Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,57

earlier in the day. A wide crystal chandelier hangs in the middle of the room. The tabletops are draped with cloths in pale blues and shimmering silvers.

There’s a dance floor to go with the open bar, encouraging corporate debauchery.

Nobody ever said marketers don’t know how to party—and scar themselves for life with their own stupidity.

Once we find a table, the rest of my team scatters. They’re off to find drinks, mingle, what-have-you, but my assistant is MIA.

I go outside and find her in the darkened hall, wringing her hands.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, stepping up beside her.

Sabrina doesn’t look up, but she lets out a long sigh. “Do you need me here tonight? Like really need me? I took good notes during all the sessions.”

“Of course you did. Your work is always exceptional.”

I have no idea where this is going.

She bites her lip again and finally meets my eyes. “Unless you’re closing some kind of deal or pitching someone, you don’t really need me here...do you?”

Here’s a first.

I’ve had employees call in sick when I didn’t approve their time off. I’ve had assistants upset that I didn’t bring them to conferences because there was too much to do at the office. And I’ve also had personnel furious because I brought them to the conference but didn’t need them for the social schmoozing events.

I’ve never once had an assistant want to attend the conference, but not the after party. My brows knit together like pulled strings.

“Are you asking for permission to leave, Miss Bristol?”

She doesn’t say anything, but nods, too beautiful for life in the shadows.

“Are you sick?” I wonder, worry bleeding into my voice.

“Not exactly. I just...” She veers her head toward the ballroom, a panicked look on her face, then trains her gaze on me. “I don’t belong here.”

What the fuck? I’m stunned but let nothing slip.

She sounds truly anguished, stripped bare, all her usual sassy hellfire a vacant torch.

“Sabrina Bristol,” I say, closing the space between us. “If there’s any woman in Phoenix tonight who deserves to be in that room, it’s you.”

She scans our surroundings like she’s making sure we’re alone.

“Both times I put this dress on, I needed help. I haven’t dressed like this since I was a bridesmaid at my cousin’s wedding. I couldn’t do my hair by myself—”

“Do you know how many people here don’t do their own hair? Hell, most of the men pay someone—”

“And...” she cuts me off. “And I just can’t—I don’t know how to be.”

Because she doesn’t have the time to figure it out? I wonder.

Maybe I am a selfish, demanding brute.

“Listen to me, woman. You’re uncomfortable here. I get it. So we’re going to get you some liquid courage, and you’re going to get used to it. Don’t be intimidated. Every millionaire prick in the room wishes you were his, and every lady in attendance wishes she was you. This is the life you’re meant for. This is the life you deserve.”

“You sound so sure.” She gives me a wry smile. “All because I spit on you in the park?”

I shake my head.

And before I know what the hell I’m doing, my hand reaches for her face. She gasps as our skin makes contact. My fingers lift her chin, my thumb traces her jaw, and this strange, unspeakable spark flashes through both of us.

Heat lightning.

I can only feel my own body, but I know it’s in hers, too.

Her dark, delicate eyes surrender, shifting slightly from side to side as our gazes fuse.

“If I hadn’t snatched you up, someone else would have. Guaranteed,” I whisper, unsure why my throat tightens.

“Mr. Heron...”

She’s lost for words.

That’s my cue to end this temporary madness, dropping my hand, adjusting my bow tie.

Pretend. This never fucking happened, I tell myself.

“Enough doubting,” I say, my voice level again. “Let’s get a drink. That dress was four thousand dollars. You can’t let it sit in a garment bag because you want to hide from jealous eyes.”

“F-four thousand—” She gags. “Holy hell. You’re kidding, right?”

I give her a warning look. “Stop.”

“Okay.” She sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Okay, let’s go grab drinks.”

I battle the instinct to lead her there by hand as soon as we’re moving again. I’m hopeful this night won’t get any weirder.

We walk up to the bar, and I almost suggest taking a walk around the grounds.

Except for the fact that the CEO of Already Sold, Jake Willis, stands in front of the bar with a brandy in his hand. I’ve met him