Perfect Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 2

  My phone buzzes from the passenger seat. I pick it up and tap it once.

  “Hey, don’t text and drive,” he calls from the back with a laugh.

  Probably the most intelligent words I’ve ever heard him say.

  But we’re parked and the text is from Beatrice Brandt—the whole reason I’m currently trapped in this well-paid torture session.

  Reese, hello. A quick word about tonight—Jorge Franca is a major partier, and so is Nick. Will you keep an eye on my grandson tonight, please? Don’t let him fall in over his head. It’s so easy when he gets carried away.

  Yep. A tinge of guilt strikes.

  For Beatrice Brandt, I’ll play chaperone and chauffeur for this cocky, intense man with more energy than my three-year-old niece and possibly worse decision-making skills.

  I guess that means I might have to get out of the car at some point, but I doubt he’ll notice.

  After a round or two of bottle service, he’ll probably be so lit he’ll still think I’m a dude.

  But Beatrice Brandt offered me three times my old pay with Cadillac benefits. If anyone’s truly stuck with the Brandt boys’ antics, it’s her.

  I just have to suffer with them a few times per week.

  I’m getting off easy.

  Setting my jaw tight, I nod to myself.

  A job so good it finally feels like a real career has to be worth a nuisance or ten, right?

  * * *

  I yawn, slapping myself lightly on the cheek.

  It’s almost one a.m. and I’m in a holding pattern. Nick and this big, bald, loud-mouthed business guy are still in the nightclub. I officially hit the bonus pay Beatrice promised in another text before midnight.

  I don’t mind because the money will make it easier to help Abby and the bumblebee.

  Even so, instinct doesn’t go down easy. The one thing this job lacks sometimes is a normal sleep schedule.

  Right now, with winter’s dark, frigid days, I’d do anything to be asleep and warm.

  Ward gets up before dawn, though, and he’ll want to get to the office immediately. My late night hauling Nick around is no excuse.

  Why couldn’t the two of them be twins? This week is going to be murder on my sleep.

  “Bossman, it’s ridiculous a man as old as you has to party this late,” I whisper.

  I stare at the neon lights of Dazzle, the club they went to, which looks like a back-alley drug den, from the outside. But in fairness to thirty-something-year-old Nick, Jorge looks twice his age and parties like a bull moose.

  What are they doing in there?

  I can hear the booming bass from across the street, inside a car with all the windows up. Every now and then, the beat vibrates the vehicle. So do the joyous screams erupting from inside the place.

  Forget “great time.”

  This sounds more like it might cause a small disruption in the Earth’s tectonic plates.

  Should I go in and try to convince Mr. Brandt to leave? I purse my lips, mulling it over.

  He probably doesn’t want to take orders from his driver, but I promised his grandmother I’d keep an eye on him. Then again, he’s as much my boss as she is, and I don’t want to piss him off either.

  Despite his incessant self-centered rambling, at least he talks at me.

  Sometimes.

  A self-absorbed jerk, yes, but at least he does more than grunt at me like his brother.

  This is the third club they’ve hit tonight, and every time, they’ve come back louder, drunker, and rowdier. I’ve been trying to figure out if Jorge’s club will be in Vegas or Chicago from the thundering chatter flying back and forth, but no dice.

  They’ve also been demanding some really awful techno music, too. I think my ears are bleeding. It’s probably for the best if I keep my mouth shut.

  I’m just the driver, after all.

  My phone buzzes.

  I almost jump out of my seat and then laugh.

  When I pick up the phone, I see a thumbs-up emoji from Nick and a message. At least he’s still sober enough to text.

  Can you pull up to the door? Not sure how far we’ll make it, Halle, my man. LOL. You should have come in. Plenty of girls damn near throwing themselves at anything in business casual.

  Yummy. That’s exactly what I need. Drunk girls and their drama.

  And Halle, my man?

  Kill me.

  I can’t believe this doofus still actually thinks I’m a guy—and apparently some kind of pathetic frat creature just as hellbent on partying it up as he is.

  “Ninety thousand dollars,” I mutter to myself like I’m saying the rosary. “Ninety-K a year. That’s food, shelter, comfort, and fun.”

  I pull up to the front door.

  It’s dark, but I make out Nick’s tall silhouette staggering toward the car, hanging on to a bulkier, tipsy load. With each step, he sways back a bit more.

  At the car, he throws open the back door, and the light illuminates him.

  He’s holding Jorge the client like he’s shepherding a drunken hippo.

  Also, they’re both covered in sweat and shirtless?

  What the actual hell?

  Before I can belt out a panicked question, my eyes catch on man-bait I’m convinced was planted by the devil himself.

  Holy Ohio.

  Nicholas Brandt has immaculate abs.

  I want to reach out and touch them, but I’d probably get fired. He’s beyond beautiful, his whole body tight like a corded whip, his fierce pecs glowing in a sheen of sweat.

  Is that a tattoo on his shoulder? He’s sporting one hulking, sculpted chest I’ll never unsee.

  But I told Beatrice I’d watch out for him.

  Staggering to the car drunk and shirtless can’t be a good thing for Nick or the company.

  I look into the rearview mirror, catch Nick’s brilliant green eyes, and raise a brow.

  That mischievous bad boy grin covers his face again, peeking out around a halo of dark stubble.

  God. How is this guy single?

  It’s by choice, I think to myself. Obviously. If he wanted a girlfriend, all he’d have to do is raise a finger and he’d have half the bachelorettes in Chicagoland lined up around the corner.

  “It’s a done deal, Halle. Brandt Ideas is locked and loaded for Jorge’s first American club. We’re building this man his very own Eden with a liquor license,” he says, loudly slapping the big man’s back.

  Jorge sputters out a messy laugh, groans, and then slumps over in the seat. I have to study him to make sure he’s still breathing, suddenly wishing I’d picked up a defibrillator just in case.

  Holding frustration in my lungs, I pull out of the parking lot.

  “Jorge is at the Palmer House. Drop him off first,” Nick says, gingerly rubbing the man’s brow as Jorge smacks his lips.

  It’d be kind of adorable, Nick playing caretaker to a guy who’s even wilder than he is, if only my boss didn’t look like he just walked off the set for a bad X-rated film.

  Where. Is. His. Shirt?

  I want to ask the question so bad, but with a client in the car, I’m better off keeping my mouth shut.

  So, I give Nick the only communication he’s come to expect from me.

  I nod.

  This time, when Nick grins back in the mirror, it’s sheepish. He throws his damp white shirt over his shoulder like a workout towel.

  Is he feeling a hint of shame? Does Nicholas Brandt do embarrassment?

  “Uh, since you’re probably wondering...there was a dance-off. I couldn’t just leave Jorge hanging. I had to jump in and help him.”

  Okay. That explains the sweat and Jorge’s near coma, but why are they shirtless?

  I raise an eyebrow. It’s all the encouragement Nick needs when he can only see my eyes in the mirror.

  “That place was overcrowded. Total zoo, packed wall to wall, and the heat was cranked up like a sauna. We were packed in like sardines and dancing gets pretty damn physical when you’re trying to
win. So, we lost our shirts. That got a standing ovation.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror to catch another glimpse of Jorge. His man boobs sag. One guess who the applause was for.

  He flops over in the seat and snores.

  Good luck getting him out at the hotel, boss.

  At least Nick’s underwear model vibe saved the day. I’ve glanced at his Instagram a few times and there’s an obvious pattern in every photo where he’s on some tropical beach, all glowing muscle.

  Likes, comments, and marriage proposals through the roof.

  Whatever else he is, the man could give Hercules himself some brutal competition.

  “I’m sure my dance moves will light up the tabloids by tomorrow, but whatever,” he says. “It’s nothing I haven’t dealt with before. Sometimes it’s the price of business, and I like closing deals.”

  I nod.

  Nick slumps back in his seat and belts out a laugh, still watching my eyes in the mirror.

  “Dude, why are you always so quiet? Are you pissed at me? Does late-night driving like this keep you from a hot date or something?”

  For a second, I bite my lip. He actually pauses long enough to answer. Long enough to blow my cover.

  But Abby said have fun with it, didn’t she?

  I shake my head.

  Driving him around reminds me why staying single feels like the smartest idea ever.

  We don’t inhabit the same universe.

  He’s made of drive, abs like Jason Momoa, and a splash of stupid. All he does is work his butt off and dive into debauchery the second he’s off the clock—or in this case, still technically on it.

  Nicholas Brandt is my new anti-date. The man has heartbreak written all over him, if we pretend for a second there’s some whacked-out scenario where I’d ever wind up dating a man like him.

  No way.

  A drive with Brandt a day keeps Tinder at bay.

  Also, I wish he’d put his shirt on. Stovetop abs aside, it’s hella awkward escorting your half-dressed boss around.

  “You’re going to party with me one day,” he says quietly with a low growl. “I’m going to find out what makes you tick.”

  I’m tempted to tell him I flat-out don’t party with my boss. It would be beyond inappropriate, but he’s drunk. I’m just hoping he won’t remember this conversation in the morning.

  I pull up to the Palmer House while Nick snaps out of his haze.

  He taps Jorge on the shoulder. The big businessman doesn’t wake up until my boss locks a hand around each shoulder and starts shaking him.

  “Eh?” Jorge sits up, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “Huh?”

  “We’re at your hotel, buddy.” Nick steps out of the car and holds the door open wider, ignoring the bitter Chicago wind sweeping over his naked back.

  It’s a five-minute spectacle waiting for Jorge to move his feet just the right way to exit the car. He almost falls face-first in the dusting of snow.

  Nick catches him, somehow—no easy thing considering his bulk. He’s lucky. Losing a client to death by drunken slip after closing a good-sized deal would suck.

  “Jorge, what’s your room number?” Nick asks.

  “Three...three thirty-five. I think,” he grunts.

  Nick nods. “Can you walk?”

  Jorge mumbles something in Portuguese I don’t follow, but it sounds like a litany of curses. He doubles over, then takes a step and tilts forward again.

  Bossman laughs with a confidence I can’t believe he has, considering the situation.

  “Don’t worry, man. We got you.” He peers into the car. “Halle, can you step out? I need a hand.”

  Oh, boy. I signed up for babysitting as a favor to Beatrice, but this...this can’t be in the job description.

  He wants me to help him drag a shirtless drunken man to his hotel room?

  I stare at him with an open mouth, mentally tallying all the ways I don’t get paid enough for this, even with an awesome salary.

  Nick shrugs, staring me down with this grumpy expression.

  “I get it, it’s not part of the job description. I’ll remember this when the time comes for quarterly bonuses. Impress me, get paid, and we can get drinks on me,” he says matter-of-factly.

  Yikes.

  Yeah, no way is that happening. Not for any bonus. I do have principles.

  I also don’t drink with my boss, especially now that I’ve seen what happens when he drinks.

  But he’s waiting.

  Giving me the sternest look ever as a shiver finally rolls through me.

  “Idiot,” I mouth quietly before climbing out of the car.

  The bulky coat surrounds me like a cloak, hiding me and keeping me warm.

  Thank God. Right now, I don’t want this dumbass to figure out I’m a woman, and I appreciate the extra cloth between me and Man Boobs.

  Nick hooks one of Jorge’s arms over his own shoulder. I do the same, and together my shirtless boss and I drag his equally naked client through a fine hotel lobby, up an elevator, and down a hall to his room.

  “Jorge? Where’s your key card?” the boss asks.

  Jorge leans against the wall and doesn’t answer, grunting and batting his eyes.

  Lovely.

  “Do you have your key?” he asks again, his voice steady and surprisingly calm.

  He’s way too patient. I’m ready to slap this guy if he doesn’t move his butt in the next three seconds. Then again, Nick’s about to make a bazillion bucks off the big man, and I’m not.

  Jorge says something but his speech is so slurred neither of us understand him.

  “What?” Nick asks.

  “Svbackic. Pocket.”

  “Huh?”

  “Pocket!” Jorge snaps.

  Nick might be a patient drunk, but Jorge isn’t.

  His eyes connect to mine.

  I shake my head. This is where I draw the line. No freaking way am I reaching into a strange man’s pants pocket to pull out his room key.

  “I’ll give you a raise,” Nick bites off. “Do it.”

  I shake my head. Lines have been drawn and I’m not crossing them.

  “Damn,” he mutters. “Which pocket? Jorge?”

  “Svbackic.”

  “What?”

  “B-b-back.”

  Nick sticks his hand into the back pocket closest to him and rummages around.

  “Not that one.” He reaches over, slides his hand into Jorge’s other back pocket, and his eyes light up. He pulls out a sleek white plastic card.

  A second later, he waves it in front of the card reader. We both shuffle-haul Jorge inside and tumble him down on a California king bed.

  “Our work here’s done,” Nick says, dusting off his hands.

  I swallow a groan.

  The worst part is how casual he is. Like he’s used to this sort of thing.

  If this is a regular night at Brandt Ideas, I wonder what I’ve signed up for. Because we’ve already dragged this guy through a hotel, to his room, and my boss had to frisk him for the key.

  I’m still marinating in the client’s club-sweat.

  Yeah. I’m officially not sure how much more I can take.

  Taking an hour-long shower the second I get home excites me more than any fat paycheck.

  A chill rolls down my spine when I imagine how late it’ll be after I scrub myself clean.

  “Halle, you okay?” Nick snaps, shifting into no-nonsense mode. A hint of concern flashes in his eyes.

  I sink my chin down into the coat, pull my cap down, and nod, following him out the door.

  “Some days we really earn our pay, right?” he mutters, stabbing at the elevator button once we’re inside.

  Whatever you think, dude. I hang back, not even wanting to share oxygen with this prick.

  I need this night to end.

  The steel doors ding open, and we march through the lobby.

  I try to forget I’m wasting my night away with a gorgeous bare-chested man who happens t
o be my boss, and who still thinks I’m a man.

  I’ve gotta love the confidence boost. It’s always been my dream to play mistaken identity. That’s why I run my butt off every day, wear makeup, get my hair done.

  All so this self-absorbed maniac can cut me down every time he cracks a terrible man joke or calls me by my last name like I’m just another guy.

  I cross my arms in front of my chest as we head outside.

  “You okay?” he asks again.

  I’d be a lot better if you quit asking. Somehow, that doesn’t seem like an appropriate line for your boss, but God, do I really want to chuck it at his head.

  Ninety thousand dollars.

  Ninety. Thousand. Dollars.

  That’s what I’m going to be chanting in an asylum with my arms pinned to my sides if I don’t get home soon.

  We finally make it to the shiny black town car, waiting loyally on the curb right where I left it.

  “Is this yours?” the doorman asks.

  I nod.

  “You’re lucky. You already have a parking ticket. We were just about to have it towed.”

  Yep. A stark white envelope sticks out of the windshield wiper.

  Nick Brandt, you are such an idiot.

  I pull the envelope from the wipers and hand it to him.

  “Fuck, these traffic cop tattletales are so annoying. I’ll take care of it tomorrow,” he growls, wrinkling his nose.

  I wish we could all be so carefree.

  He climbs in the back seat and lets out a salacious groan when he feels the heated seat on his back. I try not to wonder if it’s the same sound he’d make in bed, sans the rest of his clothing.

  I walk around the car and get into the driver’s seat. We actually move a few miles before his voice grates my ears like nails on a chalkboard again.

  “Thanks for all the help tonight, man,” he says quietly.

  Oh my God.

  “You’re so not welcome, jackass,” I mouth to the windshield.

  “I got desperate with the keycard. My bad. I’ll make sure you get a good bonus anyway, Halle. You’re good help and that’s damn hard to find.”

  Can you make sure I get some sleep too? I wonder.

  I glance at the clock on the console. Two thirty a.m. and I still have to take him home before returning to my apartment. Then, after the world’s longest shower, I can sleep for an hour before I leave to pick up Ward.