Perfect Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Page 6

  “I’ve never seen you this well behaved,” I whisper when we’re settling in for presentations.

  “Don’t get used to it.” His delivery is ice-cold.

  I bite my bottom lip to keep from laughing.

  He glances at the program we were handed when we came in the door. “Which seminar can you stand? Our choices are Doctor Boring on green architecture or Miss Monotonous on functional flow.”

  “Again with the sexism.”

  “How was that sexist?” He quirks an eyebrow in challenge.

  “Boring gets to be doctor but Monotonous is miss. Isn’t it obvious?” I ask.

  “Bah, your oversensitivity is showing.”

  “Pointing out your rotten manners doesn’t make me oversensitive.”

  “Fact check: Boring’s first name is Tiffany. Both sessions this morning are being presented by women.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, Miss Halle, but it appears you’re the one with preconceived notions here.”

  “Me?” My fingers curl in sheer annoyance as I stab a finger at myself.

  “You assumed Doctor Boring was a man based on the title.” He makes a tsking sound and wags a finger I’m too tempted to bite off. “Disappointing. We need to get you into one of those workplace improvement jams with Susan.”

  I roll my eyes at him, but it’s kind of funny.

  “Hello, trouble! Haven’t seen you in a while.” A guy in a brown suit strolls up to Nick and extends his hand.

  Nick gives it a fierce shake. “How are you, Stanley?”

  “I’ll be a lot better once this shitstorm of a project ends.” The man sighs.

  Nick laughs. “What are you working on? It can’t be that bad.”

  “The money’s good, but the client couldn’t be more demanding.”

  “The bigger the payday, the badder the client,” Nick says smoothly.

  While he’s distracted talking to this architect, I take the opportunity to fade into the background. The Brandt charm works wonders here, and I’m reminded it’s everything I lack.

  I’m underdressed and underclassed at an event like this. And with engineers and architects speaking in technical jargon like it’s ancient Sumerian, I understand nothing.

  Whatever. I’ll take notes for Brandt, but they’ll be verbatim.

  I won’t be able to clarify things or decipher better phrases or flag what’s important. Why did he even want me for this gig?

  His own amusement?

  Ugh.

  Even so, my eyes wander. From the back, he’s a chiseled god, hugged by a charcoal suit with pale-blue pinstripes that make him impossible to ignore. I can’t resist sending my sister a Snapchat photo with a message attached.

  You’re welcome, Abby. FYI, your crush is pretty well behaved today.

  A minute passes before my phone buzzes. I swipe the screen and see her text. Lucky lady! Here’s your FYI: if a man like Nick Brandt was buying me random crap and begging for forgiveness daily, we’d already be beyond forgiveness. How do you resist? Do you still have a pulse?

  I snort and type back, He’s my boss and an asshat big enough for an elephant. Also, I’d like to keep my job.

  Buzz-buzz. That’s the sound of my sister being as annoying as she was back when we were teenagers.

  Dude. He owns the company, Reese. You’d probably get to keep your job and get promoted.

  Reese: Not really. It’s split with his brother and his grandma’s the big boss. Since she founded it, I’m sure she owns the biggest slice.

  Abby: Jeebus, who cares? Did you even see the picture you sent?

  My lip curls. She’s so ridiculous sometimes.

  With a sigh, I send a reply. Unfortunately, yes, and staring at Nick Brandt’s very touchable butt hurts my head. I should find something more productive to do at this stupid conference he’s dragged me to.

  “You disappeared on me,” Nick says, materializing next to me.

  Oh, crap!

  Heat pumps under my cheeks as I practically punt the phone off the floor. Instead, I drop it, and then watch in horror as he picks it up.

  This nightmare second passes where I think he’ll see the screen and see my conversation with Abby about his—

  “Here, butterfingers,” he says, mashing it back in my hand.

  Whew. For once, I’m grateful he’s kinda blind to what’s right in front of him.

  Hoping my face doesn’t look like a ripe cherry, I shove the phone in my purse.

  “Which breakout session are we going to? Did you decide?” he asks.

  “Doctor Boring. We have to honor the PhD,” I say.

  “Decent choice. I feel like a power nap.” He gives his arms this exaggerated stretch.

  “So did you figure out your friend’s problem?” I ask.

  Nick raises and drops one shoulder, his face tight. “Stanley’s more of an acquaintance. We’ve helped each other out from time to time. His clients want a fully glass new headquarters, but they’re in a rural area so it also needs to fit in with the surroundings.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I suggested he build into the green. Go around the natural elements to incorporate the two. Throw in a couple sunny break rooms or a courtyard if it suits the design.” He looks through me for a second, like it all comes that naturally to him.

  Okay. I’m a teensy bit impressed.

  Somewhere behind that smirk, he has a functioning brain, and one hemisphere might be dedicated to something besides sex and bourbon.

  “Interesting idea. I didn’t know you were smart.” Oops. Wincing, I cover my face with my hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

  Not out loud, anyway.

  He flashes this brutal half smile like I just paid him a compliment.

  “Better you’re reminded what I can do when I’m not finding new ways to make you miserable, Miss Halle.” The way his smile evaporates makes me think he’s almost serious.

  God.

  “Did your grandmother ever design a glass building like that? It feels like her style,” I say, smiling as I remember the times I’ve flipped through Beatrice Nightingale Brandt’s many, many shock-and-awe galleries of breathtaking designs.

  He nods. “I told him to go check out her gallery at the art museum before he leaves town.”

  “I like helpful you. Do you know where Doctor Boring’s seminar is?” I ask before his head swells with pride.

  “Yep. Follow me, Halle,” he says with a flourish of his arm.

  On the way over, I can’t decide if I’m annoyed or happy he keeps calling me by my last name. It keeps a comfortable distance, like I’m still some guy carting him around and the mistaken identity thing never happened.

  On the other hand, it keeps a comfortable distance.

  A deep, dark, quietly insane part of me thinks that’s a problem.

  Dr. Boring turns out to be as short as me with grey hair hanging above her shoulders.

  She talks faster than a caffeinated chipmunk. These notes might suck.

  Also, I keep getting hung up, wondering what things like sustainable ergonomics and industrialized pastiche mean.

  Dear Lord.

  I’m not even sure I have them spelled right. He really should’ve asked someone else to tag along who’s versed in technobabble.

  It doesn’t help that I hate being stuck in a classroom all day. It’s so high school. This is half the reason I decided on a life on the road, knowing I could never hack grad school, let alone a desk job.

  Nick slides a notepad over with a few sentences jotted down in ink.

  We have to quit calling her Doctor Boring. Her name is Bowling. Can you believe it? She’s Boring Bowling.

  It’s hard not to giggle.

  I pick up my pen and scribble a message back. Shut up before you get us in trouble. You made me come here!

  I slide it back to him. I’m rewarded with that million-dollar smile.

  Two minutes later, the notepad slides in front of me again. My conference notes
have gone from bad to nonexistent, but I’m not sure either of us care. I look down to read what he wrote.

  “Trouble?” What are we? High schoolers?

  Nope. Definitely not.

  Nicholas Brandt and I wouldn’t have even breathed the same oxygen in high school. He’d be so far out of my league I couldn’t even buy tickets.

  I scrawl another quick message that reads, I avoided bad boys in high school. No one needs a rap sheet before they’re eighteen.

  Orphans don’t especially.

  Too honest? I wonder.

  He studies my note quietly, staring at it before he purses his lips and answers in that slashing script of his. Is that what you think? I’m a bad boy?

  I meet his glowing green gaze. His playful demeanor is gone.

  Frowning, I quickly write out, You’re not a bad guy. You just find trouble easily. Sorry. I was careful to keep out of trouble back in school.

  His reply comes faster this time. Shame. I had you pegged for a partier, Halle.

  You also had me pegged for a man, I write, sending it back to him with a little more force than intended.

  Nick bursts out laughing, cutting the not-so-good doctor off mid-sentence.

  Whoops.

  Boring Bowling narrows her eyes, scowling. She stares at him and then at me with a blank face, tapping her foot impatiently like the fussy professor she is.

  A couple of balding men in front of us turn, looking to see what caused the commotion.

  Yep. We’re back in high school, all right.

  Brandt holds his hand up in apology. After a few more seconds of glaring, Boring Bowling picks up right where she left off.

  I’m already bored out of my skull when Nick slides the paper over again.

  When are we going to let that mistake go, Miss Halle?

  I pause, pondering before I write, When you quit buying lame gifts, maybe. Also, that chuckle fit is proof you were trouble in high school.

  Then the worst thing happens.

  This sly, bright smirk curls across his face that leaves me in ruins.

  I’m almost afraid to read what’s on the paper when he slides it back. Eep.

  Sweetheart, if I’d known you in high school, we would have gotten in WAY more trouble than that. Way is not just all in caps, but underlined three times.

  Holy hell. My mind wants to pull me into a dozen bad places, and they’re all filthy.

  Exactly why I would have avoided you, I write back.

  He gives me a one-word response.

  Liar.

  Awesome. There’s my regularly scheduled dose of maddening frustration with this man.

  How do you know? I write, sliding it over.

  You’re here now, aren’t you? And you haven’t stood up and walked away, he writes.

  Damn him. Guilty as charged.

  But I’m not giving up so easily. I pick up my pen.

  Your grandma pays me to deal with you, boss.

  His reply comes back in seconds.

  True, technically. But today you came for me. Not for Grandma.

  Also true. Thankfully, the torture ends as the whole room breaks out in quiet applause. We stand up and follow the line snaking toward the break area stocked with fancy snacks and a wine and coffee bar in the middle.

  “I’m going to the bar. Do you want to tag along and meet more people who enjoy watching paint dry?” Nick asks, eyeing me innocently like the weird exchange on paper never happened.

  “I’d love some coffee. The rest...no, thanks,” I tell him.

  “It’s called networking, Miss Halle. It’s good for long-term career prospects.”

  “I’m just the driver.” I shrug. “I guess some of these people may hire their own drivers. Your grandmother did, but it’s hard to imagine better pay.”

  He eyeballs me slowly, and whether he knows it or not, I’m feeling too vulnerable. “Can I see the notes you’ve been working on?”

  “You mean the real ones or the notes for the class clown who wouldn’t leave me alone?”

  His eyes flash as that devil-smirk reappears. “Real.”

  Oh, he’ll regret asking me to come, but I hand him the notebook where I tried to record Boring Bowling’s speech.

  “I did the best I could, but I feel like I’m missing a lot of background info.”

  He reads the first page, flips through a few more, and nods. “Very thorough. Keep that up and we could promote you to EA. It pays a lot more and I’m sure you could hack it.”

  “Nope. I like driving just fine, boss.”

  “Really? Even with a significant raise?” He waits like he’s expecting me to do an about-face and beg for the job.

  Screw him.

  I stand my ground. “I like money as much as the next person, Mr. Brandt, but this work...it’s not what I’m cut out for. I’m not much good at it.”

  “You’re not bad at it, either, and you’ve shown you can handle my brother and me. If you ever change your mind, let me know. I’m getting a drink now. Should I grab a glass of champagne for you or do you still need that coffee?”

  “Coffee.” I shake my head. “I have to drive.”

  “Did you ever try my champagne?”

  “I put it in the stray cat’s water bowl in the back of my apartment. She didn’t claw my door all night.” For a second, he blinks at me, and I hold my hands up. “Joking! God, what do you think I am?”

  “You’re diabolical,” he says with a snort.

  “I’m also kidding. Again.”

  He starts to walk away, shaking his head. I’m about to step outside for a minute or two of fresh air when some blond chick cuts him off before he can get out of the ballroom. She touches his arm and leans into his space.

  Nick tries to put some distance between them, but she’s not having it.

  How odd. She’s not hideous.

  In fact, most guys would probably line up for blocks to hit it with her sultry looks, full lips, that swish of shimmering gold-spun hair, and hips that look like they were designed to beckon men to their doom.

  I normally don’t stare at another woman like this with my blood running hot and my vision turning red.

  I definitely don’t normally get jealous.

  Yikes.

  But I’m also bewildered. I’ve never seen Nick coldly reject low-hanging fruit like that. Of course, most men don’t like being pursued. They want to do the chasing.

  I grab my phone and Snap the shot to Abby. I don’t think he’s used to the tables being turned like this.

  Abby: Damn! Run her off. If you don’t want him, I do. Who’s blondie? I already hate her.

  Reese: ROFL. You don’t even know her!

  Abby: Why are you letting him go? He likes you enough to shove presents in your face.

  Reese: BOSSMAN! Should I send it ten more times until it sinks in?

  Abby: Whatever, sissy sis. Bosses who whip out expensive gifts totally grow on trees...just like money.

  Reese: I didn’t know that. Thanks for enlightening me.

  Gah. I’ve been so tied up in my own affairs, I haven’t thought about her. I hope she’s not hurting financially, getting in over her head again. Abby gets caught up in trouble sometimes when she’s desperate.

  Abby: Reese. Run her off.

  For the tiniest split second, I consider taking my sister’s crazy advice.

  4

  The Real Me (Nick)

  The conference takes the whole damn day, and Reese—Miss Halle—sits beside me, patiently recording everything the speakers say.

  A few hours later, it finally ends and people spill into the halls to hit the cash bar one last time.

  “Now do you want something stronger than coffee?” I ask.

  She finishes whatever she’s writing before looking up, giving me a look that aches with those robin egg-blue eyes. “I should’ve let you get me a drink earlier. It’s almost time to drive you home.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ll be here for a couple more
hours. I have a few people I need to talk to before we leave.” I lean in and whisper, “These conferences are really about closing deals. In case you hadn’t noticed.”

  She nods. “Good luck. You and your silver tongue? I’m sure it’ll take you thirty minutes, tops. No one can say no, once you get going.”

  She catches herself and twists her face away shyly.

  I chuckle at the irony. She’s awfully good at rejecting me, and it’s been going on a hell of a lot longer than thirty minutes.

  “Mr. Brandt?” she asks, flicking back a loose lock of that walnut-brown hair.

  “Yes?”

  “I could go for a pop. Dr. Pepper,” she says.

  “Will do.” I stand and push the chair out, ready to buy drinks but decide to push my luck. I give her my best grin.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I shake my head.

  She tilts hers. “Is that your sales face or something?”

  “That depends. Is it working?” I growl back.

  “Hmm. That depends. What are you trying to sell me?”

  “You know how you said no one could deny me?”

  “That’s where this is going? Am I going to have to talk to Susan?” She narrows her eyes.

  “Give me some credit, woman.” I scowl at her. “I was just about to ask you to type up the notes and send them to everyone.”

  Relieved, she flicks her eyes up, considering. “How much does an EA make?”

  “It depends on their experience. The last one made close to six figures,” I say cautiously.

  What gives? She turned the job down earlier. Does she want it now?

  “Well...this driver makes ninety thousand annually, which is more than generous. Still, this isn’t my usual workload, whatever that job description says. Tell you what. I’ll type the notes and send the email for a one-time fee of three hundred dollars, flat.”

  “Three hundred? You either type really slow or—”

  Her grin reveals deep dimples that hook me in the chest. “Consider it a convenience fee since I’m not an EA.”

  Damn her. I should put her on the sales team, seeing how she negotiates.

  I hold up a hand and snap my fingers.

  “Done.”