One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance
One Bossy Proposal
An Enemies to Lovers Romance
Nicole Snow
Ice Lips Press
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in April, 2022.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Joseph Cannata.
Contents
About the Book
1. While I Pondered (Dakota)
2. Forgotten Lore (Lincoln)
3. Only This And Nothing More (Dakota)
4. Ghost Upon The Floor (Lincoln)
5. Nameless Here (Dakota)
6. A Midnight Dreary (Lincoln)
7. Ungainly Fowl (Dakota)
8. A Flirt And Flutter (Lincoln)
9. Some Unhappy Master (Dakota)
10. Fancy Unto Fancy (Lincoln)
11. My Bosom’s Core (Dakota)
12. Engaged In Guessing (Lincoln)
13. If Bird Or Devil (Dakota)
14. Each Separate Dying Ember (Lincoln)
15. Uncertain Rustling (Dakota)
16. Thrilled Me (Lincoln)
17. Fantastic Terrors Never Felt Before (Dakota)
18. Lenore? (Lincoln)
19. Darkness There (Dakota)
20. That Melancholy Burden (Lincoln)
21. Still Beguiling (Dakota)
22. Bird Of Yore (Lincoln)
23. Quoth The Raven (Dakota)
24. All My Soul Within Me (Lincoln)
25. Fortunato and I (Dakota)
26. Evermore (Lincoln)
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About Nicole Snow
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About the Book
Strange men do funny things when you score the last cinnamon roll.
Sometimes he rages about the high crime of jacking his precious pastry.
Sometimes he offers you ludicrous bribes to buy it back.
And sometimes—after shattering your faith in humanity—you find out he's your new boss.
I'm not laughing.
My sweet tooth betrayed me and Lincoln Burns is one bad sugar rush.
A coldhearted grump. A mile-wide ego. An eligible bachelor who doesn't “do” dating.
Did I mention Mr. Congeniality runs a fashion empire with weddings in its sights?
Of course he does.
And, of course, weddings make me gag after my ex made my heart roadkill.
Every instinct I have screams run.
But money talks, and Lincoln's deep pockets roar.
One big fat bonus proposal lures me into his world.
Somehow, our vicious fights become vivid flirting.
His secrets thrill me in the worst ways.
Then he makes a second proposal.
Pretend we're engaged. Smile for pretty photos like we're soulmates. Dress up like we're actually getting married.
Oh, how I wish cinnamon rolls came with warnings.
It's all sticky sweet heaven until you catch feelings for the bossman from hell...
1
While I Pondered (Dakota)
The spring sun shines down on Seattle like a sword aimed at my own personal gloom.
I’m sad and hungry—a dangerous combination.
It’s been a year to the day since I buried my heart—and the utter scumbag who dragged it through the mud, doused it in kerosene, and burned it to a blackened crisp—and it feels like an eternity.
Some things, you only sort of get over.
Some things, you don’t forget.
Hold the pity party, Dakota. You’re better off without him. You’re a thousand miles from home, smack in the middle of a whole new life, I tell myself.
Eyeballing the gluttonous offerings in the bakery case helps.
It’s true. I have rebuilt. Kind of.
I left that small-town dreariness and its regrets behind. I have an interview next week for a job that slaps, and if I don’t get it, I’ll keep applying until I land something with big-girl pay and a real opportunity to flex my writing muscles.
Without my great escape last summer in a halo of tears, I wouldn’t be here in Seattle, practically drooling at the sugar-rich delicacies that all seem to have my name on them.
I’d have less time to focus on my writing, too, and I’d still be interning in that one-room closet masquerading as a marketing agency.
Yay, heartbreak.
Yay, Jay Foyt.
His stupidity gave me a whole new life.
“You hungry or did you just come here to admire the goods? Can I get you something?” The barista appears behind the bakery case with a girlish laugh.
“Huh? Oh, sorry—” Dammit, Dakota, get out of your head. “Can I get a Regis roll and a small caramel nirvana latte?”
“Coming right up!” She smiles and uses tongs to grab a huge cinnamon roll drizzled in icing. It’s so fat I think it crosses time zones. “Lucky lady, you got the last one today! We’re a little short. Cinnamon shortage in the morning shipment—go figure.”
Lucky me.
If only my luck with pastries would rub off on other things. Like winning lottery tickets or cigar-chomping big shots in publishing ready to snap up my poetry. I’d even settle for a decent Tinder date who doesn’t have a fuckboy bone in his body.
Nope. I’m asking for too much.
Today, Lady Luck grants bargain wishes. She delivers the very last mound of sticky cinnamon sweetness in the case and point-three more pounds on my thighs.
I mean, it’s a start, right?
I move to the cash register and pay.
“Glad I got mine before you ran out,” I say, swiping my card. “I’ll be sure to savor the flavor—”
“What do you mean you’re out?” a deep voice thunders behind me. “I’ve been here at exactly this time three times a week since Christmas. You’re never out.”
Holy crap.
And I thought I was having a bad day...
I look back toward the bakery case to see what kind of ogre crawled out of his swamp to rant and rave over a missing cinnamon roll.
“Sorry, sir. The lady in front of you just bought the last roll,” the barista says, wearing a placating frown. “There’s a bit of a weird cinnamon shortage going around—”
“Are you telling me there isn’t another goddamned Regis roll in the entire shop?” The man is tall, built, and entirely pissed off.
“Er, no. Like I said...cinnamon shortage.” Barista girl flashes a pained smile. “The early bird got the worm, I’m afraid. If you’d like to try again tomorrow, we’ll save one for you.”
Barista girl nods at me matter-of-factly.
The ogre turns, whips his head toward me, and glares like his eyes are death rays.
Red alert.
So, he might be just as bad-tempered as the average ogre, but in the looks department, this guy is the anti-Shrek. If the green guy had abs that could punish and tanned skin instead of rocking his Brussels sprout glow, he might catch up to Hot Shrek in front of me.
My breath catches in my chest.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes like amber whiskey, flashing in the morning light.
If he weren’t snarling like a rabid wolverine, he might be hotter than the toasty warm roll in my hand. The
coolness of his eyes contrasts deliciously with dark hair, a furrowed brow, a jaw so chiseled it shames mere mortals.
He might be in his early thirties. His face looks young yet experienced.
The angles of that face match the cut of his body. He’s toned like a former quarterback and dressed like he just walked off the set of Suits.
He is a Gucci-wrapped cocktail handcrafted for sin.
Every woman’s dark vampire fantasy come to life—or maybe just mine.
When you’re a Poe—distant, distant relation to Edgar Allan—it comes with the territory.
I definitely wonder if he woke up with a steaming mug of rudeness this morning to plaster that scowl on his face.
I’m starting to notice a pattern in this city. What is it with Seattle minting grumps who look like sex gods?
Is it something in the rain?
Worse, he towers over me, the picture-perfect strongman with a chip on his shoulder that entitles him to roar at the world when it doesn’t fall down at his feet.
Although he’s annoyingly gorgeous, and his suit probably costs half my yearly salary, I wonder. What gets a man this fire-breathing pissed over missing his morning sugar high?
Sure, I’ll be the first to admit that Regis rolls are almost worth losing your mind over. Almost.
While Hades stares, I roll my eyes back at him and follow the curve of the counter to wait for my drink.
Precious distance.
After grumbling for a solid minute, he swipes his card like a dagger at the cash register and follows me around the counter.
Uh-oh.
Surely, he’s not going to confront me.
He wouldn’t.
Oh, but he’s right next to me now.
Still glaring like I murdered his firstborn.
He pulls out his wallet, opens it, and plucks out a crisp bill, shoving it at me like it’s on fire.
“Fifty dollars,” Hot Shrek growls.
“Come again?”
“Fifty bucks. I’ll pay you five times its value for the trouble.”
“What?” I blink, hearing the words but not comprehending them.
He points to the white paper bag in my hand holding my little slice of heaven. “Your Regis roll, lady. I’ll buy it off you.”
“Wait, you just...you want to buy my cinnamon roll that bad?”
“Isn’t that what I just said? And it’s a Regis roll,” he corrects sharply. “You know, the kind worth dying over? The original recipe cooked up in Heart’s Edge, Montana, and approved by a scary burned guy who’s been all over the national media and keeps getting cameos in movies?”
I laugh. That’s exactly what Sweeter Grind’s ads promise about the otherworldly Regis roll, a creation of Clarissa and Leo Regis, two small-town sweet shop owners made famous by some crazy drama a few years back.
“Never mind,” he snaps. “You want to make this sale or what?”
“You should do commercials,” I tell him with a huff. “Is that what this is? Some strange guerrilla marketing thing?”
I hold my breath. At least that would explain Mr. GQ Model going absolutely ballistic over something so trivial.
Also, it’s the one-year anniversary of the most humiliating day of my life.
I need this roll like I still need to believe there’s a shred of goodness in this world. What kind of psycho tries to buy someone’s cinnamon roll off them for five times the price, anyway?
“Do I look like a comedian?” he snarls, his eyes rolling. “Fifty dollars. Easy money. Trade.”
“Dude, you’re insane,” I whisper back.
“Dudette,” he barks back, slightly more frantic. “I assure you, I am not. I need that roll, and I’m willing to pay you generously. I trust you need the money more than I do.”
I scoff at him so hard my face hurts.
Rub it in, why don’t you? I guess I should up and be amazed you’re deigning to talk to us ‘little people,’ your pastry-obsessed highness.
“It must be nice, oh Lord of the Pastries. What do I get for an apple pie? A laptop?” I shake my head.
His done-with-your-bullshit glare intensifies.
“Dakota!” A male barista calls my name and plunks my drink on the counter.
Awesome. There’s my cue to exit this asylum and head back to the springtime sanity outside where birds tweet and flowers bloom and nobody goes to war over cinnamon shortages.
I grab my drink and start for the door.
“Wait!” Hot Shrek calls. “Dakota.”
Ughhh.
My name shouldn’t sound so deliciously rough on a man’s lips. Especially not a man offering exorbitant sums to strangers for their baked goods.
Knowing I’ll regret this, I stop and meet his eyes.
“What?” I clip.
“We haven’t finished.”
“Right. Because there’s no deal,” I snap, turning again.
Okay. Before, I was just looking forward to stuffing my face with sticky goodness. Now, I need this flipping cinnamon roll like oxygen.
If I spite the hottest freak who crawled out of the ogre swamp, I’ll have something to laugh about later.
True to the promise I made the barista, I’ll savor the flavor while wallowing in a little less of my own misery and reminding myself I’m living a better life now—which apparently includes handsome stalkers begging to throw cash at me.
“Wait. I need it more than you do. I swear,” he says harshly, grabbing my shoulder and spinning me around.
I bat his hand away, doubly annoyed and taken aback.
“You’re insane. Touch me again and I’ll press charges for robbery. It’s a cinnamon roll, dude. Calm down and come back tomorrow when they’re replenished.” I panic chug my latte and walk out the door.
Hot Stalker Shrek is undaunted.
He trails me outside as I stroll into the Seattle sunshine, taking a deep breath.
“Seventy-five!” he calls after me.
“What?”
“Seventy-five dollars.”
“Um, no.” I speed walk to the bike rack and unlock my wheels with one hand, balancing the Regis roll and the latte in the other.
“One hundred dollars even,” he belts after me.
Holy Moses. How high will he go?
“One fifty!” he calls two seconds later.
There goes my jaw, crashing to the pavement.
A chill sweeps through me. I’m worried we’re leaving eccentric waters for clinically crazy.
Part of me wants to keep him talking just so he doesn’t carry me off to his evil lair. I imagine a storage shed stacked to the ceiling with crumpled cinnamon roll boxes.
“Did you really just offer me a hundred and fifty dollars for a cinnamon roll?” I place the latte in a cup holder on my handlebar and climb on the bike.
He gives me an arctic look, like he knows he’s got me now and I’ve already accepted his bizarro deal.
“You’re welcome. You can Uber and still have a nice chunk of change.”
I scan him up and down, purposely glancing at his polished leather shoes a second too long. In another time and place, I’d take a nice big sip of my latte and spray it on his shoes but...that’s not how I roll.
I have my dignity. I plan to have a little more of it when I’m safely away from here, too.
“This may come as a shock, but not all of us worship money, King Midas,” I say.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says with a snort, squaring his hulking shoulders.
“You’re a nutter. Like actually insane.” My eyes flick to his wrists for good measure, legit wondering if I’ll see a hospital band.
“I am not. Have you ever tasted a Regis roll? Seattle’s top food critic described them as—what was it? A category ten mouth-gasm?”
My lips twitch. I try like hell not to burst out into a blushing laugh.
“Man, I am not discussing mouth-gasms with you,” I say.
“You’re missing the point,” he says sharply. “He
lp me and help yourself, Miss Dakota. We never have to see each other again and you’ll be three hundred dollars richer.”
“Three...hundred?” I say slowly, my mouth falling open.
“You heard me.” His eyes flash with hope and triumph, and he starts reaching for his wallet.
Stay strong.
Invisible crucifix.
Latte holy water.
Do not be tempted by Lucifer.
“See, you’re not making your case. Just further proving your insanity.” I eye him warily. Maybe there’s some wild story behind how he stole this suit and he really did just escape some mental institution.
That would be the most believable explanation for what’s happening.
Honestly, a lot less scary than thinking guys who look like billionaires want to spend their time reverse robbing strangers for their pastries.
“Five hundred dollars, damn you,” he rumbles. “Final offer.”
My jaw detaches from my face.
Five hundred flipping smackers?
That’s more than my student loan payment this month. Almost half my rent. I’m tempted to sign my soul away, but my fingers clench the bag tighter, demanding me to be brave.
Not today, Coffee Shop Satan.
A smile that’s almost comically pleading pulls at his lips.
Damn. Somehow, he’s even hotter when he smiles and makes those puppy dog eyes. A face like his should come with a warning.
“I see that got your attention,” he whispers.
“Did it?”
“Your mouth dropped,” he says, making me keenly aware his gaze is fixed on my lips. I don’t even know what to do with that.