Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,41
clue how much she owes me.
Then again, I owe her for saving the Woof Meow Chow account, even if I’ll never admit it to her face. That’s the only reason I’m doing this.
Yeah right, Mag Heron, you’ve turned into a sucker, a prickling voice whispers in the back of my mind. Desperate to make a woman you can never have smile like she doesn’t want to shank you in the throat.
I park my car in front of Sweeter Grind and dash in.
The place smells more like sugar than coffee. How does she even drink this stuff?
“Can I help you, Mr. Heron?” the barista asks, a hipster kid with a bushy beard and more piercings than freckles. “Wow, it’s really you! I didn’t believe it when the boss said we were opening half an hour early.”
“I need a large cinnamon latte and a bear claw to go,” I snap off, throwing my Centurion card on the counter with a metallic clatter. “And if there’s a way to keep that drink extra insulated, I’d appreciate it.”
“Of course. What kind of bear claw?”
“There are kinds of bear claws?” I ask. Who the hell has time for this?
“Sure, the filled bear claws are almond butter, cream cheese, and huckleberry jam—a Heart’s Edge favorite. Then we have the original that isn’t filled at all. They’re all there in the case if you want to have a look. That always helps some folks decide.” He smiles and points to a pastry case.
I blink like a fish out of water. People actually put mental effort into choosing bear claws?
I follow his finger with my eyes and study them closely.
“Give me one of every kind,” I say. “A whole box.”
He quickly packages them up, and one closely resembles the pastry Sabrina munched on the day I met her.
“That’ll be thirty-five dollars,” the barista says.
I got almost a dozen pastries bigger than my hand and a large coffee for that much? No wonder this place reeks of sugar rather than being filled with the aroma of beans kissed by the Hawaiian trade winds and roasted to perfection.
Clearly, I need to train Miss Bristol’s palate.
“Tip yourself a hundred bucks and hurry up,” I tell him, tapping my foot impatiently as his eyes light up.
“Yes, sir!”
There isn’t much time, but I can’t resist one more stop at The Bean Bar for a carafe of real coffee—it’s too long of a flight for the instant stuff they keep on board—on my way to the airport. As usual, I’m still the first arrival.
I check in with the pilot, load my stuff on the sleek Gulfstream jet, and go stand on the tarmac.
Every now and then, I get a straggler, and I like to be calling or texting before we’re late. Ruby’s the next to arrive, as always. Her leopard print dress accents her usual good fashion sense today.
She runs a hand through her hair. “I still don’t see why HR needs to be here. Don’t you have a sales team to pitch for you?”
“Having you around keeps everyone on their toes.”
“Delightful. I love being the one everyone hates,” she huffs out.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I chuckle, leading her up the stairs and inside the plane, where I open the box waiting on the table. “It’s not you they hate. Care for a bear claw?”
She snatches one out with that huckleberry filling. Her first bite leaves her a little more at ease.
“Believe me, I know. Your name comes up in an HR grievance at least once a month. But I can’t fire the majority owner and CEO, so you’re safe. As much as I’d love to stand here and chat, you know my limits, Mag. I’m finding an overstuffed seat. Wake me up when we’re in L.A.”
“Go on.” I nod at her.
Hugo, Angie, and Dave, the Sales Director, carpool. I watch them arrive, back on the tarmac again, enjoying the bustle of planes taking off. I’ve always had a thing for aviation.
I’m about to call Armstrong to find out if my new EA made everyone else late when the black town car pulls up. Sabrina jumps out behind a few other designers. She’s wearing blue sweats, a pink tank top, and flip-flops with a lavender overnight bag.
“You’re wearing sweats to a business meeting for a fashion brand?” I ask.
“I love finding out I’m working at four a.m. on Saturday morning after eleven on Friday night as much as any gal, so yeah. That a problem, Mr. Heron? I’m going to wear clothes I can actually