Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

He crosses those huge arms again, his shoulders bowing out like they’re ready to rip through his imported fabric. “Lady, I’m done being polite. If you don’t get your ass in the air, I’ll move you myself.”

Whoa. That was polite? I wonder what rude looks like...but I’m more interested in telling this millionaire bully where he can shove it.

I hold my hand up, showing off the fresh set I had done last weekend.

“Choose wisely. Touch me, and I’ll dig my plastic so deep into your pretty face you’ll need the jaws of life to extract it. Capisce?”

His jaw clenches before he answers.

Yeah, Grump with a capital G confirmed. Being wound so tight he might break a few teeth must be his preferred facial expression.

But then he just sighs, raking a hand through his hair, before hitting me with another dizzying starlight-blue gaze. “Ha ha, you’re funny. Congratulations. Now if you’re done with the comedy act, move.”

I blink, unsure what to even say to that. And did I really call him pretty?

Too late to deny it, unfortunately, and as horrible of a person as our brief encounter leads me to believe he is...the man does make truffle-good eye candy.

Heck, if I were a casting director, this guy would be Mr. Darcy. You know, before the whole redemption arc.

I take another small sip of cinnamon courage, savoring it slowly, thinking how far I really want to take this.

“You’d be better off leaving me alone and letting me finish my coffee in peace,” I say, leveling my tone. “You’re going to run out of good light for quality images soon. The sun craps out way too fast this time of year.”

His death-glare actually makes me uncomfortable.

I shift my legs and that ridiculous bedazzled pink folder slips from my lap, hitting the ground with a thunk. Half a dozen cartoon cat cards slide from the pockets, the height of my genius exposed to the world.

I’m about to extend a foot to slam down on top of them, but I don’t get the chance.

The Suit bends to pick up my mess, muscles rippling behind his clothes, his blue eyes filled with this cruel wonder.

Not fair.

Why do so many men with dangerously beautiful bodies turn out to be ogres?

He surveys the cards quietly before making any effort to return my things. I clear my throat and our eyes lock. I don’t dare let on how small I feel right now.

“I propose a trade. Your cats I’ve kindly rescued from blowing away for my camera space.” He smiles, and not in a friendly way. “Are you a cartoonist? A cat-toonist, maybe?”

I fight back an eyeroll so intense it’ll probably land me in the ER.

“Ha, ha, ha. So original. Hope you’ve got copywriters.”

“My writers are some of the finest marketers in the country, from sea to shining sea,” he says, pride entering his voice.

“Cool, then I’m sure you’re set. God knows no one pays for your jokes,” I throw back.

“Damn, you’re mouthy,” he growls.

That’s it. It’s a statement. And not an entirely furious, insulting one. There’s a hint of amusement, too, like mouthy is something that interests him.

Awesome.

He’s known me for three minutes while trying to extract me from a city bench but I’m pegged as “mouthy.” Like he isn’t the one who made me that way?

Well, two can do the pegging today.

Besides being a rich suit, an unbearable McHottie, and a park tyrant, he seems like one of those guys who think women should keep their mouths shut.

I shoot him a fake docile smile. “My bad, your highness. I’ll try harder to be seen and not heard. Of course, I’ll be seen on this bench until I’m good and ready for a walk.”

His jaw tenses again and there’s the faintest flash of angry white teeth around his lips. He stares up at the sun, muttering something to himself, and then turns back to me.

“Frankly, Miss Hardass, I don’t care where you’re seen or heard as long as it isn’t on this bench. You’re blocking the light. You’ve already been told.”

Funny thing is, I probably would’ve moved in a heartbeat, with no problem, if he just asked me nicely.

But he picked the wrong day to dick with my pride, and now I’m on a mission.

This bench is mine until I say it’s not.

“When was that? I didn’t quite hear you,” I say with a yawn, looking back at my phone.

He rolls his eyes so hard I think they might stick to the back of his head.

I swallow a laugh. At least we’re having fun with this crapfest, right?

“I’m impressed! You roll your eyes better than a thirteen-year-old cheerleader,” I say matter-of-factly.

“Only when I’m being faced with someone as obstinate, immature, and insufferable as you,” he grinds out.

“Fancy words.” I shrug. “I just call out BS when I see it.”