Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,48

I can afford to do this again. Every week, if boss dickwad ever lets me leave before midnight or spares me a day off.

Maybe someday.

He ordered this for me, didn’t he? For the whole team?

That’s actually...thoughtful.

Not something a pure stone-hearted hard-ass with a windswept hole in his chest would do.

“Relax,” Verena whispers, and I try.

No surprise, dwelling on my enigma of a boss coils more tension in my body.

She massages all the way to my shoulder, freeing muscles in her wake, and then moves to the other side of my head, repeating the process before starting on my foot and moving up my leg.

By the time she’s finished, my whole body feels so light it’s like I never worked a day for HeronComm. I should thank him.

Maybe I can even survive another eighty-hour week.

Is this what Armstrong meant when he said Heron takes care of his employees?

When Verena leaves, I’m so relaxed, it’s tempting to fall back in bed and sleep for hours. But I fight the urge, because I think I might actually get eight hours of sleep tonight and I want to wake up well rested at a reasonable time in the morning.

I’m also starving.

So I rifle through my clothes for a sundress I haven’t been able to wear in Chicago since July, and since it’s cool in the hotel, I layer it with a sheer silky drape jacket.

I’ve never eaten in a five-star hotel before. My meals are covered on company travel, so hell yes, I’m enjoying it.

The elevator taking me down is all glass and gives a sprawling view of ivory growing over golden banisters as I plummet closer to the pond on the first floor.

Holy crap. A small lake inside the lobby.

As I drop to the bottom, fish jump for food.

If someone told me ten years ago—or last month—I’d be staying in a golden, glassy hotel with a man-made pond, I would’ve laughed. Girls from Ford Heights don’t spring for places with decorative fish.

The restaurant looks dimly lit in this soft orange glow. The hostess wears a black three-piece suit and stands at the front. I glance down at the huge pink and blue flowers splattered across my dress, part of my exclusively Target wardrobe.

I’ve always loved this outfit, but somehow, standing outside this restaurant...

I’m torn. Part of me wants to go inside and enjoy it.

Who knows when I’ll get the chance again. But part of me wants to hoof it to the nearest burger joint.

Of course, I just had all the pain worked out of my legs, so why put it back?

After thinking it over another minute, I step up to the hostess. “Hi, do you have room service?”

She smiles politely. “We certainly do. Since you’re already downstairs, though, why don’t you let me find you a table? The restaurant has a better menu.”

“Well...all right,” I say, doubtful.

She peers at her screen. “What’s your room number?”

“Seven thirteen,” I say.

She nods. “Oh, very good. Your meals are taken care of by Mr. Heron.”

Yeah, perfect, except for the fact that I’m horribly underdressed for this place. But if the hostess notices, she’s damn good at hiding it.

“Uh, thanks,” I murmur.

“Let’s find you a table!” Smiling, she picks up a black leather book and leads me into the dining room. She swings her head this way and that, like she’s lost. “I know I have a table, but I’m not sure where’s the best place to seat you...”

I don’t care where. I just want the biggest sandwich they’ve got with fries and some kind of sugary drink—after everything I’ve been through, I’m sure I have the calories for it—and once I’ve devoured the whole thing, I’m dragging myself up to bed.

I’ll hibernate until Magnus Heron pings me with his next demanding jackass message. I’m probably too lowly to warrant a call. Thank God.

As I sit in a half-circle booth, I remember my last check from Purry Furniture should’ve landed by now, and the HeronComm pay will be hitting soon. I grab my phone as the hostess places a napkin next to me and type in my mother’s latest offering into the online book app.

A horrible scraping noise pulls me from my thoughts. I look up to see none other than the Prince of Darkness approaching.

Speak of the devil.

He’s pushed his chair back several tables away. He strides over so he’s standing over me, casting his long shadow like a sword.

“Fancy seeing you here.”

“Oh my God. Is that some line they teach pretty boys at prep school?” I