Bossy Grump

I shake my head. “This is the kind of experience I took this job for. I’m not losing out on design work because I shined your toys so well it got you mad.”

“You—” He pauses, biting back whatever curse was on the tip of his tongue. “Suit yourself, Miss Holly, but you’re wasting your time. I told you, Grandma doesn’t make errors.”

Slowly, I look up and meet his stormy eyes. “That’s funny because...I’ve already found three.”

“What?” He stalks around my desk and looks at the screen.

I click back to the first slide of the interior.

“Look here, the Presidential Suite.” I point to a door entering a room and then to the closet. “Granted, I’m no architect, but this seems out of place.”

“Rooms need doors, and people usually like closets. What’s your point?” he demands.

“From what I can tell, one of these doors has to swing in a different direction. Otherwise, they’re going to hit each other,” I tell him.

For a long, deadly second he’s quiet.

“You could just not have both doors open at the same time,” he says weakly.

“Huh. Do all of your upscale clients work on that assumption?” I bat my eyes.

He sighs, a hint of redness behind that beard as he reaches up and scratches his face. “Fuck. You’re right. What gives? Grandma never makes mistakes. And if that’s truly what this is, it would’ve been caught well before the final draft, you know.”

“Everyone makes mistakes. No one produces perfect art on the first try. You’re welcome for saving her some time.”

He crosses his arms. “It’s not the first draft. She wouldn’t have asked for feedback unless she’d already looked at it a thousand times. She’s a lifelong perfectionist.”

I shrug. “Hey, bossman, I’m just helping.”

“Well, thanks,” he grinds out reluctantly. Then he goes to the elevator and calls over his shoulder. “Don’t stay here all night.”

I’m done by midnight.

The next day, Beatrice compliments my work, and she’s so grateful for the error report. She tells me I’m doing an outstanding job and if I keep it up...I just might be her protégé.

Holy crap. I’m beyond honored, walking on sunshine, but I hate that she’s as uncomfortable as Ward about some of the mistakes I caught.

They’re just little things.

What’s the big deal?

And yet, it’s like she’s deflated, looking like a woman who feels a superpower slipping away.

I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s definitely something odd with her.

It’s after lunch on a sunny Friday.

I’ve officially survived a month now at Brandt Ideas, and I’m actually giddy at the accomplishment.

“Can you repeat that?” I ask.

The marketing director, Andrew, is presenting a plan to attract new clients. The Brandt brothers are out pitching Winthrope, and Beatrice is at another charity event this morning. Everyone will need detailed notes, and this guy talks faster than I can type.

He points to the top line of his presentation pad again, tapping it like a human hummingbird. “Did you catch all that? If you need me to, I’m happy to start over.”

“Good news, people!” a gruff voice booms over us before Andrew the Marketing Guy can machine gun through his talk a second time.

Ward.

His voice has always been whiskey smooth, but out of the blue like this—when he isn’t supposed to be here—it rakes goosebumps down my arms.

Andrew the hummingbird wouldn’t let anyone else get a word in edgewise. He doesn’t try that with Ward.

The Warden walks up to the center of the table like the proud lion he is. He makes a show of leaving everyone in suspense for just a few more seconds before he clasps his hands in front of him and makes his announcement.

“Ross Winthrope has tentatively accepted our offer to create the finest hotel on the Chicago skyline. The cherished dream of my grandparents lives, and it’s all thanks to each and every one of you.”

Marketing Guy Andrew and I are the first to start clapping over the wave that follows.

Sure, Ward Brandt pisses me off like nobody can, but this is a success I’m happy to share. And it was so important to Beatrice. She told me once that the grand hotel would fulfill her husband’s dying wish, and it’s too perfect having her grandsons close it.

“Since I’m here, I’ll stick around for the meeting,” Ward says.

Andrew nods. “Of course, Ward. There’s an empty seat beside Paige.”

What? Oh, no. There has to be another one.

I scan the table.

Nope.

The only empty seat in the whole conference room is next to lucky me.

He sits down beside me. I’m wafted with a wave of espresso and mint. He would have to smell like a mint mocha.

No lie, the man smells good enough to drink and he’s close enough to touch. My fingers tingle.

Hello, torture. But I quash the agony as fast as I can.

Remember, he thinks I’m a drunken idiot because he met me on a bad night. A little girl to be rescued—even if I needed a little hero action that night. I just don’t need his lectures and scorn.