Perfect Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 3

  F-M-L.

  I may have bags under my eyes tomorrow—not that it matters, since apparently I look like a dude regardless. I should just give up my straightening iron and cosmetics, ’cause they’re not doing it. But at least I’ll have a nice fat paycheck coming up to put toward my future man cave.

  I almost pick up another ticket, speeding to Brandt’s penthouse.

  “Can you turn on some music? The XM?” he asks.

  I mash the third button on the stereo for the satellite radio, pre-programmed as his station.

  He lets out a low chuckle.

  “You’re such a quiet one, dude.” He flings his arm out like he’s holding a whip in the back seat. “But I like it, man. I get it. Pensive. Mysterious. You’re basically Batman.”

  I wish I had millionaire superhero money. Then I’d be about as rich as my freak of a boss, and not regretting this joke of a day care job disguised as a corporate driver.

  It’s a mercifully quick drive from the hotel to his penthouse. I feel better already.

  If I’m lucky, I’ll be rid of his assholery for a whole twenty-four hours.

  2

  Double Take (Nick)

  Six Weeks Later

  Halle’s in the town car, waiting for me at the curb like the loyal monk he is.

  It’s strange, spending so much time with a driver who’s taken a vow of silence. Usually, I can get anyone to talk to me.

  Not him.

  He’s a closed book. At least the guy’s always on time. Ready to rock and roll at the snap of my fingers.

  He’s steady. Reliable. And today, I can’t get away from this damnable meeting fast enough.

  My phone vibrates on the way to the car. I get in before checking it.

  Of course, I know what’s waiting.

  More about my shirtless dancing escapades with Jorge Franca. I slam the phone down with an annoyed grunt as I slide across the leather seat.

  “Can you believe they’re still talking about this horseshit? It’s been six weeks, Halle. Six fucking weeks and now we know nobody in the Chicago press has a life. They all have to obsess over mine. I mean, I get it. I’m rich and handsome and brilliant, but come on. I can’t carry this whole city on my shoulders. I’m not Zeus.”

  Halle clears his throat and mutters something that sounds like “Atlas.”

  Hmm, quite the reaction for this guy.

  I’m surprised he said that much.

  “Yeah, whatever. Greek mythology was never my specialty. When you’re ripped and you can dance, I guess it’s par for the course. I know, I should shut up and take my licks and be glad that night went as well as it did. Too bad Grandma and Ward started clutching their pearls over it as usual. They’re fine with the half-billion-dollar deal I signed, of course. Jorge even sent me a thank you for the best night of his life. Ward should be groveling on his hands and knees for the next year. If I weren’t the black sheep, shit, he would be.”

  I grit my teeth too loudly. Halle lets out this oddly shrill snicker.

  If I’m making an ass of myself for his amusement, so be it.

  Let’s be real.

  Most of this crap would blow over if Roland Osprey—or Birdshit as I affectionally call him—and his pathetic little piss blog at The Chicago Tea would leave me the fuck alone. The guy lives to make us look bad—everybody named Brandt who doesn’t have a Beatrice in front of it.

  I wish Grandma’s latest architectural masterpiece was all this city wanted to jack itself off to.

  Ever since my parents scandalized themselves in a boating accident with America’s next heartthrob actor—and kinda sent the ship and the star to the bottom of Lake Michigan—being a Brandt has sucked more than wealth and fame ever should.

  Thinking about it ignites my blood, and I gnash my teeth together.

  “That jackass at The Tea never plays fair, you know. I’m sure you’ve seen his articles. He tweaked a few videos to make me look drunker than I was. Hell, I was almost sober by the time we were dancing, remember?”

  “No comment,” a soft feminine voice trills with a sigh.

  Whoa. Hold up.

  It’s almost...musical.

  I glance into the passenger seat and lean forward to see if Halle’s chauffeuring some secret little honey today.

  Nah, it’s just us. I look at him closer, trying to figure out what’s going on.

  It can’t be him. It’s me.

  It has to be the stress.

  Shit, I need to get my ears checked. I’m either hearing things or losing my mind or both.

  I laugh it off, raking my fingers through my wavy hair.

  “You’re a wise man, keeping a low profile. You don’t end up on trashy rumor blogs that way. I should start dressing like a sea captain too. Great disguise. I’d get a cool hat like yours, too.”

  Halle goes quiet again, his pale-blue eyes fixed on the road.

  “Ah, who’m I kidding? Call me depraved, but I like the attention,” I say coldly. “The spotlight’s as drawn to me as I am to it. Nothing like an earthquake or two to shake things up in this cold-ass city. Don’t you ever want to shake things up, man?”

  I lean forward, waiting for his answer.

  He gives me nothing.

  Fucking Bat-man.

  I bite back an amused grin.

  Before I can throw any more crap at him, great sport that he is, my phone pings with the day’s twentieth email. I scan over Ward’s latest threat to string me up by my balls if I don’t have a supplier by the end of the day for the glass palace Jorge wants to plop in downtown Chicago, and start typing furiously.

  By the time I look up, Halle’s pulling up to Brandt Ideas, and I rush off to my next meeting.

  * * *

  Move your ass. I hate these things as much as you do, but I’m here.

  I’m sitting in my penthouse, trying to unwind and thinking how much I want to get laid tonight, when the text from my big brother hits me.

  Oh, shit. I forgot. I grab my phone and reply, I’m there in spirit.

  Ward: You’re not here, Nick. I am. Like always.

  Bull. He gives himself too much credit.

  My grandmother always loved these things more than anyone else. “For our greatest assets—our employees,” she says.

  Which actually means a little quarterly dog-and-pony show where we show up and gush about how much we love our team. The people are great. Don’t get me wrong.

  It’s a morale booster, but I wonder how much more folks would like it if we just sent them home early with tequila? If the goddamned legal department would let us.

  I hate these stupid company-wide socials just as much as you. Why does Grandma make us do them again? I text back.

  Ward: The employees like them. Get over here. How is it I’m the office snob and you’re the fun one when you skip everything you can?

  I snort and send back, Because I’m better looking, Wart.

  Ha. The next text doesn’t come immediately so that must have shut him up for a while.

  He’s right. I do need to get to the office. My brother doesn’t scare me, but Grandma will have my ass on a silver platter if I don’t show up to her tea party.

  Whatever. At least the food’s usually good when we spend a small fortune pampering the people who keep our creations rising like pyramids.

  I text Halle. I need a ride to the office.

  I’m putting on my tie when his reply comes. Sorry. No can do. I’m already at the office and Mrs. Brandt doesn’t want me to leave.

  Damn it, Grandma. She ordered me there, then told the driver not to pick me up?

  My options are drive myself and waste an hour in traffic or walk. I glance out the window. A late winter storm whistles, sending white flakes cascading from the sky, turning the cityscape into a shaken snow globe.

  Walking is out, and that’s fine.

  I’ll just drive, which means, after looking for a parking spot, I’ll get there later. Probably much later.

  Yeah, I’m going
to get hell for this, but I might as well be prepared for it.

  I don’t like hanging out with random strangers. I know the people who work on my floor but not very well really beyond that. Most of the folks outside the executive team who think they know me get their impressions from the usual gossip blogs and clucking online tabloids.

  Hanging around people who expect me to bomb the party gets awkward, and unlike my grandmother, I don’t see what it accomplishes.

  Besides, I’ve been on Grandma’s shitlist so many times, my name might as well be etched on her toilet paper.

  An hour later, I stagger in and sit at a round table, sandwiched between Grandma and Ward.

  I take a bite of the best salami pizza ever when a pixie at the table in front of us stands. I’ve never seen her before.

  Caramel-dark hair, chopped into short curls just below her ears.

  The black silk of her dress trails behind her, hugging a grippable ass that makes my palm ache. She damn near floats.

  I can’t see her face from here, but from the way the dress outlines her hourglass shape—obvious even with the denim jacket hanging over it—I want to.

  “You home?” Ward waves a hand in front of my face, two fingers together, threatening to flick me between the eyes. “Wake up.”

  I shake my head. Why wouldn’t I be okay?

  That’s when I realize my pizza stopped at my lips. I took a bite and never moved my hand after I got distracted by the mystery woman.

  “Who’s she?” I ask, dropping the slice on my plate like it’s turned into cardboard.

  Ward follows my eyes with an annoyed look, then meets my gaze with a quipped brow.

  Grandma’s eyes trail to the table in front of us. She slaps my knee under the table.

  “First of all, stop gawking,” she whispers. “You can’t be serious. You see that lovely young woman every day and you don’t recognize her? You have her number, Nicholas. You used it tonight.” I blink at her as she pushes a hand across her face. “God help me, I’m starting to believe The Chicago Tea.”

  I roll my eyes. “Never believe a sewage pipe that gives fake news a bad name. Now, who is she?”

  “I believe it because you see her every day and have to ask. Although, I agree her work attire doesn’t entirely suit her.”

  Who? Doesn’t suit who?

  I feel like I’m in a psychological thriller or something.

  “Yeah, no. If I’d seen that sweet dream, I’d remember.” No question about it. I’d probably put in my two weeks’ notice so I could lure her to my bed, guilt-free. Hell, it doesn’t even have to be a bed.

  A quickie in the coat closet, the elevator, or the back of a car would do me just fine.

  “She drives you around every day, you dolt,” Ward snaps.

  I hear the words, but they don’t compute.

  Is this some sick joke? But they look so serious.

  Fuck, maybe I should see a shrink.

  Because I’m pretty sure all I’ve ever had driving me around is that mute, Halle.

  “No way. You’re wrong, Ward. Since when did we hire two drivers?” And how do I get in the back of this one’s car? Why am I always stuck with Halle the superspy while this beauty queen hauls my brother around?

  “We have one driver, dear.” Grandma sighs, pulling at a strand of her silver hair.

  “What? I don’t—I—she’s never driven me, okay? I’ve just had Halle carting me around for over a month,” I growl.

  Hell, Grandma probably arranged for him so she wouldn’t have to worry about me causing an incident with Miss Mysterio and HR.

  Grandma and Ward both stare at me like I’ve sprouted a twin head.

  “What?” I snap off. “Guys, you’re freaking me out. Just tell me how I get her to pick me up. It’s not fair that I’m stuck with Halle. If there’s another driver, I should know her.”

  Ward cracks first. He actually laughs—a full-throated belly chuckle. Rare for a man who could stand in for a sleep-deprived grizzly bear.

  “Sadly for her, that woman drives you, too,” he says, shaking off his smile.

  I roll my head from side to side.

  “Brother, you’re so full of crap. I think I’d remember—”

  “Nicholas,” Grandma starts, cutting in.

  “Don’t. Let him figure it out,” Ward says. “I’m having too much fun.”

  “And if he never does?” Grandma whispers, alarm in her voice.

  “One less thing to worry about.” Ward shrugs.

  So, this is a prank. Maybe they’ve decided to make me the evening entertainment.

  How are they having a whole conversation without me, pretending I’ve always known this alternate reality where a girl like her drives a schlub like me?

  “Figure what out?” I snarl, exasperated. “If this is some performance art, I’m not having fun. I’m hardly in the mood for—”

  It hits me like a falling brick to the skull.

  I stop mid-sentence.

  Hold the fucking phone.

  Grandma’s shocked out of her skin that I don’t recognize her. Ward said I’ve been driven by the same woman. Grandma chastised me for using her number without knowing her name. But outside of Ward, the only text I sent tonight was to—

  Holy fucking Halle, Batman.

  “She’s Halle?” The words creak out of my mouth like my tongue rusted over, so quietly I can’t believe they hear me.

  “One and the same.” Grandma laughs and nods, struggling not to tumble into a whole conniption fit of laughter.

  It’s official. I’ve made the worst impression in the known universe on our driver.

  Bad first impression, second impression, third, fourth, fifth impression.

  Bury me now, because there’s no coming back from this.

  My gut churns. My mind flicks back to the night she had to help me drag a shirtless beast into his hotel room after he almost passed out in the car.

  Of course, she was pissed.

  If I’d known, I would’ve never asked for her help. She squirmed when we got in the car that night.

  Again, no wonder.

  It must’ve been brutal having to drive her shirtless boss and his client around.

  “I’ve mucked this up,” I say.

  Ward shrugs. “As usual.”

  I scowl at him.

  “Don’t give me that look, Nicholas. It’s probably for the best. You’re clearly interested, and she’s an employee. Your own brain fart saved you from doing something stupid. Now apologize, move on, and live secure in the knowledge that she probably hates your guts and wouldn’t date you if you were the last man on Earth, competing with a mutant sea slug after all seven continents were nuked into slag. For the record, if I were a girl, I’d pick the radioactive slug, too.”

  Bastard.

  Ward’s right, though, as annoying as he is.

  Reese Halle’s an employee. What she thinks of me shouldn’t matter much other than the fact that I’ve been a legendary jackass and she deserves an apology.

  But she won’t accept it. There’s no reason she should, and the idea of this woman believing I’m an abominable creep makes me feel like a gutted trout.

  Said woman floats away, her delectable plum of an ass I desperately need to forget swinging behind her.

  Grumbling, I stand.

  “Where are you going?” Ward asks, an edge in his voice.

  “To make things right with her. Duh.”

  Grandma clears her throat. “Don’t lose your head. Remember, she works for us, and she’s very good at her job. A simple apology will do, Casanova.”

  “No Casanova! Not with this. I’m a professional, Grandma. I need to apologize. That poor woman, she...she had to help me drag Jorge into his hotel the night things got a little wild.”

  Grandma groans, pinching the bridge of her nose.

  “We’re lucky she didn’t file a harassment suit,” Ward says.

  “I didn’t know!” I throw back.

  “Beca
use you were drunk. The company receipt was a mile long when you had that stupid shot contest with our client,” he grinds out.

  “And I lost gracefully. That man scared me when I saw how much booze he could throw back.” I sigh. I’m tired of looking like the dumbass little brother to Ward’s business hardass image. “Also, having a stick up your ass a mile long wouldn’t have closed that deal. You didn’t seem to mind the digits it added to your net worth. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an apology to make.”

  “Completely chivalrous of you, I’m sure,” Ward snaps.

  I’ll argue with his grouchy ass later. The driver’s across the room now, and I have to catch up with her.

  I force myself over while she puts her plate and glass in the bin set out by the caterers and starts for the door, moving briskly.

  “Halle—wait!” I belt out.

  The next ten seconds could be a movie scene.

  She turns.

  Her heart-shaped face does justice to the rest of her. Young, fresh, innocent. The same pale-blue eyes I’ve always seen in the mirror look brighter on that face, perched above soft lips that look like they’re ready to demolish any man of her choosing.

  Goddamn. And I had her almost carrying a half-naked man. There’s no forgiveness for that.

  How could I be so dense? Is there actually something wrong with my brain?

  Without her cap and that military-grade winter coat, there’s no mistaking Reese Halle for a man.

  I’m just a colossal idiot.

  My eyes travel from her face, darting down her long neck to the sheer lace lining the hem of her fitted neck. Each breast rests neatly, snuggled separately in black silk.

  “Mr. Brandt?” A musical lilt calls my name.

  I can’t answer.

  I’m too distracted by the inward scoop of her abdomen followed by the curve of her hips. The dress is high in the front, exposing the creamy white of her legs from just above the knee down.

  “Mr. Brandt?” she asks again. “Did you need something?”

  Yeah, to swallow the bile slowly creeping up my throat before I yak all over her and complete my eternal shame.

  My gaze returns to her face.