Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  “What? I told you—”

  “And I’m telling you. If you know what’s smart, you’ll take notes quietly in future meetings. I know your outburst worked out today, but if it hadn’t, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”

  “Are you sure? It sounds like no matter what I do, you love to find fault.” She grabs her laptop, huffing out a breath, and stands.

  “Wait.”

  Her free hand goes to her hip and she glares at me.

  “What the hell is on your laptop? You can’t come to executive meetings looking like a college sophomore. Is that sticker supposed to be garlic?”

  “Yep. Garlic wards off evil spirits and vampires. Like my boss, for one.”

  Inwardly, I groan. This woman will be the death of me.

  Don’t laugh.

  Stay firm.

  “And why the hell does your magic garlic have eyes and feet?”

  She shrugs. “It’s cartoon garlic. I thought it was cute.”

  Of course, it is. She’s a graphic designer at heart, after all.

  “Remove it,” I tell her, folding my arms.

  With one last roll of her eyes, she storms off. I don’t know if that was a yes or a no. But so help me God, if I see that garlic staring at me again, she’s gone.

  Before I’ve packed up my laptop and left, she reappears in the doorway, chewing her bottom lip.

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “Umm—where’s the creative department where I’m supposed to go brainstorm?”

  “I’ll walk you over before I go back to my office,” I say, without really thinking.

  Why? I don’t escort people around here. That sounds like something I pay someone else for.

  Whatever, though. I’ve already said it, and if she’s holding a grudge over my tirade, she knows how to hide it.

  So I grab my stuff and walk her to Hugo’s department like a gentleman.

  As I introduce her to the crowd, I think that goddamned garlic bulb on her laptop winks at me.

  I swear. If it’s not gone tomorrow, she is, before she takes my sanity.

  It’s a promise, and I’m a man of my word.

  7

  Bad Omen (Sabrina)

  The creative department already feels like home.

  The meeting room is this candy-bright space with vivid splashes of blues and pinks, alongside funny memes plastered on the wall. Outside, the designers have cozy cubicles with little tchotchkes everywhere. It’s vibrant, young, inspiring...and fun.

  Not something I associated with HeronComm and its permanent-stick-up-the-ass owner until now.

  “Wow! This place is awesome,” I gush.

  A woman in khakis and a blue three-quarter sleeve shirt laughs. “Says the woman who works in the executive suite. Everything’s polished like a castle over there.”

  “More like a fancy dungeon,” I grumble. I tried to put up one of my cat designs on my wall, and Heron made me take it down, calling it “unprofessional.”

  She holds out her hand. “Angie.”

  “Brina.” I give her a handshake.

  Hugo bounds up to us, out of breath as he usually is whenever I see him these days. It’s not because he’s a big guy. More like the poor guy is running for his life, wherever our boss is concerned. I feel for him.

  “Oh, good. Intros are out of the way, I see.” He looks at me. “Angie’s my lead designer. Thank you so much for what you did back there. You really saved my bacon.”

  “No big deal.” I smile because it’s all I can do.

  Anywhere else I’ve ever worked, it wouldn’t be a big deal by default to help out during a team meeting. But my dickhead boss seems to think he is the team.

  Didn’t he get the memo every place that runs on corporate speak holds dear? There’s no I in team!

  “It was a huge deal, Brina,” Hugo insists. He holds his hands above his head and then stretches them out. “You practically rescued my job back there.”

  I laugh. “No way. He’s not that much of an ogre, right? You think he would’ve fired you on the spot?”

  The grim look Hugo gives me over his glasses says everything.

  Oof.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Everyone has a bad concept now and then. It just happens, and if Mr. Heron hasn’t figured that out by now, he’d better. Creativity isn’t something you can turn on and off like a faucet. No one’s on point every single time.”

  The smile leaves Angie’s face.

  “So, uh...I’m not trying to scare you because I know you’re new here. But you don’t know Magnus Heron,” she says. “He doesn’t tolerate anything less than perfection every time. No excuses. Designers may have a bad day or crappy concept at other companies, but here...there’s no room for it.”

  “That’s totally unrealistic,” I hiss, but knowing what I do about my boss, it’s not unrealistic for him—and that’s the problem. “Nobody hits home runs all the time. That’s just not how life works.”

  Hugo and Angie exchange worried glances.

  “Well, Heron is a hundred percent perfect a hundred percent of the time—”

  “He thinks he is, you mean,” I tell her.

  Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

  I definitely didn’t mean the sarcastic laugh that followed. I cover my mouth with my hands.

  Angie and Hugo both laugh, finally more at ease.

  “Um, please don’t let that get back to him,” I say.

  “Of course not,” Angie says with a grin.

  “Never! Because no matter what you think, if you hadn’t rescued that meeting, I’d be one more warning away from an unemployment claim today,” Hugo says, scratching his shoulder nervously.

  He’s exaggerating, right?

  The office can’t really be this scared of Magnus the Ridiculous all the time.

  Armstrong isn’t. Neither is Ruby. They have stories about him and his big heart. It must exist behind his vault of a scowl...somewhere.

  “I’ve got your back,” I tell them. “If you need me to step up and tell him the truth, I will. He doesn’t scare me.”

  “Not yet,” Hugo whispers, looking away.

  “Don’t make it a habit. No one wants you gone, either.” Angie runs a hand across her braids.

  Hugo shakes his head. “I don’t think he’ll fire her unless she really tees him off. Mag puts up with stuff from her he wouldn’t take from anyone else. I mean, she spit on him and he gave her a job. I was there!”

  I laugh, but it does make me wonder. Why did he do that again?

  And if I was supposed to be such a perfect fit, and I screwed up by inserting myself into that meeting...why didn’t he fire me?

  I shake my head. “When you put it that way—”

  “If it was anyone else, you’d be explaining how the latte spray was an accident to a judge,” Hugo says.

  “Really? Over some coffee?” What the hell is wrong with this guy? And what’s so special about me? He did have his eyes on me the whole time. Or was it just my cleavage? “Maybe he needs to chill out and get his mind off torturing people. If it’ll help, I’ll start wearing a lower-cut top to help him check his ego at the door.”

  Clearly, I’m joking, and I’m expecting a round of easy laughs.

  It never comes.

  Angie bites her lip. They both go quiet, exchanging a look like I’ve just dredged up a murder case.

  Silence surrounds us.

  “I’d better get to work. Everybody’s favorite Chicago hot dog chain wants their latest video edits done and sent over by tonight. I’m sure you two can finish up the feedback on the new mock-ups. Hit me later when you’ve got something.” Angie walks away.

  Was it something I said?

  Hugo looks around like he’s making sure it’s still just us.

  “So, Brina...don’t do that. Please,” he says.

  Huh? What did I say that caused such a dramatic reaction from a guy who was just profusely thanking me for saving
his job?

  “Do what?” I ask, cocking my head.

  He scans the room again. “Don’t get risque with anything you wear to this office. I’m the last guy who wants to tell a girl what to wear, but anything lower cut than what you have on now...bad idea. Don’t even joke about it.”

  Lower cut than what I have on? I look down. It’s basically a normal dress.

  I’m almost offended, but I hold it in.

  He lets out a huge sigh that shakes his massive shoulders. “Sorry, Brina. I’ve upset you. I can tell from your face. I’m just trying to help you the same way you did me, I promise. After the crap that went down here years ago...let’s just say Heron doesn’t take the slightest hint of office fraternizing lightly.”

  “Fraternizing?” My brows go up at the strange, heavy word. “Is this like the military or something? And what happened?”

  Hugo shakes his head. “I can’t talk about it. I’ve already said more than I should. No one around here talks about it for a reason.”

  I look up at the old-school clock overhead, what looks like an antique from an old fire station or something. It hasn’t moved for the last five minutes. Oh, God.

  “Your clock’s broken.”

  “Huh?” Hugo turns and glances over his shoulder, then looks back at his phone. “Dang. Looks like you’re right. We’ll have to swap out the batteries.”

  As if I needed a sign from the universe that’s as subtle as a falling piano to the head. My 'silly superstitions,' as Paige would say, exist for a reason.

  This conversation is a warning. A bad omen. The broken clock proves it.

  Trouble is, I’m not sure what exactly I’m being warned about.

  What dark secret has them walking on eggshells?

  “Can you at least tell me why he’s so up in arms over women’s clothing?” I blurt it out before I can stop myself. I have to know.

  Is he just a pig on top of being an arrogant asshole? Bizarrely, he doesn’t really strike me as the type—not like that Chester Stedfaust guy who couldn’t rip his greasy eyes off me.

  I take a deep breath. “You’re saying he doesn’t like women wearing sexy clothes, or what, Hugo?”

  “Basically, yeah. It’s not because he’s psycho or a gross old fogey. It’s just...he has his reasons, and everybody who’s been here long enough respects the rules.” Hugo nods, sweat beading on his brow. “He hates flirting or anything that’d encourage it in this office. He’s axed people over it. A lot of people.”

  For a second, we share a gaze, Hugo’s bulging eyes pleading to move on to something else.

  Fine.

  Time to end this awkward conversation and my own boiling confusion.

  “Well, thanks for the heads up.” I point at the lightboard. “Let’s get started on the concepts. I have a lot to do once we’re finished here.”

  “I bet. He’s hard as hell on EAs.” Hugo gives me a dry, sympathetic smile.

  Don’t I know it?

  I follow Hugo back to Angie’s office, where she sets aside her video edits for the fast-food chain. We take the dreaming pet concept and run with it.

  We call the campaign Doggy Dreams and alter the original idea so the dogs eat Woof Meow Chow up in the clouds while they’re still asleep. The cats climbing in the treetops are on a hunt for their Meow Chow fix. With the concept nailed down, it’s a matter of choosing fonts, images, and colors, then smoothing them to perfection.

  “What about a gradient blue?” I point to the sky. “It’ll be darker on this side and start to fade across the screen with multiple hues. It should make the image more colorful and the words will pop.”

  Angie makes the changes on her laptop. The color contrast is brilliant, but it’s the time stamp at the bottom of her screen that catches my attention.

  “Shit. It’s past five. I have to get back to my desk, or I’ll never get through everything by midnight,” I say, rocketing out of my seat.

  “You’re an awesome thinker. Pop in anytime you want,” Hugo says, earning a grin from me. It’s nice to hear sincere praise for my skills after the way I was discharged from my last job.

  And if I ever get a break in the future, I might just join them again.

  I love graphic design. Spending an afternoon in this room makes the minutia I have to slog through the rest of the evening almost bearable.

  It also leaves me wondering what the hell Magnus Heron is hiding.

  Since the Woof Meow Chow meeting, I only see Heron in passing the rest of the week.

  Even though he’s effing horrible, I kinda miss sparring with him.

  Shocker.

  Still, it’s six o’clock on Friday morning, and I’ve worked over sixty hours this week. I’m not complaining about force-of-nature job demands. I’m already numb to it the way anybody living in tornado alley expects to lose a roof every so often.

  I’m just hoping I can wrap up everything and be home in time for dinner tonight with Paige.

  I might pass out if I work past midnight one more day.

  Thank God for the weekend.

  After the debacle with the ’bad art project,’ Heron wanted the proofs sent directly to his email, and I’d send them on to the client.

  When Hugo sends them over, I open up the slides and go through them one more time, holding my breath. Some of the changes I advised weren’t implemented, and a few slides seem glitchy.

  Damn.

  We can’t afford to upset this client a second time. That isn’t going to go over well. But the ruthless bossman made it clear, I’m not part of the design team, so what can I do?

  My gut twists.

  I don’t want to send subpar work for the deadline and risk anyone’s job, but I also don’t want to tattle and make Heron rip poor Hugo or Angie’s heads off.

  I settle on a half measure.

  Opening the slides, I mark up the changes I’d make. Then I send the originals and my markup to Magnus with “Final Draft” in the subject line.

  He wanted the proofs sent to him for a reason. Let him make a decision.

  That’s above my pay grade. I almost expect to be growled at for doing the extra work of making corrections. But with the email sent, I get back to my other work, trying not to dread the response.

  Less than an hour later, my messenger pings.

  Magnus: Accept all changes you’ve suggested except for slide 18. You’ll get an email with the verbiage for that one. Good catch.

  Holy...

  Did he just give me a compliment?

  Whatever.

  I shouldn’t feel like a happy puppy. The fact that he’s satisfied gets this off my plate and I’m free to move on to the next item on my endless to-do list.

  Amazingly, I get home just in time for dinner, around ten-ish when Paige likes to eat.

  When I open the door, I’m blown away by the savory scent of fresh tomatoes, basil, oregano, garlic, and warm baked bread.

  “O-M-G! Something smells like heaven,” I sing, stepping inside home sweet home.

  My stomach tries to eat itself, and I realize the heavy cream and sugar with my coffee this morning are the only calories I’ve had all day.

  “Who are you? Home before midnight?” Paige bounces up from the couch with a smile. “I made dinner. I thought we could eat together since I haven’t seen you in a week, but by eight o’clock I was starving. Sorry!”

  “No problem.” My job shouldn’t starve my roommate too. “Thanks for making food.”

  She stands. “Are you just getting off work?”

  I nod.

  “Yes, and my feet are killing me.” I pick up my foot, unstrap her heel, let it fall to the floor, and then take off the other shoe. “Tell me I’ll get used to these things?”

  She gives me a pained smile, and I wonder if generously loaning them wasn’t her only reason for letting them go.

  “So, have you really been at work all those times I texted at night?” she asks. “I was about to file a missing person’s report!”

&nb
sp; “Unfortunately,” I say, walking to the couch. I drop down, suddenly boneless. “He sends a driver for me every morning. I’m at the office by five. One morning, the driver came at four, because he had half a dozen stops he wanted me to make before work.”

  “Holy shit. You must be starving. Let me get you a plate.” She heads for the kitchen and comes back a minute later with a plate piled high with lasagna, salad, and garlic bread.

  Yeah, I’m ready to eat my own weight in good Italian food.

  I dive in and don’t stop, letting the TV wash over us until I’m almost half-done.

  “Paige...I’m having an orgasm. I can’t believe I forgot how good you cook when you’ve got the time. Thank gawd, too. It’s the first real meal I’ve eaten since I started this job. It’s nice to chomp on something that isn’t frozen.”

  She laughs and sits back down on the couch beside me after fetching us a couple glasses of wine.

  “I’m kinda worried about you,” she whispers. “If you’re going to work at five every day...what time are you coming home? I know you’re not here at eleven most nights when I crash.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be done by midnight, but it’s usually closer to one a.m. Though, I think it might be better soon. First week’s the hardest, right? I’m getting the hang of it. In a week or two, I could totally be rolling in a couple hours earlier.”

  “You’re literally working, what, fifteen hours a day? The man seems horrible. I still can’t believe you’re taking his shit after the way he talked down to you, girl.”

  I smile at Paige doing what Paige does best—getting angry for me.

  Of course, she’d never need to work for someone like Magnus Heron who shows his coffee cup more respect than any person.

  “But a couple hundred grand a year is an insane amount of money,” she tells me, taking a long sip of wine. “My dad barely makes twice that and he’s been working for decades.”

  Paige is a rich kid, no question.

  But if her dad only makes a little more in a top role after thirty-something years, ugh. I can never quit this job. I’m stuck with Lucifer.

  I sigh. “I’m not sure he’s paying me enough to deal with his BS forever. I’m not the only one to think that. He has a hard time keeping assistants.”