Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  “Since when do you interrupt my interviews?” Ruby stares him down.

  “Since I haven’t had an assistant in weeks,” he growls.

  I glare at him. “I bet that’s not Miss Hunting’s fault. She says you’re a dick to work for.”

  He scowls at me but doesn’t answer.

  Ruby’s eyes trace from me, to him, and back to me.

  Her lonely laughter breaks the silence. “You know, you might work out.”

  Mag darts a glance at Ruby. “Glad you concur. So, no more holdups?”

  “I’m ignoring you so I can finish this interview,” she says. Her eyes connect with mine. “Do you have any experience as an executive assistant or an executive-level secretary?”

  I shake my head. “My experience is all graphic design if you don’t count summer jobs in fast food and groceries. I’ve made a lot of memes.”

  Beside me, Magnus leans his elbow on the desk and covers his mouth.

  Oh, God. Is he hiding a smile?

  I know what he’s thinking. Cat memes.

  Probably remembering his pathetic cat-toonist jab that wouldn’t make a twelve-year-old laugh.

  “Where do you see yourself in five years, Miss Bristol?” she asks.

  “Still thankful I survived today,” I say.

  Oops. Wrong answer.

  Ruby raises an intrigued brow at Heron. He motions her to continue, an impatient scowl tugging at his handsome face.

  “And your greatest weakness?” Ruby asks.

  I gnaw on my lip, trying hard this time to come up with the right response. Finally, I say, “Right now, the forty-something bucks left in my bank account.”

  Magnus shifts again and slaps his hands on the table.

  “Enough. Ruby, you of all people know I don’t appreciate wasting time. Get the damn paperwork signed. Now.”

  My eyes flick to this rich, built, and bad-tempered grump and those hot blue eyes catch mine. They’re bright enough to sear me in my seat.

  I think that’s when I know.

  I am being punked.

  Only, it turns out I’m doing it to myself by wading neck-deep into this insanity.

  4

  Old Alma Mater (Magnus)

  “One problem.” Ruby smiles at me, winding herself up to enjoy what’s next. “Sabrina Bristol hasn’t agreed to anything just yet.”

  My jaw tightens.

  Miss Bristol sits beside me, staring at me wide-eyed, all big brown-eyed beauty and rosy innocence I can’t afford to dwell on.

  However, I also can’t wait to slam her with the more than two hundred emails I haven’t gotten to today. Just because I need a good EA doesn’t mean I’m above enjoying myself.

  Sweet revenge for trashing my Italian shoes.

  I’d love to stick around and enjoy her shock in person, but I have to take the afternoon off. To the rest of the world, I’m doing a literary event—a charity sort of thing—one of many HeronComm initiatives to improve my dire image in the media and the company’s.

  To me, it’s a bit more personal.

  “Does Miss Bristol have any objections with the position?” I snap, tenting my fingers.

  Ruby opens her mouth like she’s going to speak, but I don’t let her get a word out.

  “Is she a serial swindler, an arsonist, or an axe murderer?”

  Ruby runs a hand through her hair, wrinkling her nose. “If she is, she’s doing it in style.”

  “Exactly. Tell her to sign the contract, then, so she can get to work and we can finish this nonsense. I need her today,” I growl.

  Miss Bristol gazes at me with those dark-chocolate eyes gleaming. “You...you do realize I’m still here, right? You don’t have to talk about me in third person, you know.”

  Amusement wars with raw agitation in my blood. I chase back a grin.

  That feisty, take-no-shit attitude was cute at the park and landed her a job offer, but she’s not bringing it into my office.

  “That’s the second time you’ve told me what to do since I came into the room. We need to get something straight if you want to work here,” I tell her, locking eyes. “I’m the boss. You work under me. You won’t be using that spear of a tongue unless I want it put to work. Got it?”

  Before she can answer, enjoying the stricken, red-faced contempt souring her angelic face, I fold my arms on the table and lean into her personal space.

  “Now do you want this job or not?”

  She glares at me, pushes her chair back, and stands. “You know, on second thought, I don’t think I need to debase myself by working—”

  Ridiculous.

  She can’t be serious, can she?

  “Think fast before you walk.” I can’t fucking help it, I laugh. “Not many people get a job with Cadillac health insurance right out of college, and two-hundred-thousand-dollar salaries don’t show up every day, especially for graphic designers from purr-niture companies.”

  Her face goes deeper red and her jaw pinches, but she takes a deep breath, then hisses it out as her soul leaves her body. “Wait, what? Did you...did you say two hundred thousand dollars? Per year?”

  The look she gives me turns my balls into overgrown Alaskan blueberries.

  I don’t know what it is about this girl—actually, I do, it’s the feistiness—but I want her bad.

  I see her pinned hard against my desk, skirt torn off, and me standing over her with my pants down, fingers pinched tight into that deliriously spankable ass, thrusting like the devil until she—

  No. What the hell am I thinking?

  Besides being hideously inappropriate, this company needs more office sex scandals like it needs a crushing lawsuit.

  Fuck.

  My eyes shift to Ruby, who’s trying hard not to look past us, keeping her above this silly fray.

  “Take Miss Bristol’s reaction to the compensation package as acceptance of employment. Get her set up within the hour, and her company email live in the next ten minutes. Call IT.”

  Ruby blinks like a tired cat, unfazed by my tone.

  She’s used to my shit.

  Meanwhile, Sabrina Bristol glares at me like she’s holding an invisible cigarette she’d love to stab out on my forehead.

  What’s her problem? I just offered her a job with a salary five times what she made at her old one. Beyond generous by big city entry-level standards, even if every dollar costs a person in this role a little more of their sanity.

  Shaking my head, I ignore her death glare and exit the room before she makes me do something I’ll regret.

  Twenty minutes later, the sleek black town car pulls up outside the building, a familiar shark darting through the crowded downtown traffic.

  I yank on the back door and climb in before Felix Armstrong can open the door for me. My mind’s already reeling from the day, which is probably a good thing, because I haven’t had time to dwell on this literary event I’m attending.

  The academy wasn’t my favorite place when I was a surly teenager. When I graduated, I hoped I’d never have to see it again.

  The black leather seat feels cool to the touch, a comfortable place to lounge. Armstrong has picked up my coffee on the way. It’s still steaming from the cup holder as he reaches down and passes it back to me.

  I grab the cup like a precious chalice and take a swig, letting the caffeinated heat roll down my throat. “Thanks for the morning joe.”

  “I got you, boss. Any place, anytime. How’re you doing today?”

  “Fine,” I toss back, a single word that says how I really am.

  Armstrong gets it. He’s been my driver long enough to know from my tone that today isn’t a time for idle chitchat.

  My phone chimes with an email alert.

  I put the coffee cup back in the cupholder and grab my phone. I’m trying to score three more major ad clients this week, and I can’t lose a second in the negotiations.

  I tap on the email icon and see Ruby’s name with Sabrina Bristol cc’d, so I’ll have her new work ema
il.

  I smile. Welcome to the fold.

  I’ve got her housewarming committee ready.

  Opening a spreadsheet of five hundred projects, all in various stages of the contract process, I hit share and send it to Miss Bristol, copying Ruby on it.

  To: Sabrina Bristol

  From: Magnus Heron

  Priority: HIGH

  Subject: To Do

  Ms. Bristol,

  You’re incredibly eager to get started, and I’m happy to oblige. See the mess of a spreadsheet attached and the instructions below.

  First, click on each project name and print any pages attached. Highlight the client’s name and file them. The last page for each project should be a checklist of anything needed to execute the contract. If an item isn’t checked, it’s missing. Compile a list of all missing items and create a new spreadsheet of just those projects with the items pending.

  I expect this completed by midnight tonight.

  Yes, it’s essential.

  No, it’s not your only duty.

  Before work tomorrow, you’ll need to pick up my dry cleaning and hang it in the closet in my office. There shouldn’t be a single wrinkle.

  The invoice number will come from Miss Hunting.

  You’ll also need to stop at The Bean Bar and pick up my coffee order, three large drinks as follows: a dark roast Kona bean with one tablespoon of heavy whipping cream, and two medium roast Kona beans. One with half a cup of heavy cream, four sugars, and cinnamon spice, and the other with three tablespoons of heavy cream. It’s imperative no sugar winds up in that last coffee.

  Since you like cats so much, you can also pick up three cans of cat food. I need a Whisker-Delight, Empress Pearl, and a Meow Meow Feast in any flavors.

  Do not mess this up.

  Because you have to be back at the office at five a.m. and you’ll need to make a few stops before you get here, I’ll generously send a car to the address you gave Ruby at precisely 4 a.m. Be ready.

  Ruby will show you to the file room, so you can get this project done, stat. She should also be able to give you the passcode to my office to hang my dry cleaning.

  Yours,

  Magnus Heron

  CEO of HeronComm Inc.

  “Hey, bossman, I can hear you hitting the screen up here. Having a rough day?” Armstrong asks, throwing back the same easy smile in the rearview mirror he always does.

  “Not really. Just too much to do and not enough time in the world. I hired a new EA this morning and I have to get her broken in. I’m sending her the usual shitpile.” I pause. Technically, I’m sending her stuff to do right this second because I can’t get her out of my mind. “You’ll meet her tomorrow. You need to pick her up at four o’clock.”

  “I need a raise to be up at that time,” Armstrong grumbles.

  “Don’t we all.”

  We share a chuckle.

  Honestly, the problem isn’t that this girl has brunette hair like silk, mocha eyes designed to get lost in, and a body so tight she’d be like a cloud crashing against my mountain. I want to devour her, no question.

  The real agony is the fact that I’ve worked at least seventy hours a week for so long I don’t recall the last time I had a good lay. I rack my brain, remembering the last time I bothered with a high-end lounge hookup well over a year ago.

  I’ve been so busy it’s kept me living like a monk ever since. And that last conquest was mediocre at best.

  Dammit, I need a good fuck. That’s all. A memorable sheet-ripping romp to reset my system.

  It’s no wonder this pretty stranger makes me dwell on things I’d rather not.

  Her stunt in the park made her the only woman I’ve noticed recently who doesn’t work for me—and no, the usual crop of seasonal interns who churn through HeronComm with a goal to seduce me don’t count. I’ve never let a single one of them get off the ground, no matter how short their skirts get or how many excuses they dredge up to barge into my office.

  I’m not going anywhere near that ugly minefield with Miss Bristol, either. She works with me now—for me—and I won’t put her in that position.

  Maybe Ruby was right, though. I should’ve let her pick another miserable, short-lived EA and found a way to bed Sabrina without bringing her into my company.

  Bah.

  Too late now.

  I need a competent assistant more than I do a night of sweltering, bed-breaking passion.

  Hopefully, my sacrifice pays dividends. Hell, if she’s good enough, I might be able to take a day off and remedy my hormones. It’s not like I have a hard time finding dates.

  “So, what do you have this woman doing for you at four a.m.?” Armstrong asks.

  “The usual. Picking up my coffee, my dry cleaning, and cat food.”

  “Cat food? Aw, hell, something tells me I’m going to hear about this one, aren’t I?” Armstrong laughs.

  “Call it Plan B. If all goes well with the Stedfaust account, we won’t have to resort to a demonstration,” I say.

  “Man, are you trying to see how fast you can get rid of her with your antics?” Armstrong’s eyes flash up in the mirror.

  I frown. Why would he assume that?

  I’m not that much of a raging hard-ass purely for the sport of it.

  Or maybe I am.

  Sure, I told her to get her shit done before tomorrow knowing there’s virtually no way she can finish it. Then again, when you tell people they have four days, they take all four. You tell them two, they’ll take two. And if Sabrina Bristol has the backbone I think—I hope—she has, then she needs a real test of her mettle.

  “Of course not, Armstrong,” I finally answer.

  He laughs again. “You can’t pick up your own coffee for once?”

  “Well. I could, but if I’m going to do that, what’s the point in having an assistant?” I ask. “Besides, Kona coffee makes the office run. I bought that farm and invested in the Bean Bar for a reason. How much further?”

  “About forty minutes in this traffic.”

  I hold in a groan. Somehow, a man never fully gets over the sluggish crawl of Chicagoland traffic.

  With more time to pass, I scroll through my emails, flipping through performance reports for a dozen ad campaigns, and then look for anything else I can send my new EA to get it off my plate.

  To: Sabrina Bristol

  From: Magnus Heron

  Priority: HIGH

  Subject: ALSO IMPERATIVE

  Ms. Bristol,

  Please read all of my unopened email, delete spam and sales pitches, and mark everything else urgent or low priority at your first opportunity. You’ll get credentials for my account from Miss Hunting.

  Yours,

  Magnus Heron

  CEO of HeronComm Inc.

  Take that. I have three thousand unread emails.

  When I look up again from hacking my way through my reports, Armstrong pulls up to a sprawling green field. There’s a one-story red brick building in the middle with soaring columns.

  We’re right outside Winnetka at my old alma mater. He parks in the guest lot.

  “Can I leave and come back?”

  “Stay. This shit can’t take too long,” I say.

  “The last time you said that we were here all day,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “When are you going to admit you’re a softie for these kids?”

  “Never call me a softie again,” I grind out, shooting him a dagger look in the mirror.

  “You’re the boss, Mr. Heron.”

  Grumbling, I take my coffee and get out of the car. He’s lucky I tolerate his jabs, I think, taking a long slurp off my drink. I won’t get through this without fuel.

  When I go to check in at the main office, the white-haired secretary beams. “Well, well! Magnus Heron.”

  Why? Why couldn’t I have chosen another school?

  Most of the staff were in place when I was a student here over a decade ago. They think they can still call me by my first name, like I’m still a stud
ent, and not the head of a multi-billion-dollar advertising leviathan.

  But as I gawk at the familiar lined face smiling up at me, I swallow a sigh.

  “Hello to you, too, Miss Margo,” I say, giving her a flashy smile.

  “You’re here for the Young Scribes assembly, aren’t you?” she asks, tilting her head.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “How lovely! I’ll escort you to the auditorium, then. We can’t have you wandering the halls alone since you’re no longer a student. School policy!” She cackles, no doubt remembering simpler times.

  She pushes out of her office chair and gingerly walks toward me. The woman must be at least seventy by now, frail as ever, and it’s a surprise she hasn’t retired.

  I’m also surprised she doesn’t need someone holding her up. Step by creaky step, she slowly inches over, looks at the door, and clears her throat.

  I grab the door for her and hold it open. “Ladies first.”

  “You charmer. You always were a roamer, too,” she says with a thankful glance.

  “Miss Margot, I know where the auditorium is. There’s no good reason for you to walk all the way down there with me.” And at this rate, with her pace, I’m worried it’ll take us half an hour to get there.

  “Oh, no. Principal Drew was very clear. I have to escort all guests,” she says.

  “Even alum?”

  She lets out a crackly laugh.

  “Especially alumni like you.” She smiles up at me and squeezes my bicep. “You sure did grow up strong. You were a skinny thing when you were here.”

  Goddamn. I glance around the hall to make sure no one else is around. I can’t be seen being talked to like I’m still twelve.

  What would my clients think? Or any muckraking bloggers looking for a story?

  Plenty of alumni from this school have become Very Important People, too.

  “Yeah, well, the Marine Corps did a good job filling me out,” I tell her.

  I place my hand over hers and squeeze it gently so she won’t be offended by my next move. I peel her hand off my arm and drop it.