One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Read online

  I have to bite my cheek to hold in a laugh. I hope this firecracker moonlights in stand-up comedy.

  “You’re a riot. And if there is such a country, it sounds like they’d better make you an ambassador. You’re fluent in the neighboring asshole dialect.”

  She shrugs, finally taken aback, glancing away sharply.

  “I was being serious. You suck,” she says, still avoiding my eyes.

  “And you think you’re cute,” I fire back.

  “No, but apparently you do,” she says, finally looking at me.

  I fold my arms, waiting for whatever bullshit she’s about to fling.

  She grins. “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t think so.”

  Fuck.

  Cute is an understatement. There’s no denying she’s gorgeous.

  She just happens to be a coldhearted, ruthless, pastry-stealing queen bitch on top of it.

  “Sir? I have your cinnamon rolls packed up. Are you ready to check out?” the barista says like a voice cutting in from another world.

  “Almost. I need a box of black coffee, too.”

  The barista nods, moves to the back counter, and preps my coffee.

  “I hope all that’s for the miserable souls who have to put up with you,” the little thief says.

  “It’s for my staff. I feed my people well so they can keep up with me,” I grumble, knowing that’s only half true.

  “Keep telling yourself that, Big shot.” She goes quiet for a minute before clucking her tongue and saying, “You would have a staff.”

  “What’s that mean?” I ask slowly.

  Why do I even care?

  I don’t know this chick from Eve and what I know about her, I despise. Who cares what she thinks about me? I don’t, and I hope today is enough for her to buzz off.

  With any luck, she’ll pick a different cafe and I’ll never see her again. It’s a big city, or at least big enough.

  I pay for the coffee and sweets without looking back at that literal green-eyed monster. The barista hands me three neatly packaged boxes of cinnamon rolls and a huge box of hot coffee.

  I didn’t plan on ordering breakfast for the whole company this morning.

  I haven’t thought this balancing act through, hoisting the coffee on my shoulders and heading for the door. I try to carry everything, but have to set it all down, reposition things, and try again at the table by the door.

  The devil in the black dress lingers there as she waits for her bear claw, watching as I finally manage to get everything stacked in a way so I can trudge out the door.

  That’s all right, sweetheart. Don’t get the door for me. I can manage just fine.

  She must read my mind because she smiles at me.

  “I’d like to help, but...”

  “Offer not accepted. Save your energy for that breakfast you’ll pretend to enjoy,” I snarl, kicking the corner of the door open and spinning my way out.

  Her high-pitched laugh is the last thing I hear.

  I roll my eyes, swearing as a broken section of sidewalk catches my shoe. I almost drop hot coffee on my feet three times before I make it back to my car.

  * * *

  “Oh my God. Oh my Gawd, this is heaven,” Lucy moans as she gnaws at a Regis roll and drops into the seat between Ida and me with a thud.

  Apparently, eating for two makes you treat a pastry like it’s a wagyu steak.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  She’s going to pop any minute, and I’d rather it not happen here. I also wish her the best.

  I don’t know how this office—especially yours truly—will survive her maternity leave. As my executive assistant, Lucy keeps the place in order so I can focus on what I do best. Making money.

  “Oh, I’m fine.” She takes another bite that makes her eyes bulge. “Say, since when do you sit in on interviews?”

  “I told him it wasn’t necessary,” Ida, my HR director, says with a flourish of her skunk-striped silver and black hair. “It’s a senior copywriter position.”

  “Not just any copywriter position,” I correct. “This new wedding line stands to make us billions of dollars—if it’s marketed properly. I’m personally invested when the talent will make or break us. Besides, anyone we bring on right now has to be fully competent. You’re about to go on maternity leave, Lucy, so that means I can’t have new hires who need endless coddling. There’s no time. Anyone we hire has to hit the ground running.”

  Lucy laughs. “I love being essential. How will you survive without me around here, boss?”

  “We’ll manage,” I snap, hating that she has to rub her absence in. “Just get back as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll get him a temp,” Ida says.

  “Ugh, good freaking luck. That never works out. It’s usually worse than not having any assistant at all,” Lucy says, wincing. “If you really want, I can try to sort your emails and the small stuff from home.”

  “Like hell. I won’t have you working with a newborn. I’m not a complete ogre,” I say, raking a hand through my hair.

  “Not only that, but it’s against the law, boss,” Ida remarks. Leave it to an HR director to bring legalese into it and downplay my generosity.

  She shrugs. “Hey, as long as I’m getting paid. I’m happy to help however I can when I’m not sneaking in naps.”

  “Just take care of your kidlet and be ready to put out any fires when you get back. Mark my words. Shit will fall apart,” I tell them.

  “Well, it’s nice to be needed.” She takes another heaping bite of the roll and lets out a moan of pure bliss.

  “Stop that. We’re having breakfast before an important interview, not recording adult audiobooks here,” I snarl.

  Lucy and Ida share a laugh.

  “And what would you know about erotic audiobooks, Mr. Burns?” Ida asks.

  “Not enough to play into anything that would invite the ire of corporate harassment policies,” I say.

  “Is that why everyone loves these things so much? They’re better than sex?” Lucy twirls the last knob of her roll in her hand, staring at it.

  Her words are jumbled because she’s still chewing. She swallows loudly.

  I don’t dignify her musings with a response.

  Thankfully, Anna Patel walks in a second later. My marketing head wears her usual bright colors like she just stepped out of a van Gogh painting. Today, it’s a vivid yellow dress. Exactly the person I need to whip our focus back on business and not on erotic cinnamon rolls or whatever the fuck.

  “Good morning.” She hands me and Lucy a copy of the resumé in question before she sits beside Lucy. “I have a good feeling about this candidate, Mr. Burns. She could be the one.”

  I scan the resumé. The name jumps off the page.

  Dakota Poe.

  I snort.

  “Any relation to Edgar Allan?” I mutter out loud, looking up. I haven’t read any of his morbid classics since I was in high school, but you never forget one of the few authors who made sophomore English class interesting. “Did Mr. Poe give up his stint in poetry for a junior level copywriting position?”

  Everyone groans.

  Apparently, they like my audiobook jokes better.

  I’m not nearly as impressed as Anna with the prospect, either. Hell, this is probably one of those social media hotshots who legally changed their name to make themselves look more appealing. I don’t need gimmicks. I’ll even take solid work over experience at an alphabet company.

  “She is quite good at copywriting, though it looks like she dabbles in poetry too.”

  I meet Anna’s eyes.

  “So, Poe’s a woman? How do you know?”

  “I checked out her website. She’s done rather nice work for smaller companies. I don’t think she’s worked with an organization this large before, but if she brings the same creativity here that she’s shown in her portfolio, she could freshen up the big campaign.”

  My brows pull down, my skepticism growing by the second.

  “How many other candidates are there?”

  “Well...I got about a hundred resumés, but only three candidates worth talking to. If the three musketeers don’t work out, the only thing I can think of is sending the job requisition back to HR and having it reposted.”

  “I can repost it if we need to,” Ida says.

  Lucy sighs. “I hope it doesn’t come to that. We need someone now. The clock is ticking to get them trained in.”

  She points at her bulging belly. The other women laugh.

  That’s the God’s truth and I hate it.

  “Good help is damnably hard to find. We’ll work with the three you’ve narrowed down and hope one of them can hack it,” I tell them.

  “The sooner we get started, the better,” Anna says.

  “With the earnings potential of this line, I agree, Miss Patel.” Maybe I’ll catch a lucky break today. I can’t afford more delays.

  The receptionist peers into the open door. “Your nine o’clock is here.”

  “Send her in,” I say immediately.

  She disappears and comes back a second later with a striking green-eyed blond whose black dress fits her like a glove. If this is Miss Poe, she has a ravenesque figure, everything except for the stark white-gold hair that almost reminds me of—

  Wait.

  Hold the fucking phone.

  It’s not that she looks familiar.

  The realization feels like a bullet between the eyes.

  What the hell kind of sick, psychotic joke is this?

  I whirl around in my chair, glaring at my staff one by one, already trying to suss out the traitor. Only, nobody’s hiding a red-faced laugh at my expense behind their hand.

  Anna stands, completely normally, and holds out her hand.


  “Anna Patel, I’m the marketing director. Nice to meet you.”

  The green-eyed, pastry-thieving witch flashes a wide smile. “Dakota Poe. It’s great to meet you.”

  Fuck.

  Her name was Dakota, wasn’t it?

  Ida shuffles out of her chair and moves behind me to shake Dakota’s hand. “I’m Ida, the HR director.”

  I can’t even bring myself to look at her.

  I have no intention of shaking this woman’s—anything.

  This will be a short interview, and the poor girl doesn’t realize it. She hasn’t made eye contact with me yet.

  Lucy grasps the arm of her chair and launches herself—baby belly and all—out of her seat. After the Herculean effort, it would be ridiculous of me not to stand, I suppose.

  Biting my tongue, I try not to roll my eyes out of my head as I scramble to my feet woodenly.

  Lucy holds her hand out next.

  “Lucy Smith, I’m EA to our CEO, Lincoln Burns, but I pretty much run the show around here,” she jokes.

  “Great to meet you,” Dakota says with a friendly smile I’ve never seen on that face before.

  “The pleasure is all mine, but if you don’t mind, I’m going to sit back down,” Lucy tells her.

  “Of course,” Dakota says.

  My turn.

  I suddenly have a horrible need to see how far this punk-ass prank goes.

  Slowly, I push past Lucy and extend my hand.

  Raven chick looks up with the guarded expression of someone meeting their life’s gatekeeper.

  Our eyes connect. I wait.

  Then comes grim realization.

  Her breath hitches, a gasp so tiny I think the women miss it.

  She corrects her reaction immediately, but not before I see the way her eyes go wide and round when my face clicks in her memory.

  Goddamn, that feels good.

  I bet she regrets stealing Wyatt’s Regis roll now.

  Is she hearing a record scratch? Are the bitter words she said to me this morning playing through her head right now like a cheesy comedy film?

  I’d like to help, but...

  Because they’re damned sure on repeat in mine.

  I’m half expecting a laugh track to go off from nowhere and to see Seinfeld’s Kramer come skidding through the door next.

  Poe fidgets with her hands and stands on the other side of the table with her lips trembling. The red, defiant anger I’m used to seeing looks drained from her pale face, her eyes whirling with confusion.

  How does it feel to be cornered, Nevermore?

  “Have a seat,” I bite off, forcing a too-wide smile and gesturing to the table.

  Her hands fall to the chair closest to her.

  I point to the end of the table.

  “We’d like to have you closer. Try over there,” I say again, slowly and darkly.

  Dakota stares at me in horrible silence, then nods and moves to the end of the table, where she’ll be right next to me.

  Looks like my sweet revenge could gag an elephant.

  Lucy, Anna, and Ida all look at me, tossing curious looks around the room.

  “Just sit wherever you’re comfortable,” Anna says as Miss Poe lingers without quite sitting down.

  “She’s comfortable there,” I say matter-of-factly.

  She nods—too briskly—and pulls out the chair at the other end of the table.

  I turn my head to Anna again. “Miss Patel, would you kindly bring Miss Poe a cinnamon roll? I believe we have a few left in the box outside and I’m sure she’d enjoy one for visiting us today. Everyone in this city is practically ready to go to war over those rolls.”

  Anna nods at me and stands.

  Dakota throws up her hand, finally showing me a hint of the hellcat I’m used to. “No, Miss Patel. Thank you, but I’m good. The roll looks lovely, but I had a huge bear claw on my way in. I really can’t eat another bite.”

  Anna nods again with a polite smile and sits.

  “From Sweeter Grind?” I ask.

  Dakota looks at me like she’s drilling a hole in my head.

  “Is there anywhere else in Seattle worth the calories?”

  “I believe there are many places in this city where you can get delicious pastries,” I tell her. “Of course, the Regis rolls are their signature creation. People will fight over them.”

  “I suppose that’s true,” she says awkwardly.

  I shrug. “Maybe. Or maybe someone in front of you buys the last pastry in the whole place and refuses to sell it for a stupefying profit. Then you have no choice but to go somewhere else to satisfy your sweet tooth.”

  She holds my gaze. “Sounds like you value availability over quality, Mister—Mr. Burns, was it?”

  “Lincoln Burns,” I say harshly, giving a name to the sneer she won’t forget for the rest of her natural life.

  Such a shame.

  She has the right backbone to work long hours on a luxury line. Too bad I have a policy against hiring deranged pastry thieves who put pride over commonsense profit. Even if it’s not in the HR handbook, it’s my policy, made up right here.

  Still, I’m not above making her squirm like a worm on a hook for the next half hour.

  Anna and Lucy sit quietly, watching this baffling tennis match of words with muted, wondering looks. Finally, Anna clears her throat.

  “So, Miss Poe, I checked out your website,” Anna says. “You’ve done some excellent work. The project I was most interested in was the campaign you did for a local florist last year. That’s exactly the kind of creative edge we’re looking for. Can you tell us about it?”

  For a second, Poe looks at me. The eyes live up to her namesake, at least. A whole army of ghosts and nineteenth century killers dance in her gaze.

  “You heard Miss Patel. Can you?” I whisper slowly when she’s quiet for too long. “Expiring minds want to know,” I say, deliberately swapping out inquiring for expiring.

  I’d love to think I threw her off her game. Knocked her flat with the sheer shock of seeing me here, a hate note from the universe that what goes around comes around in spades.

  Only, she smiles, exuding an annoying confidence with teeth that seem too sharp.

  “I’d love to,” she says, locking those bewitching green eyes on me. “Let’s see, where do I begin...”

  3

  Only This And Nothing More (Dakota)

  “I’d love to. Let’s see, where do I begin...” I say, then everything goes right out the window.

  I can’t even remember the question.

  And it’s all thanks to the brute in the suit who’s painfully close to me, staring like he’s holding my death warrant.

  Breathe.

  So Hot Shrek—the Grand Duke of Dickheadistan himself—is on the interview panel. So what?

  There’s basically no chance you’re going to get this job, but you can still be the best candidate. You can make everyone else question his decision-making when he hacks up some sorry excuse for shooting you down.

  I draw in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

  “I was just asking if you could tell us about the project you did for the florist,” Anna says, cocking her head like she’s wondering if I’m okay.

  Right. It’s face-saving time.

  The job was for almost no pay and involved thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers. I slogged through it the same way I’ll strap on my mud boots today, too.

  “They were having a hard time competing with the bigger chain shops. Most of their previous campaigns focused on the flowers themselves. After studying competitors’ ads, I realized they focused more on the experience. So I asked the florist, ‘Why buy my bouquet from you instead of the place down the street?’ She said, ‘It will be every bit as beautiful at half the price.’ ‘Why do I care?’ At this point, she looked at me like I was dumb and told me, ‘You’ll save money. Obviously.’ But again, ‘Why do I care?’ She came back with, ‘Duh! You can use that money to fly to Hawaii with your new husband!’ And that’s what I went with. She gave me the perfect concept, unwittingly. A smiling couple leaving for their honeymoon with the bride still clutching her bouquet. The flowers were almost an afterthought when sentimentality makes brides buy flowers.” I pause, stretching my hands on the table. “Copywriting is all about emotion. We all like to think we make decisions based on logic, but really, most people let their hearts do the deciding.”