One Bossy Proposal: Enemies to Lovers Romance

His arm is snug around her waist. Her head is pressed against his chest.

A dagger goes through my chest.

Growing up, people always talked about how vibrant Mother’s smile was even as she aged. A few weeks after that picture was taken, I lost my father to a brutal heart attack.

It took about a month to realize Mother’s gorgeous smile died with him. Her old pure love cast in bright-white teeth was eventually replaced with a new smile, a quieter one where her mouth always stays closed.

It’s never been the same since.

My mother has a lot of smiles: the kind ones, the wicked kind, the frustrated kind, and the slow, nostalgic kind she wears when she thinks nobody’s looking.

She just doesn’t have that smile anymore.

Watching Dad’s unexpected departure take a piece of her soul was almost as bad as losing him.

She still refers to their fortieth anniversary as her farewell party. Dad died on a charter flight coming back from a business conference. He was gone before the plane even landed for help.

To her, their last anniversary was the closest thing to goodbye.

Even now, I peer at the tired eyes and subtle smile across the table from me.

One more good fucking reason why I’ll never get married.

I don’t care what they say; it’s not 'better to have loved and lost.'

Better to be safe from that pain, that agony, that destruction.

Better to spend your life making money and bringing order for thousands of people, with a dab of debauchery thrown in when it all gets dull.

Mom is living proof.

Ditto for Wyatt.

I’m damn sure not making the same mistakes.

Mom sips loudly from her teacup and sets it down with a heavy look. “Lincoln, dear, I don’t mean to be morbid, but what happens when I’m gone someday? Who’s your family then? You have cousins out east, of course, but they have their own lives.”

“There’s Wyatt—” I stop myself, hating that I have to wonder if he’ll even be around.

“Ah, yes. That heartbroken, troubled man who—”

“Saved my life,” I cut her off before she reminds me what a lost cause he is. “I owe him my all, Ma. You know that.”

“...son, you know how much I love that you care but...just how long will he be around? If he chooses not to help himself, I mean. He lives rough and doesn’t take care of himself. Who will you have left if I’m gone and you just can’t turn Mr. Emory around?”

“My company. My team,” I grind out, hating that her question darkens my whole head.

“Haughty But Nice?”

Christ, isn’t that enough?

I nod and slurp my tea.

“Well, as your mother, I’m holding out hope that she-who-won’t-be-named didn’t ruin you forever. And I choose to believe this little game with you and Dakota might just be the fire under the butt you need.”

“You watch too many movies. There’s no such thing as true love—”

“Yes, there is,” she says fiercely, drawing up in her chair. “I know. I had it once.”

“You did.” My voice softens with this gentle grief I haven’t acknowledged in ages pushing up. “And you haven’t been the same since—”

She sets her cup down with a loud clink!

“So? Lincoln, that doesn’t make our love any less real. It was so real and beautiful that I still have a punk in a fancy suit across from me talking like a smartass.” She sniffs loudly.

“Sorry.” I hold my hand up defensively.

Her face falls before she looks at me again.

“It’s okay,” she whispers.

“Ma, look, I’m trying to let you down easy before you get any ideas. If you keep believing this is going to magically morph into a real relationship...you’ll wind up pretty disappointed.”

“I’ve been around the block, Lincoln Burns. I’ll manage.” She pauses, staring into her cup before she says, “My only question is, can you handle a teensy bit of surprise in your life?”

Can I?

Her question haunts me as I finish my tea, wondering why I feel so goddamned annoyed that I can’t answer it.

Saturday morning, I find Dakota perched at her desk, diligently working.

There’s something wrong with my brain.

Even the way her little fingers move nimbly over the keyboard does terrible things to my cock.

I know how those hands feel. This woman could be gargling mouthwash with two-day-old bedhead and I’d still want her under me.

“I hope you’re not planning on giving me more work,” she says as soon as she looks up.

“What the hell? I don’t even get a hello?”

“Only if you promise you aren’t task dumping. It’s the weekend.” Her little pout makes my teeth ache, stricken with the urge to bite her.

“Scout’s honor,” I say.

“Somehow, you don’t strike me as a Boy Scout.”

“I was a Marine,” I mutter. “Does that count for anything?”

She hesitates.

“Hmm, well, I suppose.”

“Listen, I got an email from Anna. The photographer wants to do our first shoot next week. I know you hate weddings, so I thought we could take my boat out today and try out the setting alone as a trial run. The clothes are already aboard. You can choose a dress you like before the shoot and you’ll have a chance to get used to everything without the pressure.”