Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 7

  “Oh, look! The auditorium’s right there.” I nod toward the end of the hall. “I’ll just run right in since we’re here.”

  Then I take off at a stride she’ll never be able to match.

  She smiles behind me, shaking her head when I look over my shoulder.

  “You always were a stinker,” I hear her mutter.

  She’s a sweet old gal, but I have other things on my mind.

  I open the door and walk through the auditorium. A short lady with a blond bob and owlish black glasses walks up to me. Everything about her screams English teacher from her Pride and Prejudice scarf to her exactly knee-length khaki skirt. “Oh, you must be Mr. Heron! Thank you so much for coming. The kids will adore having you here.”

  I nod at her, twisting my lips because I can’t imagine any teenager getting truly excited over some rich guy showing up to grandstand.

  “You’re welcome.”

  She points to a long table on the stage where a few other guests are sitting. “You’ll be at that table. Have a seat, wherever you’d like.”

  I settle into position, and the assembly begins just a few minutes later.

  From the stage, I scan the rows of chairs in the audience as the students file in, searching for the real reason I’m here.

  I spot him in the third row.

  A tall, lanky kid with brownish-blond hair. He’s damn near identical to the way I looked when I was that age.

  He’s got a few friends next to him, judging by the way they laugh and whisper to each other eagerly. The boy seems to be doing okay socially.

  Good.

  The teacher walks over to the microphone and rattles on about how she’s so stunningly proud of all the kids and how much writing will help them in their careers even if wordsmithing isn’t their main calling in life.

  I tap a finger against my thigh. These lectures were as boring as watching cement dry the first time.

  This kid will never know what I’m doing for him, but that’s the whole point.

  I shrug, then remember I’m on stage, and everyone’s looking.

  Get it together, a voice growls in the back of my mind.

  “Now for the moment you’ve all been waiting for!” Miss English Teacher chirps. “Our first place essay winner is Jordan Quail. Jordan, will you please come read your essay?”

  Polite applause ripples through the crowd as she steps away.

  Jordan? What? So the kid’s actually a writer?

  I didn’t know.

  Thank God I came here today.

  That lanky kid who looks too much like me comes to the microphone. The teacher hands him a piece of white paper. He stares into the audience and takes a deep, hurried breath.

  “Thi—this piece is called Me and Mom.” He fidgets back and forth, shifting his weight, whether he realizes he’s doing it or not.

  It’s obvious he’s nervous. I should get him a speech expert, too, someone from Toastmasters or a debate coach looking for a side gig. Schmoozing is an important part of success, after all.

  I doubt Marissa would allow it.

  Come on, kid. You’ve got this. Go.

  My fingers press tight against my slacks.

  His voice cracks as he clears his throat and begins his spiel. “For as long as I can remember, it’s always been just me—and Mom. For a while, I thought I was the luckiest kid ever. When other boys had fathers telling them to pick up their toys, I put mine away because I knew it made her happy. I got Mom to myself. I got Mom and chocolate chip cookies. I got Mom and walks in the park. I got Mom reading to me and Mom camping with me. Mom letting me stay up until midnight watching scary movies, and Mom who helped me memorize every dinosaur name I could hold in my head...”

  He pauses as a few laughs from the adults echo through the crowd.

  “But teeth got loose and fell away. Life changed. Then came father and son camping trips and father and son baseball games. Father and son Boy Scout meets, and Father’s Day specials. Other kids had their dad to ask how to tie a tie, how to hit a home run, how to be strong when the world throws them a curveball. It was still just me and Mom.”

  Damn.

  My breath turns to concrete in my lungs.

  I’ve been gut punched.

  “She always showed up to love and support me in everything I did. But elementary school faded into middle school, and one day I realized a camping trip with twenty-eight boys and their dads was probably no place for Mom. I threw away those flyers, and when other kids brought their dads for career day, I tuned them out. I have no childhood memories of playing catch with my dad. But I still have Mom,” Jordan reads, stopping to clear his throat again.

  I feel this deep, poison band inside me that’s about to snap.

  The same invisible thread that connects us, the devious viper I’ve tried so very hard to protect him from.

  “A life of just me and Mom has taught me a few things,” he continues. “I’ll never be like him. That’s a given. I couldn’t if I wanted to. I know nothing about him and his absence has been the strongest message from my dad I’ll ever know.

  “Whatever I do, wherever life takes me, it will always just be me and Mom. And that’s okay. With her, I learned to be grateful. I learned to have a hero. I learned how to dream.”

  Another pause, so silent I could die.

  “So if I try hard enough, if I grow up strong enough, maybe one day I can be just like Mom. But deep inside, I’ll always wonder...if I knew my dad, would I wish for something different? Would I wish for me and Mom plus one?” Jordan goes quiet and looks at his teacher wide-eyed.

  My gut twists.

  No, you wouldn’t, kid. Stop fucking wishing.

  I’m careful not to mutter it out loud. I should’ve known coming here would have a price.

  Miss Jane Austen Scarf takes the microphone back, and we all clap for him. I catch a few looks from the people next to me and realize how hard I’m slapping my palms together.

  Shit.

  “Jordan, you did an amazing job! Boys and girls, we have a special surprise now.” She turns from looking at the kids to me. “Mr. Heron, would you like to come up and say a few words?”

  I know what she wants. I meet her at the microphone, pull a check out of my coat pocket, and make a production of offering it to her with a handshake that makes her whole body ripple.

  “Just hold it up,” she whispers, a warm blush on her cheeks.

  All her natural response to the handshake does is make me think about Miss Bristol and her adorable, infuriating ass.

  Not today. Not now.

  I plaster on a fake businessman’s grin and hold the check out to the audience, moving it in this triangle over my head, but there’s no way they can see the print.

  “Magnus Heron, the head of Heron Communications, went to school here just like you.” She points at the kids. “He sat in the very same chairs you’re sitting in now, and today he owns one of the most powerful rising companies in the entire country!”

  I smile woodenly. Surely they’ve gotten new chairs since I was a pupil.

  “He’s also been kind enough to donate fifteen thousand dollars to the Young Scribes program.” She turns to look at me again, but she’s still speaking into the mic. “Mr. Heron, do you want to tell them what the money’s for, and maybe say a few words about writing?”

  My brows pull together. I didn’t agree to make a big speech and don’t have anything prepared, but...talking is what I do.

  “Sure, my pleasure.” I take the microphone away from her. “First of all, that was an outstanding essay I heard today. Congratulations, Jordan. I believe the contest benefited everyone, and I’m certain you’ll all receive feedback that makes your writing stronger.”

  Their little faces are blank.

  I see a few yawns and try not to laugh.

  “Your teacher asked me to talk about writing, so I won’t bore you. I’m no writer in the traditional sense. I don’t do fantasy books about dragons or chase after scandals for
a living, but I do know this—the world needs wordsmiths. I’ve paid millions for good copywriters to turn words into sales. And how do you become good? Practice. Listen. Write. I know, I know, it might seem like you’ll never get there, but I started learning right here too. I used to wake up at four a.m. every day and write for two hours every morning before school. If my words hadn’t gotten stronger—and thanks to the teachers here, they did—but even if they hadn’t, the discipline alone was worth it.

  “The very same discipline carried me through the Marine Corps. A few years later, it let me take a business from limping along to a marathon run. I wish you all the same success. Words will open doors you can only dream of right now. That’s why I’m here with this check—to help make sure each and every one of you has a sterling chance to work with a professional editor on your manuscripts. Take their criticism to heart. Let it burn you and then grow from the ashes. Listen to your guides, and you’ll be standing in my place sooner than you think.”

  I wish that were true.

  Of course, none of them should ever be standing up here for the same secret reasons I am.

  The kids applaud me the same way they clapped for Jordan.

  The difference is, I didn’t do anything besides throw money at them, and the kid wrote his heart out.

  I scan the audience, wondering if Marissa is here, and if I should talk to her.

  If I tried, would she let me?

  5

  It’s A Cinnamon Morning (Sabrina)

  I sit at my desk at Purry Furniture & More with my face slumped over the keyboard.

  I can’t remember the last time my head hurt this bad.

  The Instagram account pings notifications nonstop on the desktop studio screen. I mean, I’m glad my meme is getting traction, but damn. Who turned the volume up so loud?

  I lift my head and hit the speaker on my keyboard. But no matter how many times I turn the volume down, the pinging gets louder, more annoying, more demanding.

  Oh my God, make it stop already.

  Snarling, I push myself away from the keyboard and blink my eyes.

  Oh. Right.

  I’m actually home in bed. And it’s not Purry Furniture’s Instagram account pinging me nonstop.

  That’s my alarm clock, and I grab at the phone like a blind octopus.

  Crud.

  It’s been going off for fifteen minutes straight, and it’s taken me this long to hear it. I’m down to my last emergency alarm. All because I didn’t leave the office last night until a quarter after one, and it’s a quarter until four in the morning now.

  Sigh.

  Does this jackoff function like this all the time? Or does he just expect his employees to?

  A day this early feels inhuman.

  I shake the thought from my head. If Heron sleeps less than four hours a night, it might explain why he’s always such a colossal prick in the skin of a god.

  No time to shower, so I just do a quick ten-minute routine, splashing water on my face and pits and gargling mouthwash while I run through the apartment like a headless chicken. I pull on a black dress and Paige’s heels. She’s lent them to me indefinitely since I don’t have anything nicer for a place like HeronComm.

  I have three missed calls from a number I don’t know.

  Probably the driver.

  So I run through the apartment while calling him back, hoping he hasn’t left without me.

  I drop my phone in my purse when I see the black town car parked outside. No way he’s here for anyone else in this neighborhood. An older man with dark hair and friendly brown eyes gets out of the car and opens the door for me.

  His smile says he’s been in my shoes before. At least I don’t feel judged.

  “Thank you,” I say as I climb in.

  I’m so tired my eyes hurt, but the nice thing about a driver is I can sit in the back seat and respond to some of the emails I didn’t get through before I left last night.

  Once he’s back at the wheel, the driver says, “Miss Bristol? I’m Felix Armstrong, at your service. Call me by my last name like everybody else. We’ll probably be seeing each other a lot. I doubt Heron’s ever gonna let you walk home alone in the dark.”

  “Nice to meet you, and you can call me Brina,” I say with a laugh. “I’m surprised. Mr. Heron doesn’t seem like the kinda guy to care about things like that.”

  Armstrong’s otherwise friendly face becomes blanker. “Why not?”

  I hesitate. Do I really want to strike up a conversation with my first co-worker ranting about the boss? Then again, if he’s been working here awhile...how could he not know?

  “Well, considering the first time I met him he was barking at his people and ordering me off a public bench, he just doesn’t strike me as a Care Bear people person.”

  “He sent me to pick you up this morning,” Armstrong offers, his warm smile returning.

  “Because the bus isn’t running its morning schedule yet, I assume. Plus, he wants me to fetch his coffee and dry cleaning.”

  “We also need to pick up new shoes...and there was one other thing I can’t remember,” Armstrong adds.

  “Cat food. For some weird reason, he also wants me to pick up cat food and be at the office by five.”

  Armstrong nods, his lips turning up in the mirror with a look that screams mischief. “He’s a hard-ass. I get it. I know he doesn’t always seem friendly with his employees. Part of that’s because he’s only thirty-one and can’t have his authority questioned. But most of the reason he walks around growling at people all day is because so much of this business depends on him. He has hundreds of employees, and if someone on the floor makes a mistake with ads, it could affect a lot of jobs. It was really hard for him to build the place up after...”

  I look up from my phone as he trails off, suddenly interested. “What happened?”

  “Oh, uh...” Armstrong shakes his head. “Sorry. Nothing you need to worry about. I only brought it up because he’s not as bad as you think. You’ve probably heard how fast he goes through EAs, but I promise you, if any of them took the time to know the man, they’d hate him less.”

  I try not to frown, amazed that the bosshole has at least one vote of confidence.

  “I can’t blame you for being skeptical,” Armstrong says, shaking his head. “Let’s be real. He’s demanding as hell, but he expects as much of himself as he does everyone else. Plus, he’s generous with his employees. There’s nowhere else I could ever dream of making what I get paid to drive around Mr. Heron and his crew.”

  “Do you like being a driver?” I ask. He might not make as much driving somewhere else, but there are other things he could do. Or maybe I’m wrong. Heron does pay well, I’ll give him that.

  “Yes, ma’am! I was a truck driver in the Army for a while, and again back here. My mama lives in Florida, and when she came down with skin cancer, Heron sent her the best doctor he could find and gave me all the time I could ever ask for to visit. Then I had a minor stroke about a year ago...he paid me while I was off for over a month and got me looked at by top-notch specialists. Hotshots who aren’t even covered under the company insurance plan. He takes care of his employees when he’s not working them to death.”

  Honestly? I’m shocked.

  The idea that Magnus Heron might think of someone besides himself for more than three seconds never occurred to me.

  “You seem to think very highly of him,” I say.

  “Well, I’ve got it easy, I’ll admit. Car rides are kind of his downtime. Sometimes he works through his commutes, but he talks to me more than most folks around the office, besides Ruby. He doesn’t have much of a social life outside business, so I’d even dare say I’m his friend. He’s a good guy.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it, Armstrong.” I’m still not convinced, but it’s interesting to have another view of the monster I call boss.

  We pull into an upscale shopping center, and I still haven’t looked at any emails yet.

 
The only thing open this early is The Bean Bar.

  “Shoe Import is two doors away from the coffee shop. It’s not quite open yet but knock and tell them you’re there for a pickup for Heron, and they’ll give you the shoes. I’d get the coffee once you have the shoes, because he doesn’t like his morning cup of joe cold. Who does, right?”

  I smile in agreement as I quickly step out of the car. Picking up the shoes goes without a hitch. I’ve printed his very specific order and read it off to a tiny blonde behind the counter at The Bean Bar.

  “That will be thirty-three dollars and fifty cents,” she says.

  Holy crap! What the hell kind of coffee does he drink? And it never occurred to me that if I’m here ordering the coffee, he hasn’t paid for it. That’s more than I have in my debit account. “Umm—I left my wallet in the car. Be right back!”

  She sighs like I’ve disappointed her. “Right.”

  I scan the room. There are a few other people here, but they’re not paying attention.

  “That’s my boss’ coffee, and I really need this job. Please don’t throw it away. I’ll be right back, I swear,” I beg.

  She nods. “I’ll leave it right here.”

  I race across the parking lot as fast as I can in heels with a box of shoes hugged to my chest and throw the passenger side door open. “Armstrong! We have a problem.”

  I don’t know what size shoes this guy wears, but they’ve gotten heavy in my hands so I drop them in the seat.

  “What’s wrong?” he asks, turning around.

  This is so embarrassing. I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “The coffee order’s over thirty dollars and...I don’t have that.”

  “I don’t miss being young. Here.” Armstrong chuckles and pulls a wallet from his back pocket.

  God. I’m taking money from the company driver now?

  He’s probably not rich, even if Magnus Heron pays him well. He removes a sleek black card and hands it to me.

  “Company card. Tell Heron to give you one.”

  Well...that’s a little better.

  But the fact remains that I’ve woken up late and still had to make a second run to the coffee shop. I’m going to be so late. When I tumble back inside, there’s a line forming. King Dickwad’s coffee is sitting there, getting cold.