Bossy Grump

“Whatever. At least I’m not stomping around the office like a jackboot.”

“He’s just old-fashioned and protecting his brand. Can you blame him? If I had an image like his to protect, I’d be skeptical of working with us after what our parents did too. It took us years to repair the damage, Nicholas.”

“You’re too worried. We’ll sell him so hard his top hat flies off. If he doesn’t take the contract, it’s his loss. Tell me, who has better designs than Brandt? Name one person who designs better than Grandma.”

“God,” I quip. “After that, no one.”

He chuckles, but his smile is real. He wasn’t a fan of the slogan I came up with at first, but now it’s grown on everyone.

More importantly, it’s accurate.

If it’s not made by God, then it must be a Brandt.

Grandma’s designs are always a stroke of creative genius.

Hell, maybe I am too worried, and dealing with it by lashing out at Paige.

On the other hand, with deals as lucrative as this, Murphy’s Law is king. Everything can go wrong.

My gut tells me not to get too comfortable.

Minutes go by in silence while the senior staff file in. I sift through the slides, rereading the notes to help me remember what I need to highlight with each point when the time comes to touch base with Winthrope’s team again.

Nick watches me and finally says, “You know what your problem is?”

“I didn’t even know I have a problem.”

“You’ve got a bigger stick up your ass than Ross Winthrope, just like Grandma says. You don’t mind people like Winthrope trying to protect their image because he’s going to be you in forty years. Minus the circus outfits, I mean.”

“Ross Winthrope is a few notches below Elon Musk. I’m trying to decide if I want to be insulted by your crap.” I pretend to think. “You know what? No, I won’t be. Last time I checked, he has more money than you, me, and Grandma combined.”

Nick bristles while I go back to work, wishing I could shut down Paige Holly just as swiftly.

Only, the fact that she’s still in my head—rent free—annoys me to no end.

I’m not losing my mind.

I’ll win the deal, the money, the dream, and the prestige without getting sloshed on Miss Holly.

5

Sunburn (Paige)

Don’t freak out.

Not even when he piles on insane amounts of work with impossible deadlines.

Just smile, research how much time similar projects take, and vow to get it done. If Mr. Grumpyface Brandt wants to play hardball, I’m ready to swing.

But I’ve also decided I’m not losing sleep over meeting the master of the universe’s demands.

After all, he’s one of three bosses, and Beatrice Brandt and Nick are very happy with my work.

Deep down, the Wardhole is too.

He just can’t admit it.

“Can I borrow a marker?” I ask the barista, waiting on the latest order at The Bean Bar.

She glances at the silver counter beside her, finds an extra marker, and hands it to me. She’s written The Warden on this black drip, per my request.

It’s always The Warden or Wardhole depending on the day of the week. Today, I’m adding a more personal touch.

I quickly sketch a set of handcuffs under the name and smile at my cartoonish work.

Oh, he’ll enjoy his coffee today.

I can’t help giggling as I pick up the drink carrier and traipse out of the café.

Two hours later, I’m sitting at my desk, working through the deluge of assignments from yesterday. I’ve completed half of them by working past midnight and coming in early this morning, and I’ll be done before he expects it.

Ward comes out of his office rubbing his eyes, yawning like a bear.

He strolls up to my desk at a snail’s pace.

“Sorry.”

“For the yawn? No worries. I feel like doing the same thing every time we talk,” I say.

Those gas flames for eyes beam hot death.

“I don’t know what the deal is, but my coffee isn’t doing it lately. Would you go to the bar downstairs and get me a triple espresso and a Red Bull?”

I smile, trying to hold back a snicker. “Of course, Mr. Brandt.”

His eyes follow me to the elevator.

I bite the inside of my cheeks.

“Wait. What the fuck did you do to my coffee?” he hurls at my back.

Oops. Maybe I didn’t keep a straight enough face. Kinda hard when you’ve been messing with the boss’ precious brew for this long without him noticing.

“Excuse me?” I turn, innocently twirling a lock of my hair.

“You did something. Christ, you’ve been doing it for over a week, haven’t you?” He bows up, casting a figure that’s all muscle, all jaw, and all ragey.

I tuck a strand of blond hair behind my ear. “Mr. Brandt, if you’re getting too old to keep up with your schedule, you don’t need to blame me for it, or The Bean Bar.”