Office Grump An Enemies to Lovers Romance - Nicole Snow Page 0,8

to believe she’s developed the same defense mechanism as a shaggy camel if she’s ever called an office home.

Cats aren’t my thing, and neither is purr-niture, but her work is clean. About as good as the polished work my creative team sends across my desk every week for approval.

The cartoons are witty and the color contrast says she knows her stuff.

This isn’t novice work.

I smile. My latest assistant cracked and quit a few weeks ago. Executive assistant duties are far more demanding than graphic design, however...

What if this woman brings the same guts to a meeting I saw on a park bench?

She could be what I’m looking for. I need someone with a backbone, and any girl with a sharp, acid-spit mouth like hers could really—

No.

Shit.

Those lips just became completely unkissable, if I’m seriously considering this insanity.

I don’t mix business with pleasure. Ever.

She’s left a rare impression, though, and there’s no denying the stone-cold fact that I want her.

On my team. In my bed. At my desk. On all fours.

I can’t decide which I’d enjoy more.

Hell, for now, I just want to see her again, talk to her, preferably without the turf war or anything liquid she can hock up.

“Hugo?” I ask as soon as he’s circled back.

“Yes, sir?”

“Track her down. I need to talk to her about the assistant job,” I say.

Hugo stares at me with a blank face, adjusting his spectacles like there’s something wrong with them.

I inwardly groan. Come on, man. I don’t need you questioning my sanity, too. Not after the routing that chick just put me through.

There’s a reason I relate so well to Louis XIV. I am the company.

People follow my orders, and not just because I have CEO, Owner, and President as job titles. They do it because I’m the beating heart of this leviathan that spins them gold.

“You mean...latte girl?” he finally whispers, batting his eyes in disbelief. “Mr. Heron—”

“Did you see another girl with no filter here?”

“R-right. But you’re serious? I still think we should call security, just to be on the safe side. She’s unhinged. You really want to give her a job for...for spitting on you?” Hugo asks.

Phrased like that, it does sound strange.

“Yes. She’s perfect for the open EA position. I have no doubt she has the energy to fill my shoes when I’m otherwise occupied, and that’s what I need. No excuses, no nonsense, no endless babysitting.”

Hugo shakes his head.

“Energy. Because that’s the only skill required...” he mutters under his breath, then goes quiet for a minute. He shifts his weight, rocking gently at my side. “Mr. Heron, with all due respect, you go through assistants like tissue in a sick ward. Wouldn’t we be better off finding someone with more qualifications besides a bad—um, uncooperative—attitude?”

“No.” I look at Hugo and narrow my eyes. “Get it done before she’s gone.”

“But the shoot, the lighting...”

I flash him a cutting look. “The cameras are flashing, our model’s smiling, and you’re wasting time.”

He nods at me, then cups his hands around his mouth as he takes off at a run.

“Hey! Hey, latte girl, wait up,” Hugo yells, racing across the street to the bus stop.

The model—Sylvia, I think—struts up to me after the camera guys flash each other a thumbs-up.

She’s worth her pay. We’re shooting in a busy park, and she’s managed to keep those stilettos free from a single speck of dirt or misplaced grass. She approaches with a slow, practiced walk meant to win respect like English royalty.

The button-down business-like jacket she wears has light-blue silk at her arms. The back of the skirt is longer than the front and more silk fans out in a tail. It’s this weird clash of regal pomp and modern sizzle, but I just market Big Fashion, not think up the designs.

All she needs is a gold tiara over her platinum-blond hair, and she’d be princess personified.

“Are you okay, Mr. Heron?” she coos, flashing a set of teeth like perfect ivory. “That woman was so vicious.”

She bites her bottom lip, batting her fake lashes.

I’m tempted to step back since she hasn’t left much personal space between us, but I don’t want to offend her. I need her to complete this shoot I promised our client I’d personally oversee, and we’re running out of daylight.

Not everyone controls their emotions as well as I do.

“I’m fine. It was just coffee,” I tell her. “I’ll have a change of shoes waiting back at the office.”

She closes the last smidge of space between us and puts