One Bossy Proposal: Enemies to Lovers Romance

“I’m trying my best, but I’m not really an expert, either. After all...there isn’t even a ring on my finger, right, Mr. Burns?” She looks up at me with a buttery laugh.

An ugly, strange contrast with the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Personal experience in weddings hardly matters,” I say, leveling my gaze on her. “I’m confident you’ll research it the same skillful way you’d research any assignment I give you, Miss Poe.”

“True. Your mom told me prom is the last time you really dressed up for a date. That had to be a while ago, huh?”

Did she just call me old?

My stare sharpens, wishing I could melt her like a candle.

“Not quite, I went to the military ball a couple of times.”

“His friend’s sister wanted to go,” Mom says with a muffled whisper.

Dakota laughs.

I’ve had enough. I push an agitated hand through my hair.

“James and Sally are in the back corner, Mother. They’ve both been talking about how much they miss the old days when you and Dad were at the helm. Why don’t you go share some old stories?” I motion to the older couple from accounting.

“Ah, I’m starting to see why! With the nonsense you’re allowing, they might wonder if it’s even the same company.”

I hold in a sigh.

“Still, you should go say hello.”

“I will. Thanks, love.” She stands and saunters away with a quick peck on the cheek.

I watch my mom leave with a clenched fist and I take her seat.

“That was evil, Nevermore. Don’t think your name gives you a pass to slash up every rule of office politics,” I growl.

Dakota shrugs. “Meh, I don’t know about that. I kinda thought a strong warning shot was warranted.”

“Warning shot? I’ll never hear the end of it now.” I fold my arms and stare into her soul.

“I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing sorry in her tone, but fuck if I care.

The little angel Anna Patel put on my shoulder reminds me I deserve it.

“Before you riled up my mother, I came here to apologize,” I say.

“Why? You have nothing to apologize for, but I do have a mountain of work. So maybe we can play catch-up and pour out our hearts another time?”

“Dakota—”

She smiles. “Miss Poe.”

I bite my tongue, wondering how the hell I could slip.

“Miss Poe—” I correct sharply, but she cuts me off.

“Another time, Mr. Burns. Working.”

“Regardless, I’m sorry. Sincerely. I didn’t mean to give you an interrogation in front of your colleagues,” I say sternly.

She won’t even look at me, her fingers clicking on the keyboard.

“’Kay. Look, unless you need to talk about the assignment—”

“I spoke out of turn. I know I made it way too personal, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I can be dense with my bedside manner sometimes—”

“Yep, and there wasn’t even a cinnamon roll involved today. Imagine that!” she says with a muted glare.

Will she ever let me fucking finish?

“I’m a professional. I’m your boss, and I know you’re not here for my personal entertainment.”

If you weren’t so damn beautiful, maybe my tongue wouldn’t get so loose, I think darkly.

This girl obliterates my better senses like no one else.

“To show you I’m sincere, I’ll take Sweeter Grind duty next week to make it up to you,” I say slowly. “How does that sound?”

“Well, there’s nothing to make up for, but whatevs. Knock yourself out, boss.”

Her fingers pound the keyboard, drumming this conversation into silence.

Whatever is right.

Even when I try to get along with this moody creature, she freezes me out.

As I turn and stomp away from her desk, I wonder if Ma’s concerns aren’t valid.

Should I have let this raven into my home?

Is my gamble on her about to win me a hostile work environment?

After work, I sit in my living room, reviewing the latest drafts from the ad team and muttering at everything.

It’s bland. Droll. Missing heart.

Everything except the ream of concepts with a name attached that won’t stop rapping, rapping at my skull.

Dakota Poe’s copy is undeniably on-point. Hell, I can even tell it’s her advising in a few mockups where her name isn’t directly attached.

Her concepts are funny, well written, and friendly, if a tad impersonal.

My only suggestion—a real one this time—would be to make the writing more intimate. Still, it’s nice working to improve the meat on what’s already impeccable bones.

I’m tempted to text her and pay her an honest compliment.

Though after the way she ran out of the meeting today and the showdown after, I’d wager that’s inviting trouble.

She’s not the sort of girl who gets bent out of shape over an asshole comment or a flippant one-off.

I grit my teeth.

All because I’m realizing, slowly but surely, that I’ve been a colossal dick to her—and by some freak stroke of black magic, she makes me feel guilty for that.

I pull out the earlier drafts and flip through her previous work. I come across the picture of the runaway groom and frown.