One Bossy Dare: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)

My head might spin right off.

I’m panicked at what I just agreed to.

A dare? A flipping dare?

On the one hand, this is a dream come true. On the other, Boss McGrumpyface is going to be an absolute donkey and a half to work for.

My stomach lurches like a frappe in the blender.

I can’t pass this up. Dakota would smack me silly if I did, and so would Wayne.

Worse, Lancaster’s words resonated. Without even knowing me, he read my mind.

It’s just a little sacrifice, isn’t it?

And a chance to prove myself to this cocky fart wrapped in a suit.

If I just work in R & D for a year, I can do anything I want to after that…

Not to mention, it would be nice to make rent for once without dipping into listing old clothes on Poshmark. I’m running out of things to sell.

“I trust we have a deal?” he asks, undeterred by the awkward lump in my throat that’s stolen my voice.

Ugh. I still can’t believe I’m actually doing this.

“So you want me to work for you? For real?”

The longer he studies me, the faster my brave face crumbles.

“I thought that was clear?” he whispers, motioning me to sit back down.

I watch him sit up in his seat, a proud peacock of a man.

He writes something on a piece of paper and slides it across his desk. I glance at the number he’s crossed out and rewritten with his initials next to it.

It’s a contract.

For two-hundred thousand freaking dollars.

All for something I’ve been doing for free ever since I was old enough to drive.

Yeah, I need the smelling salts and a nice long nap. Or at least a primer on how people handle winning jackpots.

“I might, um, need a minute to think about this…just to be totally sure.”

A line forms in his forehead. Those dark-brown brows pull down in confusion. “You make more than that as a part-time assistant, Miss Angelo?”

“It’s not the money,” I whisper. “It’s a mammoth decision.”

“True. I’d offer you dinner to help you talk it out, but we have a strict HR policy against fraternization outside the office this late and in these circumstances.”

Oh, God.

Why does that hot look in his eyes say he wishes that policy were different?

Why do my toes scrunch up in my shoes?

“There’s one more thing. It’s not the compensation package.” I blank out. It’s hard to ask with a straight face while my cheeks burn, especially because when he’s not talking he’s kind of delicious.

If he weren’t a total buffalo dick who wasn’t a breath away from being my boss, maybe I’d take him up on that imaginary dinner someday.

The sly smile etched on his face doesn’t help.

“What else do you want? Spit it out, Miss Angelo. I have to get home sometime tonight.”

Rude. But in fairness, I am holding him up.

“Wayne deserves an apology when he gets that bonus. And you should thank him for keeping that store running. Lord knows it’d be in much worse shape without him,” I rush out.

For a second, he’s dead silent.

“Let me get this straight. You’ll walk away from two hundred big if I don’t have a heart-to-heart with a random barista?” His eyes lance through me.

I smile and nod and try not to laugh hysterically at my own insanity.

“Why?” he spits.

“Remember how I told you earlier that if you talk to him like that, you’ll talk to me like that?”

“I didn’t talk to him like anything. The coffee sucked and it had everything to do with the recipe—not his technique, which seems unimpeachable.” Lancaster tilts his chair back, pinching the bridge of his nose like he’s finally had enough. “At the risk of you flipping me off and running out the door—this is a ludicrous condition.”

Stay strong.

It certainly feels like lifting weights to plaster on a neutral smile.

“To you,” I throw back. “To me, it’s important. I might make a bad batch of coffee through no fault of my own. I mean, it’s pretty natural when you’re experimenting. But even if it’s not the beans or the equipment or the recipe, everybody has a bad day sometimes. Everybody human.”

His eyes glaze over, shiny arctic blue when they’re angry.

“For the last time, the bland drink wasn’t his fault. What’s the point of this?”

If he had a tail, it’d be slapping the ground in frustration.

I stare, never softening my ghost of a smile. “Because, Mr. Lancaster. If we’re crystal clear now, then we won’t need to talk this out later when one of us has a bad day. No condescension. No talking down. No bossypants.”

“Bossypants?” He glares at me. “I’ll apologize to the damn barista if you’ll sign the contract. Anything else?”

Holy hell.

…I never expected him to agree.

I shake my head, which suddenly feels ten pounds lighter.

He looks down at the neatly clipped paper packet on his desk. “Will you sign the contract now? I’ll have it over to my legal team by morning.”

“Not just yet.” I point to the phone on his desk and give him a sad look. “I’m pretty sure Wayne is working right now…”

“Right now-right now? You’re serious? You want me to call so you can witness my humiliation?”

“How else would I know?” I ask softly.

“Wouldn’t Not Boyfriend tell you?” His death stare threatens to light my hair on fire.

“He’s not my boyfriend.” I’m thoroughly annoyed at how hard I deny it. “We’re busy people. Unless I pop into the store, I only really see him when I’m ordering coffee or serving breakfast at the homeless camp. Since I’ll be developing coffee, I might as well just get my morning coffee here too, don’t you think?”

That bulging, powerful fist on his desk tightens.

“Angelo, we haven’t even spent an hour together and I already don’t like you. It normally takes a few encounters for me to despise people.”

“Oh, good. I was worried it was just me. The feeling’s mutual.”

With a frustrated rumble, he rips up the phone and stabs at the buttons, dialing the number before he sets it down again. “Store’s closed. Wrong timing.”

“Oh! Well, lucky for you, I have his number in my contacts somewhere. Give me a sec…” I reach for my phone and pull up Wayne’s number, then pass it across the desk.

Lancaster glares at me as he punches the CALL button hard enough to crack my screen.

“Careful! You owe me a new phone if that comes back damaged…”

His eyes could flay me alive.

“Is this Wayne from the Seventh Street store?” he asks.

I try not to explode laughing. He sounds like a naughty kid being forced to apologize to the neighbor for leaving dog poop in their yard.

“This is Cole Lancaster. Listen, I wanted to apologize just in case my critiques of the new beverage line were overly harsh during the recent inspection.” He goes quiet, listening intently. “Yes. Right. Good. I’m certainly glad to hear there are no hard feelings…”

By the time he mutters a few more awkward words, I almost feel bad for enjoying how much he squirms.

Lancaster ends the call and chucks the phone back at me. “Sign the damn contract. Now. I’ll expect you here at six a.m. sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Okay. I need a pen.” I can barely get the words out between the laughter trying to claw its way up my throat.

He practically throws a fat, expensive-looking fountain pen with his initials engraved in shiny platinum at me.

I slash my name across the paper without pointing out his obscene taste in pens.

I suppose I’m feeling generous.

“FYI, I do my best brewing at nine,” I tell him, twisting in my seat.

“You’ll learn to do it at six.” His glare knifes through me. “See you then, Miss Angelo. Welcome the hell aboard.”

Woof. Why do I get the feeling he won’t be much friendlier no matter how bright and early I show up?

“See ya soon, boss.” I snicker as I slide the contract over, lift my purse, and walk out the door.

Yesterday, when he said “lab,” I honestly thought it was just a fancy name for a back-room roastery.

But this place is shock and awe from the second I step inside.

Imagine a fancy CDC lab and NASA unit having a baby dedicated to inventing addictive beverages. It’s stainless steel and sleek machinery perched on marble everything as far as the eye can see.

Every contraption a master roaster could ever want in their wildest fever dreams. There’s high-tech equipment for weighing, measuring, temp testing, chemical analysis, and more.

My two-thousand-dollar coffee equipment at home feels like Stone Age technology.

With gear like this, I know I can make better coffee—and maybe a cure for cancer while we’re at it.

A middle-aged woman not much taller than me with short curly hair appears at my side. “You must be Eliza. Hello.”

I smile. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“Gina Walker. I’m the head of research and development.” She holds out her hand.

I shake her hand. “Awesome to meet you.”

“Likewise. It’s not every day a fresh face handpicked by Mr. Lancaster personally shows up to join us. I’m here to help you settle in. Let me show you to your desk.” She leads me to a cubicle. “We don’t spend a lot of time at our desks, but you have a computer and drawers. It’s good to check your emails whenever you can. Sometimes you’ll be testing all day, and that’s fine. Just log it as you come in and out.” She picks up a clipboard full of lab sheets. “These go to the testing stations with you, so you can record everything. It’s important to log each step, ingredient, and device used. If we don’t record it, we can’t repeat it, and we certainly can’t rely on our overworked brains to remember.”

Harsh, but sensible. I nod.

I’ve definitely had my memory hole days where I brewed up the perfect drink and then couldn’t replicate it to save my life.

Even if everything here is beyond futuristic, I’m always down for improving my technique.

“Everything happens here,” Gina continues. “Roasting. Mixing. Brewing. Literally everything. There’s a place to record observations at the bottom as well. These sheets need to be scanned in daily to keep us current on what works and what doesn’t. But if you’re still working late, it’s no big deal as long as they’re all in the system by Friday.”

I put my purse in my drawer and grab my clipboard. Maybe too eagerly.

Gina smiles. “Excited to get started, huh?”

“You have no idea. At the risk of sounding like a huge dork, coffee is my life.”

“You’re in good company then.” She laughs. “Let me show you where the beans are…”

We walk back to the lab area, where there are huge floor-to-ceiling storage compartments with hermetically sealed covers. They’re all brimming to the top with various beans listed from lightest roast to darkest. Notes about their chemical composition and origins are on the labels, too.

Gawking, I lift one of the covers and inhale the freshest scent I’ve ever smelled because it’s so good.

For a second, I wonder if I got flattened by a bus the day I walked out of that store after colliding with Lancaster. Because I’m in heaven.

Gina hands me a small container full of freshly roasted Sumatran beans.

“Mr. Lancaster said you made some unusually delicious coffee in a mason jar. He requested we start with that, if it’s okay with you.”

“I’m happy to show you, but I brewed it over a campfire. Any idea how we would replicate that in the lab?”

“Interesting.” She taps her chin, thinking. “We’ll fire up a grill for starters. If you need to, you can put the kettle directly on the flame. What kind of wood do you need?”

I grin.

There are long days and happy days in life.

Miraculously, this is about to be both.

Several hours later, Gina stops by and finds me stirring the pot.

“Smells intense! Is it ready for a taste test?” she whispers, adjusting her glasses.

“I think so.” I ladle a cup for myself and take a cautious sip. I smile as the brew nips at my tongue. “Yep, ready!”

I ladle out a second cup for Gina.

She takes a tiny sip at first and then a bigger one.

“…is that a hint of bourbon? This is amazing.”

“No actual bourbon, but it does have notes like something that came out of an aged barrel.” I grin proudly while she sucks down the rest of her drink.

Only a few hours on the clock and I’m already feeling accomplished.

That’s a rare thing for sure. Of course, if we spent all day drinking our samples, we’d be so wired we wouldn’t be able to function.

But clearly, she can’t help herself with this one. I can tell she’s giddy before the caffeine even gets into her system.

I expect her to ask for another cup, but instead she says, “I’m going to call the lab techs over. Everyone should taste this stuff. Be right back.” She takes a couple of steps and looks back over her shoulder. “Awesome first day, Eliza.”

Be still, my heart.

A few minutes later, Gina returns with half a dozen people. I serve them each a cup, and they all compliment my coffee with surprising sincerity.

“Would you be offended if I use cream and sugar? It has a complex flavor, but it’s very strong,” one woman asks.

“No. Fix it however you like. You’re the one drinking it.”

“Thanks! I’m Chrissy, by the way.”

“Eliza,” I say.

“We all know who you are. I’m Ryan,” another tech says. He slurps his coffee and gives a fast thumbs-up. “This is bussin. Don’t think I’ve ever had fire-brewed coffee before.”

I’m flipping blushing.

“I know. The first time I tasted the difference, I was shocked. I’m thinking I’ll call it s’mor’ofee or something.” I smile awkwardly. “Or maybe I’d better leave that part to marketing.”

Chrissy laughs. “Oh, like s’mores coffee? I love it.”

“Hm, one problem. How do you think you’ll replicate this in a store without safety issues? Having the flame seems pretty key.” Ryan asks.

I freeze. It’s an honestly good question.

“We could make a concentrate. Though nothing beats the taste when it’s piping hot,” I say, racking my brain for options.

“Liquid concentrate or powder?” Gina asks, peering at me over her glasses.

“Uh, I’ve only ever done liquid.” I sip my coffee slowly. “Honestly, I don’t know how to make a powder concentrate…”

Everyone looks up then. For a second, I think they’re stunned silent at my ignorance.

Nope. I’m not that lucky.

A walking coffee curse is moving toward us on long legs stuffed into trousers so expensive they make my skin crawl.

The friendly crowd scatters like birds, clearing a path for Cole Lancaster to come stalking through.

Ugh.

“What are you doing here?” I bite off.

He scoffs. “Last I checked, I owned the place. Including this military-grade coffee lab.”

“Oh, boy, here we go.” I roll my eyes. “You just can’t describe anything without sounding like a Bond villain, huh?”

“Mrs. Walker emailed me, gushing about how good your coffee is. I decided to show up for a personal taste test,” he says bluntly.

Gina comes closer to the pot and takes the ladle.

“No. Let Miss Angelo do the honors,” he orders, holding up a hand. “No sense in stealing her thunder, after all.”

I bite my tongue so hard it’ll be sore later.

He closes the space between us, waiting expectantly for me to pour his coffee, his eyebrow raised in that smug godfatherly way.

Definitely supervillain vibes.

And I’d rather brew coffee for every cartoon bad guy ever invented than give Cole damn Lancaster the satisfaction of taking a piping hot cup from my hands.

He’s clearly enjoying this, his brow quirked in just the right way that makes him ten times more annoying and somehow more gorgeous—which only makes him even more annoying.

Double ugh.

What the hell makes him think I want to waste my time serving him coffee? I guess being King Dick makes him think everyone should trip over each other for the privilege?

I wish I could serve up a super-concentrate strong enough to choke that look off his face.

For now, I toss a steaming ladle of black liquid into a paper cup and thrust it into his hand. I hope it melts right through the container.

“Enjoy,” I snap.

He winks.

He freaking winks at me.

And he takes his sweet, sweet time sipping from the cup, holding the liquid in his mouth so reverently you’d think I just handed him the cure for old age.

Also, I hadn’t noticed how full his lips are around that halo of beard that looks like it would scratch just right.

Not until now.

Like I needed to notice that.

He holds the scalding liquid in his mouth, turning it over, ice-cold calm and assessing. The man towers over me, an intimidating beast even when his shields are down mid-sip.

My eyes are stuck to him now—glued to his broad chest and the wild ripples of muscles that become more visible every time he moves, pulling the silk suit tautly against him.

God, I hate how attractive he is.

I extra hate how he’s in my space.

I triple hate how his lips move as he rolls his tongue inside his mouth, making me imagine all the awful things that tongue could do besides make my blood pressure skyrocket.

This feels like the longest coffee sampling ever.

Of course it is.

When Lancaster finally swallows, I wonder what year I’m in.

“Divine, Miss Angelo.” His unexpected compliment almost makes the torture worth it. “Though even Prometheus had to bring his gift down from the gods.”

“Come again?”

“Prometheus. A Greek god who—”

“I know Prometheus, professor!” I snap. “What does that have to do with my coffee?”

He chuckles. “How are we mass producing this wonder-brew for the people?”

“Wait. You just had to bring in the Greeks to ask about production?”

“A little mythology reference never hurt—”

“So, instead, you were confusing and pretentious? Nice. Also, we were discussing how to mass produce it when you came rolling through,” I tell him.

If I’m hoping to get under his skin, he doesn’t bite.

“What did you come up with?” he asks neutrally.

“We were considering the fire issue,” Gina starts, but the bear in a suit holds up his hand.

“I want to hear it from Miss Angelo, Mrs. Walker. After all, she knows coffee better than me.”

I look at Gina, who seems bewildered, and glare at him for not noticing.

What the actual hell? Why is he such a hardass?

“The team has two thoughts,” I say, careful to credit everyone. “Gina says we could try a powder concentrate—”

“And do you think concentrate would be worth serving to my customers?” Lancaster asks coldly.

“I’ve dealt with concentrates before. They’re not bad, but not always perfect.”

“A shame. I’d rather have perfect,” he snaps.

Wouldn’t we all, Mr. High and Mighty?

“My other idea might be expensive. What if we looked at installing some sort of grill in the stores? Even if it was just a glorified Bunson burner with wood chips, that could do it,” I say, rolling it over in my head as I speak.

“I’ll have to check with the supply team, but there’s no reason it couldn’t work,” Gina adds.

“There’s one,” he says.

“What’s that?” And more importantly, do you have a better solution? But I don’t say it out loud.

“I can’t add burners to every store just for a new beverage line,” he says. “It’s impractical.”

“How much is a small grill?” I ask.

Gina pulls out her phone and starts tapping the screen. “They’re not expensive. We can get a good one installed for under three hundred dollars.”

“Per store,” the Grumpfather finishes, scowling.

“Do you trust the drinks or not?” I ask point blank. “Because if they’re truly good, you’ll make that back per store before the first day is over…”

“You’re not factoring in the installation costs. Plus, most of the barista bars don’t have the space. It doesn’t matter, though. One new gourmet product isn’t enough to satisfy my vision.”

“So, what do you want then?” I ask.

“Nothing less than a whole line of these scorched drinks, paired with food. The barbecued coffee shrinks its production cost if it wins us better sell-through of other items. That brings us back to perfection. Every last one of the drinks will have to be perfect to attract new customers.” He inhales sharply like he’s watching it all unfold in his head. “Also, I’d like the updates directly from you, Miss Angelo.”

“Me? Why?”

“This is your baby. Gina may be your immediate manager, but I want you to own it,” he says.

“But Gina gets paid to deal with you. That’s what management is for, right?”

Behind us, a few of the lab techs still standing around snicker.

They’re gone the instant his glare falls on them, though.

Then he turns the evil eye on me, like he wants to say something, but he’s holding back. “You don’t need to fret over the chain of communication. I said I want updates from you.”

The way he emphasizes that last word sends a shiver up my spine, like two strong fingers sliding across my skin.

“Don’t you have a meeting to go to? Or something?” I add desperately.

“I’m in a meeting.”

Eep. I swallow the lump building in my throat.

“I bet you have more important people than me to talk to, so by all means, feel free. We’ll keep making progress, boss.” I smile sweetly, hoping he’ll believe me.

Nope.

That’s when I realize we’re alone. And he doesn’t waste a single second before he moves closer and brings his lips to my ear.

“Not while I have this new employee whose big brain comes with a bigger mouth. If I don’t get her broken in, she’ll trample my authority. That shit won’t fly.”

Oh, God. Why does my heart feel like a trapped hummingbird?

“I-I feel your pain,” I stammer, trying to pull myself together. “I work for a guy who acts like he’s a mafia kingpin rather than a guy who sells caffeinated drinks. He has a lot of bad habits. He’s rude and annoying and forgets he’s a paper pusher, not a drill sergeant—”

“Watch that mouth, Angelo. Paper pushers don’t make multi-million-dollar decisions every day. Have you been talking to Destiny?”

“Destiny?” I jolt away from him, realizing he was brushing my shoulder.

Holy hell, the heat he leaves behind…

“Don’t lie for her. Did my daughter put you up to giving me hell?”

I blink. “Umm—are you okay? Why would I be goofing off with your teenage daughter?” I laugh at the absurdity. “When would I even talk to her?”

He shrugs one shoulder, his face back to his default ice-cold mask.

“She called me a drill sergeant the other day.”

“Oh, so I’m not the only one who noticed? Unbelievable.”

He rolls his sky-blue eyes with a low growl vibrating his huge chest.

For a second, I wonder if he’d make the same noise in very different circumstances. The pleasant kind where a woman frustrates him with more than words, where she drops to her knees and opens his pants and reaches in to find out just how big that ego is and—

“The point is I need another scorched drink by the end of this week,” he clips. “Show me you’re worth a senior salary and the two bonuses for the barista,” he says.

“Is that supposed to be intimidating?” If so, challenge accepted.

I fold my arms, staring defiantly at that grump-tastic face of his.

“There’s no way you’ll come up with another scorched drink this good in three days, no matter how talented you are.”

“Another dare? That might’ve worked to lure me in here, but now it’s getting boring.” I laugh bitterly. “Bad news, Grumpfather.”

“What?” He leans forward, his eyes shifting slowly side to side.

He was already too close to me. Now, I can smell him, hints of worn leather and citrus and something almost animalistic.

Lancaster makes it so hard to force him to eat his own words. Annoying.

And I hate that I kinda like the way he towers over me.

“Remember how I mentioned recipes—plural—in the interview?” I pause, waiting for him to nod. “I have like twenty pages of drinks like this.”

“Bull. Who keeps a recipe book full of scorched drinks?”

“Your big mouth new hire, apparently.”

“Let it go,” he whispers, pushing closer again, eyeing a few techs moving around us within earshot. “Naturally, I was joking.”

“I could, but y’know—I won’t.”

“I’m ordering you to let it go then.”

I laugh. “Ordering me?”

“As your boss, I’m suggesting in the strongest possible terms that you wipe that conversation from your head.” He glowers at me.

“Or what? You’ll like fire me already?”

“It would be a dreadful loss,” he says, all hot breath in my ear.

Oh, God, I’m tingling.

Tingling from head to toe as I lean into him.

We’re so close now it hurts.

We’re almost touching.

“Make the next one a speciality drink,” he says, inhaling slowly like he’s—wait, is he smelling me?

I don’t know how I keep standing.

“What?” I mouth silently because I can’t find my voice.

“I need a drink I can charge more for, Miss Angelo, like a mocha or latte. Since you’re bored with beginner challenges, perhaps you’ll find this more to your level.”

Oof. So maybe I was born with a big mouth after all.

“But—”

“Oh, so that’s not in the recipe book, is it?” His thin, arrogant smile could devour me. “Have fun. I’ll be back soon to try my mocha. Or will it be a latte or shaken drink? Surprise me.”

I’ve never wanted to kick another human being so badly.

Especially when his puffed up arrogance only makes him hotter in that evil villain way.

“See you then,” I say, forcing it out without a hint of fear.

“Really? You sound so confident?” He looks surprised.

“Everything I’ve ever come up with was in my living room, using secondhand equipment in a space no bigger than a closet. Now I’m in a beautiful lab with the best stuff mega-money can buy and three full days to experiment. There’s no reason I can’t have a new drink by Friday that’s so good you’ll whimper.”

Our eyes connect for what feels like forever.

I watch his muscular throat moving, swallowing, like he’s drinking me in. Or maybe he’s just checking whether or not I have a death wish.

“Make me cry then, Miss Angelo,” he throws back.

Then he turns and exits without another glance.

As he leaves, I realize we have an audience again. The lab techs are staring, but no one says anything.

Finally, Gina speaks. “That was—interesting. I see you already have a dynamic with the big boss.”

She’s too polite.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to distract anyone.”

Slowly, she adjusts her glasses. “…should I go talk him down, or will you really have something by Friday?”

“I’ll have something, all right. Trust me.” If it sucks, the taste test will just be more fun, I guess. “I just need a little time to hash it out,” I add.

I jog back to my cubicle and collapse in my office chair.

Why is it so hard for me to just shut up?

I’ve never had a good brain-to-mouth filter, but something about this guy makes me extra fluent in sarcasm.

Another screaming sign he’s trouble incarnate.

The kind you need to keep a good six feet away from at all times to remain healthy.

Even if he wasn’t my off-limits boss, I wouldn’t give him the time of day. Not if I had a functioning brain.

Do I still have one?

Sometimes, I wonder.

Eliza, you’ve been down this road before. You and classy older men swarming with secrets do not mix, my brain reminds me.

Thanks, brain, but I’m not getting lost down memory lane right now. I need a new freaking s’mores drink by Friday.

I can’t lose another dare to Cole freaking Lancaster.

His smug victory lap would humiliate me for life.

With his stupid cocky face lodged in my mind, I spend the rest of my first day Googling the ingredients in a dozen different types of marshmallows.

He should’ve known it the second I took this job.

I won’t go down easy.