One Bossy Proposal: Enemies to Lovers Romance

Does he thrive on this kind of drama?

Does he get some sick enjoyment from everyone whispering about his dating life—or lack thereof?

I wonder.

He’s been perfectly frosty ever since it happened. He piles on more work, deeper and higher like he wants to bury me alive.

If he’s trying to make me quit before my ninety days—if he’s that freaking selfish and petty—screw him. I’m not backing down.

I’ve maybe slept five hours tops since this started, and I’ve almost gotten used to it.

I haven’t had time to work on my poetry for more than short blocks in weeks.

With Eliza out of town visiting a relative, I haven’t even gotten a square meal that isn’t reheated in plastic or dripping with frosting and cinnamon.

So, yeah, I’m spiritually committed to surviving this job and the ogre who runs this office.

I won’t fall behind, no matter how much I’m juggling.

Lincoln damn Burns won’t get the satisfaction.

When Saturday morning finally arrives, work slows down enough so I can peck at my work-in-progress. But Lincoln constantly interrupts me with questions about the wedding line’s timeline on my break.

I move between five different documents. When I’ve had no stupid texts in ten minutes, I pull out my notebook, thinking it’s safe to hack at my poem for a minute or two.

I stick the pen into the corner of my mouth and read what I’ve gotten down so far. Working title, “Ivory Adonis.”

She lives between the black of night and shades of grey.

Then comes an ivory Adonis spinning light.

He woke a cold, dead heart.

He woke a heart from a coma marinated in tears.

He was no white knight.

He was soft black stars.

He made a withered heart beat red.

But he was the same.

They’re all so lame.

Heartache and shame.

Only, she knows the game.

She lives between the black of night and shades of grey.

But she knows the rules and she can play.

He was no shining knight.

She’s not hunting for a wedding night.

Still, he made a withered heart beat red.

Woke from ruined dead.

So they fall down in bed.

With every thrust the darkness falls away.

Bursts of color claim the day.

She owes him her life.

He wants no wife.

She has no shame.

She still knows the game.

A lesson she never learns.

And so she burns.

Burns who? Burns what? Burns me.

But he’s her king.

Her fling.

Her boss.

Her loss.

My phone pings.

Ugh, not now. I’m on a roll.

He would interrupt me while I’m scratching out an angst-ball on paper that’s totally not about him.

Okay. Whatever.

I know it’s far from perfect. But considering the ivory asshole has me working since nine a.m. on a sunshiny Saturday morning in this godforsaken waterlogged city, I’m just happy to spend a few minutes on something besides a new wedding dress ready to set the world ablaze.

Then again, is it better that I’m writing about how Not Lincoln ignites my body?

Holy shit. Why am I writing this?

I take a quick photo of the poem with my phone to save it since I’m old-school and still use paper. Then I pick up my phone with a wince, already wrinkling my nose at whatever dumb demand he’s slapping me with.

But it’s not his name on the screen—or CAPTAIN, as he is in the contacts.

It’s worse.

Jay: Dakota, can we talk? I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for over a month. At least give me a chance to apologize in person.

Why? So you can rope me back in and wreck my heart all over again?

Drop dead, Jay, I think bitterly, smashing my phone down screen-first.

But it pings again insistently. Sighing, I turn it over, and hate that my ex isn’t done.

Jay: We were together for years. That has to mean something.

I don’t want to respond.

I don’t want to remember he still exists.

But my fingers move with a mind of their own, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve typed out a message.

Dakota: It did once, but you picked music over me. Your truest love. That’s what the text you sent said when you left me stranded, anyway. Remember?

I do—it’s burned in my brain for life—because I was already at the church.

I’m pinching my teeth together so tightly they could break when my phone buzzes again. I almost fling it across the room. But I do something worse instead.

I read more of his utter bullshit.

Jay: Did you get my cards? The letters?

Yeah. I forwarded them to a local women’s prison in your name, I send back with a smile that hurts.

I’m not even joking. I’m just disappointed he hasn’t met a nice Lorena Bobbitt yet. He could use a stab-happy bitch to up his game in the bedroom, that’s for sure.

Jay: Dakota. Be serious. Why you always gotta be so sarcastic?

Fury churns through my veins, venomous and hot.

When I’m talking to desperate little fuckboys, it happens, I throw back.

I stare at my phone for what feels like five minutes of sweet silence.