Bossy Grump

Half an hour later, she taps on my door.

“What?”

She opens it and steps inside, clearing her throat with this nonchalant smile that draws too much attention to lips worthy of a hundred hate-kisses.

“I got your emails, Mr. Brandt.”

“Yeah? Then you have plenty of work to do.”

“Looks that way.” She smiles ever so slowly. “How was your coffee?”

I don’t give her the pleasure of a tantrum.

I just point to the trash can beside my desk.

“Yay, I’m glad you liked it so much! Vanilla honey-cream syrup is the sweetest they have, but if you mix it with guava, you can create a sugar coma. Same order tomorrow?”

I’m surprised my hollowed-out eyes don’t set her on fire.

“Get out,” I order.

Her smile grows wider and she waves before she shuts the door.

The next day my whole office smells like coffee.

A new tall cup sits on my desk with Wardhole written across it. I stare at it for a minute, wondering if I want to drink it after yesterday.

What if she’s stepped it up? What if she’s set up the lid to blow off and splatter me with pure syrup the instant I take a drink?

At least then I could fire her ass.

But it smells so good, I brush my fears aside.

I pick it up, sniff cautiously, and take a smallest swallow, not wanting to stain my office again.

Black. Plain black coffee with the scent of Kona heaven.

I clutch it like mana and head to the conference room, where we’re prepping the final Winthrope bid today.

With my laptop connected to the projector, I sit in a high-back chair, waiting for everyone else.

Nick comes through the door holding his mocha with a scowl aimed at me.

“Hey, what the hell did you do to Paige?”

“Miss Holly, you mean—we have professional moral to maintain around here—and what are you talking about?”

“What am I talking about? Didn’t you notice? She recoils whenever you enter a room like she’s just seen Lucifer.” He pulls at his tie.

She has been moving to the other side of the room, lately, I guess.

I’ve noticed it too.

Comes with the territory when we’re like two violently repelling magnets.

“And it’s like she’s memorized your schedule or something,” Nick continues, raking a hand through his hair. “She knows exactly when you won’t be in your office and waits to deliver anything until then. She doesn’t do that with anyone else, so I figure you’ve said something. One of your asshole things that makes you so lovable.”

I shrug. “I told her to lay off the bottle while she’s at work. Nothing more.”

For a second, my brother stares at me in disbelief, as if he hasn’t done far worse in his party animal life.

“You’re such a jackass, Ward,” he mutters.

Jackass or not, I look away from my computer now to catch his eyes. “We need to get something clear. She’s our executive assistant. She’s not here to be anyone’s hookup, or to make a spectacle of pissing me off. I’m after a competent EA, and well within my rights to ask her to shape up.”

Nick laughs too long before he straightens up.

Covering his face with his hand, he leans in and groans, “Oh, man. You pay a lot of attention to her, don’t you? No one said anything about hooking up before you did. Look, you need to relax with this dumb hotel and go on a real date. It’s been—what? Two years since your—since Maria, I mean—and you’re still reeling and taking it out on people like Paige. Not fair. Just live your life, brother. If you have subconscious urges for the EA—”

“What? You’re the one hanging over her desk every time I—”

“So you’re jealous?” He winks. “Thought so.”

“Dammit, I have zero urges, and this ‘dumb hotel’ is a lifelong dream for our grandparents. Grandpa didn’t even get to live to see it while Winthrope was dropping hints for years, but always walking away at the last second. Buck up and get serious.” I pause to see anger flash across his face. “Everything we have, we owe to them. This is our last chance to leave a legacy for Grandpa Godfrey. And the press loves to serve up Brandt family drama. Assholes like Roland Osprey are always out there lurking for scraps.”

“Don’t remind me,” he slurs, falling back in his seat.

“Exactly. We’ve got to be a hundred percent scandal proof right now. Winthrope’s old school, strange, and British. Scandal will scare him off. We’re not fucking this up.”

“Yeah, no, he’s a crazy boomer with a pylon up his ass a mile long. He’s obsessed with talent, quality, and precision. My personal life has nothing to do with the quality of my work. I can bring home a different model every night and still make sure our designs are executed flawlessly, if I want.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” I say with a snort.