Office Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

“What do you need? Did something happen at the office?”

“I just...call me an idiot, but I came to see if you’re okay? Ruby was worried,” I lie.

I was worried.

He sighs. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” I bite my lip. “You look like you just escaped a torture chamber.”

Something about him looking so worn, so haggard, so unsure makes me want to take care of him.

“Thanks,” he says darkly.

“Tell me what’s really going on, Mag?”

“Only if you tell me why it matters. I already had to bullshit to the one person I never wanted to find out anything. It’s going to crush him.” He shakes his head. “I spared him as many details as I could.”

“What truth?”

“Get in. This isn’t a conversation for the hallway.”

Even though this is his hall, technically, I follow him into the living room. He collapses on the couch, and I sit beside him.

“The fire feels nice,” I say, watching orange and blue flames leaping up behind the glass in a hearth that goes to the ceiling. It’s like something out of a castle.

Heavy steps echo behind the couch. I glance over my shoulder and spot Jordan walking to the kitchen. His eyes are wide, his mouth partly open.

“Hey, there. Have you eaten today?” I call out.

I know I’ve asked the wrong thing when he growls and bangs his head on the wall.

“Jeez, lady! Not you too.”

“He won’t eat,” Mag tells me, leaning over to my ear.

The hot rush of breath against my skin sends needles through my blood.

I focus my gaze on Jordan. “You need to eat. What would you like?”

“Scrambled eggs.” The words are barely more than a whisper.

He’s in luck. I go to the kitchen and stare into a mostly empty fridge bigger than three of me combined. I see sports drinks, cheeses, an egg carton, some butter, and heavy cream.

I pick up the egg carton. It’s so light I hope it’s not empty, and I have no idea how old the eggs are. Flipping the top, I find four eggs left.

Someone needs groceries.

He can’t keep a teenager here without any food in the house. I figure butter will work as well as grease to cook eggs, so I grab that too and search for a pan and utensils.

I cook up all four eggs and pile them onto a plate. A couple of my cousins are his age, so I know how teenage boys can eat. I set the plate on the counter for him.

“Dinner’s ready, Jordan! Come and get it,” I call.

He plods in and sits on a stool in front of the bar, and his stomach roars like a bear before he takes the first bite. Poor kid. He’s starving.

When he finishes the eggs, he brings his plate around to the sink, turns on the water, and picks up the sponge.

I pat his arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got it. Your mom taught you well.”

“Thanks.” He gives me a quick smile.

As I wash the plate, Jordan takes off, his heavy footsteps drumming on the floor.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I like the sunroom. Even at night.”

Sunroom? Oh, right, that must be the room with all the crazy glass windows I found them in earlier. I nod at him, then follow him out and veer off to the living room.

“Mag, if I make you a cup of peppermint tea, will you drink it?” I ask.

“Do I have a choice?” He smirks.

“Not tonight, and I’m thinking you should get some sleep soon, too.”

I find a gooseneck kettle with M.H. engraved into it, and when the water’s done, take a peppermint tea bag from my purse and drop it in, then carry the steaming cup to him.

He curls his fingers around the handle and places his other hand on the side of the mug.

“Thanks, Brina. Did he actually eat?” Mag asks.

I nod happily.

“He ate all four eggs. Scrambled. It’s a start.” I pause, unsure how to approach the next question. “How long will he be here?”

He looks at me.

“Jordan. How long is he staying with you?”

He shakes his head. “I’m not sure. A couple of weeks. Maybe longer. The medical team can’t estimate when she’ll wake up yet.”

My lips tighten, and it happens then while I’m studying him, staring into his icy, worried eyes.

God help me, I feel sorry for Magnus, king of the jerks.

“I’m going to order a few groceries. You can’t keep a kid in the house with no food. I know you’re used to eating all your meals at the office, but that’s not going to work for this.”

“Good thinking,” he says. “I owe you again.”

“You’re welcome.” The response is automatic for me. But then I realize Mag isn’t one to say thank you often, much less several times in one night. “Umm—for what?”

He gives half a laugh and finally takes a sip of tea.