Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

Paige stares at her phone, her eyes ticking over the screen.

“When he inherited HeronComm—wait. Inherited? Oh my God. And this ass thinks he’s really something? We’d all be CEOs at thirty if we got our daddy’s company,” she quips.

I nod, angrily washing the bread down with wine.

“And it says here...the place wasn’t doing as well when he took over. It was more like a run-of-the-mill ad agency stuck in the mud. Just a handful of big clients,” she tells me, quickly summarizing the article. “He built a machine. They call him a shark. Probably why the jackass thinks he’s some wizard.”

“Define not doing well?” I take another bite of lasagna, hating the fact that I’m curious.

“It was hemorrhaging money and had trouble attracting new clients, I guess. But when Magnus took over, he got attention any way possible. He jumped on every new digital toy he could find. The firm grew thanks to his antics, and today he’s well known as ‘the Magnum of Advertising.’”

Magnum, my ass.

“Oh, antics. Sure. You mean like stinking up a meeting room because he opened cat food so he could pretend he was brave enough to eat it?” I snort.

That was so dumb, even if it was kinda funny.

Stedfaust wasn’t even impressed enough to jump back on board. He was a maybe at best, and in my experience, maybe means no.

“He does worse things than that,” Paige says slowly. “Like...he hired this Instagram influencer, a big-time model named Mariska Crista to pretend they were engaged. All so he could land a freaking press conference. He wanted to get publicity for a new deal with a major startup. 'Success yields success,' so says the jerk.”

If only it weren’t true.

It’s far easier to be successful once you already are, but most people don’t say it out loud. Especially since he inherited his company. He’d be way less successful, I’m sure, if his dad never owned it.

With my food gone, I set my plate on the coffee table and roll up into a ball on the couch. I can rest while we talk.

“Tell me that model thing blew up in his face. Pretty please?” I ask.

“I mean...looks like Mariska called him King Asshole in a blog post and the nickname stuck around, so I’d say he didn’t walk out of it unscathed. But he got to talk about his tech deal with an electric car company that’s everywhere now, and that scored him several more huge clients.” She grits her teeth.

Awesome. Somehow, I knew there wouldn’t be a happy, humble pie ending.

Magnus Heron is the devil.

Nothing gives him the comeuppance he deserves. He wouldn’t allow it, and I’m pretty sure he’s got a black magic spell of protection over him or something.

Paige scrolls down on her phone, stops, and smiles.

“Oh, looks like he does some charity work.” She shrugs. “He donates money to some literary causes and a private school, I should say. Here, I’ll send you this one, too.”

Charity. Right. Because rich kids at academies always need more help.

“He’s probably after the tax deductions,” I say bitterly.

She shakes her head. “No, looks like most people think he does it to improve his image. No one’s really fooled, though. People still call him King Asshole. Thanks, Mariska, for that one.”

I snicker. “Yeah, thanks. At least everyone knows he’s the biggest jerkface in the history of ever.”

My brain whips through several memories, rapid-fire.

The conversation I had with Armstrong the first day. He tiptoed around some mystery scandal on the way to the coffee shop. Then Hugo danced around it like a man on fire.

“So, here’s something weird. Everyone at work talks about this terrible scandal from a long time ago, but no one wants to dish what happened. Do you see anything like that?” I ask.

Paige frowns and spends the next few minutes pushing her Google-Fu to its limits before she says, “Nope. Not finding anything besides his dumb PR stunts.”

“Not like it matters, anyway. I don’t have another high-paying job lined up.”

My phone pings, but I’m too tired to look.

“Can you see who’s sending me what?” I ask.

She takes my phone.

“It’s probably just my articles, don’t you wo—oh.” Her mouth pulls into a thin line. “Speak of the devil. You’ve got mail from Mr. Maggot.”

“God,” I moan, sitting up. I snatch the phone from her and open the email with my head already throbbing.To: Sabrina Bristol

From: Magnus Heron

Priority: HIGH

Subject: LA ExcursionMiss Bristol,This is your notice that I’m pitching a large fashion design client in L.A. this weekend and it requires your immediate assistance. I regret the short notice, however, that’s the way this outfit rolls.

So pack your personal effects and be ready for an early flight. Armstrong will be waiting on you at four o’clock sharp. L.A. is considerably warmer than Chicago this time of the year, so you’d do yourself a favor to travel in layers.