Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,121
lie about being engaged for good PR.
Why did his fake fiancée, Mariska Crista, call him King Asshole after they parted ways? Was she that scorned, thinking it was real?
So many questions stab away like spinning knives.
For all I know, his interest in me could be a front for dealing with Jordan in the easiest way possible. It’s no secret I’ve gotten through the kid’s wall in ways he can’t.
But he kissed me in Phoenix before Jordan was an issue.
And then he told me to forget about it.
Shit, I’m confused.
“Are you okay?” Paige asks, frowning.
She can’t help but see the game of he loves me, he loves me not playing out in my eyes.
I look up, realizing I’ve been quiet for too long.
“You’re not talking, but you’re not eating much, Brina.”
I look down at my bowl. I’ve been swirling my fork around for a good while. I meet Paige’s eyes again. “I’m fine. I’m just not hungry.”
“I thought you were starving?” she asks.
It’s not argumentative at all, but worried, and it annoys me to no end.
“Is this about boss boyfriend?” she asks. This time, I let her have at her silly nicknames.
My phone vibrates loudly, saving me from having to answer.
Paige rolls her eyes. “Ignore it.”
Hugo’s name flashes across the screen.
“Can’t. It’s office stuff and Mag’s home with Jordan.”
I pick up the phone. “Yes?”
“Our airline exec wanted glossy brochures, but the image keeps pixelating on the gloss,” Hugo says. “Angie’s been trying to iron it out for hours.”
“Uhh—you can’t just fix it and reprint?” This is a junior level designer issue. Come on, Hugo, give me a break.
He sighs. “Changing the color scheme might do it, but they insisted on brand colors. Um, after the whole ‘art project’ debacle, Heron told me I’m not to communicate directly with customers. But our options are to change the color scheme or move to a non-gloss.”
“Hang tight. I’m on my way. I’ll see if I can tweak it with Angie,” I say.
Hugo grumbles into the phone. “I realize you’ve witnessed some misses with my work since we met, but I’m no puppy. You’re welcome to try, but I trust you’ll come to the same conclusion.”
“Pixelation is a resolution issue, not color scheme,” I tell him.
“Yes, and I’ve gone through six damn ink cartridges using higher resolutions. The color bleeds off the page with the high res image.”
I’m shocked, wrinkling my nose. Heron insists on the best of everything, and we don’t have a decent printer?
“We need a better printer,” I tell him.
“Custom orders for hardware like that can take weeks. So few people use print ads anymore. The boss felt we could get by with a medium line. Trouble is, the airline’s a flying dinosaur, and they still want non-digital marketing from the year 2000.”
I can’t disagree there.
“I’ll be there soon to make a decision.” I end the call and look at Paige. “Sorry, I’m going to have to cut this short.”
“Mag?”
“Nope. The company.”
“Same difference.” She looks hurt. “You need a ride?”
“Sure!”
We don’t talk much on the drive to HeronComm. Mostly because I’m on the phone with every stupid print shop in the city. I find one with super high quality printers and send Hugo to print the test piece there. If it passes quality assurance, we’ll do up everything there. It costs more, but the airline contract is so lucrative it hardly matters.
If that doesn’t work out, though...I’ll be contacting the airline CEO and eating crow.
When I end the call, we’re at the office. I thank her and reach for the door.
“No problem.” Her eyes connect with mine, her blond hair hanging loosely as she looks at me. There’s something on the tip of her tongue.
“Paige? What’s up?”
She grimaces, then gives me a strained smile. “I hope you come home tonight, Brina. Don’t let that rich boy use you or demand your whole life.”
“I’ll think about it.” I give her a quick hug, shut the door, and step on the sidewalk.
Then it happens.
A black cat darts between me and the door, no doubt a stray searching for warmth in the February cold. The little beast stops and stares me down with its back arched.
I stay stock-still. I’m in no mood to be clawed, let alone poisoned by bad luck, even if my rational side says I should call a shelter and get the animal picked up.
After a standoffish minute, he relaxes and trots off around the corner, into an alleyway before I can do anything.