.
Three freaking months. That’s not experience.
That’s a radar blip, just enough time for a boss to decide you’re disposable when a penny-pinching knucklehead decides to right-size you right out of a job.
I don’t say anything to the few people milling around, avoiding me like I’m carrying the plague. I just go clear out my desk.
There isn’t much to remove, honestly.
A lonely picture of Paige and me at the Navy Pier on New Year’s Eve. Another photo with my parents from Christmas a couple years ago.
My last designs are scattered across my desk, a set of grinning cartoon cats raving about how Meow-some the company’s latest cat beds are. I never had time to pitch them properly, and I hope Jack the Rat hasn’t seen them.
Contrary to what my supervisor thinks, not everyone can purr-fectly picture cat and doggy heaven like I did in these mock-ups. So I’m swiping them for my portfolio before they claim dibs on the rights.
I throw the framed photographs in my purse, and when I don’t find anything to put the prints in, I swipe a hot-pink bedazzled folder off an intern’s desk. I throw a couple of dollars down to make up for taking her folder. I don’t leave a note. I doubt she even knows my name.
All of my high quality, professional work gets crammed into pink bedazzle.
Don’t get me wrong, I like pink. But I always pictured myself with a sleek black leather briefcase, not walking around like some high school art kid.
