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

What a fucking day.

I know I’ve pissed off the universe when Nevermore, the pastry thief, turns out to be the most qualified candidate we have for the wedding line.

Just my luck.

She might be a black cat disguised as an angel and incredibly naive—why the hell did she spill her salary in the interview?—but at least she has writing chops.

That’s what matters.

That’s what makes me take a chance on a hire that’s one big red flag whipping me in the face.

Her personality might be difficult, but once she’s settled into working under me, I’m confident she’ll fall in line. If she brings the same spark to her ad copy, she’ll also make me money hand over fist, whatever our personality clashes.

When all’s said and done, that’s the endgame.

I’m ready to get the hell out of here by the time evening rolls around. I grab the cinnamon rolls I bagged up and leave, walking past rows of empty desks. My driver, Louis Hughes, the only employee who’s been with the company longer than I have, waits at the curb. I open the door and slide into the back seat.

“Welcome back, Mr. Burns. Home?” he asks.

“Wyatt’s first,” I say, instantly aware of how he glances back with concern.

“Will do.” He pulls onto the street.

By now, he knows the address by heart, even if it isn’t on any Google Maps.

I thumb through my email, responding to items Lucy flagged for me. I’m going to be completely boned when she goes on leave. Her organizational prowess makes it infinitely easier to manage this company.

I’ve made it through five emails when the car stops in front of the familiar, large encampment. There’s a typical Seattle spring rain pelting the windows, turning the tents outside into smears of color against the night.

“Here we are. Should I come with you? I’m always perfectly willing,” Louis offers.

“I won’t drag you out into the rain, Louis. It’s just a short walk. Save your fussing for somebody that deserves it. I always come back, don’t I?”

His eyes linger on me, dark with worry.

“Are you sure, boss? Forgive me, but this isn’t the safest place. The papers said there were four robberies and two armed assaults here last week,” he says. “You’re a public personality, Mr. Burns. If any bad actors recognized you and took the notion to—well, I might be too late to help if I’m warming my butt in the car.”

I chuckle. “Louis, I was a Marine. Plus, far more of those people out there are veterans than you’d think. If trouble goes down, I’m sure I’ll have backup.”

Frowning, he nods.

“Of course, sir. Sorry to complain. Even after all these years, I sometimes forget you’re a little more bold on the streets than Tillie.”

“Don’t be sorry. Ma needed to feel safe and you always did the job. I appreciate your concern. Give me twenty minutes before you send in the cavalry to find me.” I clap him on the shoulder.

Clutching Wyatt’s cinnamon rolls, I get out of the car, walking briskly under whatever cover I can find because I didn’t bother with an umbrella.

I’m a real Seattleite to the core. Having spent most of my life in this town, the rain feels like my own pulse. Contrary to popular belief, nobody who calls this place home gives a damn about getting wet.

The cool water mists my brows, my hands, the back of my neck like the pure night reaching down inside me, scrubbing away the day’s filth—especially my two infuriating brushes with Nevermore.

Out here, it’s about what you expect with life on the streets.

Sadly, the Emerald City has a lot of bustling streets and parks and back alleys where this hard life is the only life anyone knows.

I pass a trio of men in worn jeans passing a bottle of cheap whiskey back and forth. Lonely women puffing cigarettes and cigarillos for an extra touch of warmth on a wet night. A once-red tent, now faded pink from the sun, small flower pots strewn around it.

Several tents later, I find him sitting beside a fire in front of his meager home, an old fisherman’s cap yanked down over his eyes.

His cheeks are sunken. There are black rings around his eyes.

Goddamn, my best friend looks like shit, and it’s got nothing to do with the fact that he’s homeless. He’s been hollowed out, drained, the kind of tired sleep can’t fix.

He’s never been this beat down by the treachery that brought him here, and it makes my gut wrench.

I sit down beside him.

“Sorry I couldn’t bring you a roll the other day. Like I told you, a greedy crow snatched it out from under me at the last second,” I say, pushing the bag toward him.

“It’s whatever.” He shrugs with his whole body, like it takes that much will just to roll his shoulders. “You bring me one tonight?”

“Half a dozen to make up for the shortage. I hope you’re hungry,” I say, offering him a thin smile.

Wyatt doesn’t smile back. He reaches inside the bag, grabs a roll, and bites it in half the second it’s in front of his face.

He’s still the most human when he’s stuffing his face with sugary carbs, his cheeks ballooning like a cartoonish chipmunk behind his grizzled beard.

He winks at me as he chews, and after a long while, he swallows and says, “Thanks, man.”

My stomach drops.

It’s amazing how a simple pastry brings him back like watering a wilted plant. Even so, he’s getting thinner by the month. Dirtier and more depressed, his once bright pale-blue eyes dimmer as the days wear him down.

I can’t fucking leave him like this tonight.

Not without offering comfort I know he’ll refuse—but dammit, I always have to try.

“When was the last time you ate?” I ask carefully, knowing how much he hates questions.

He slices a dismissive hand through the air.

“Aw, hell. I don’t know. A couple days ago?” He stares past me like he’s really trying to think.

“Did you eat the bear claw?” I ask, propping one leg on the empty box next to him to stretch.

“Nah.” He shoves the rest of the roll in his mouth and shakes his head, taking his sweet time without elaborating. “I traded it to some lady for a couple duck eggs. Scrambled ’em.”

I smile, hoping he isn’t bullshitting me and actually got some protein into his system.

With Wyatt, unfortunately beggars can be choosers.

He’s one stubborn SOB. Always has been, and the streets turned what used to be an asset into a massive liability when the man barely cares about feeding himself these days.

I scan his surroundings, the modest possessions he keeps by the tent. An old canteen, a few empty ceramic pots, a broken bike lock that did nothing to stop some jackass from taking off with a small cart full of his stuff a couple months ago.

Something seems out of sorts—more so than usual.

I can’t pinpoint what until my eyes fall on his tattered boot.

A single lonely, ripped-up boot.

Fuck.

So that’s why he looks worse than usual. He’s missing his goddamned leg. I swallow.

“Wyatt, what happened to the—?”

“Asshole with a knife jacked it last week,” he says dully. “I clocked him good in the nose, but he shoved me on the ground and…yeah.”

I stare at the empty space, anger surging through my veins. “Someone stole your prosthetic? For fuck’s sake, why?”

“Why not? I’ve lost everything else. What the hell’s one more fake limb added to the pile?” He laughs bitterly.

It’s a ruthless gut punch, and he didn’t even mean it to be.

There are a lot of things in his life he didn’t mean.

The man just doesn’t give two shits anymore—not even about his own life—and that’s why that job falls to me now.

My jaw tightens as I look at him, already working on his second roll. If only he wasn’t so far up his own ass. I could at least protect him from being preyed on by vultures and punk-ass kids willing to rob homeless vets for drug money.

I’ve made the same offer a million times. Now that he’s one leg short, will he finally be more open? Will he swallow his pride?

“You know I’ve got an entire heated guesthouse and no company,” I say slowly. “If you want to crash, you could—”

“No,” he spits back, giving me a scorned look.

There’s nothing I will ever hate about this man except for his suicidal ego.

Hell, the rejection was out like a shot, before I even finished. That’s faster than usual.

“It’s detached. It would be like having your own place,” I say, not ready to give up. “It sits there whether anyone uses it or not. Sometimes I wonder why I have the damn thing when nobody visits.”

He shakes his head like I’m forcing a ghost pepper up his nose.

“Try your charity on somebody else, Burns. There are folks here with reasons to live who need a good sleep and a hot shower a whole lot more than I do, like Miss Green Thumb a few tents down. You want to help, offer it to her. I’m beyond that shit. Don’t need it. I like my tent and washing off at the Y just fine.”

I let out a frustrated growl. I can’t fucking help it.

I can’t help how seeing him give up rips me in two.

Yeah, it’s no surprise. I knew he was sailing into rough waters the minute he wound up on the streets. I’ve also never heard him sound quite so sure about being done until now.

It’s not him. He’s a fighter by nature.

He was, I should say, before that evil bitch destroyed him.

Before he began the slow, agonizing fall into the black pit of misery he’s in now.

He’ll never get over her, and he can’t pull his life back together until he does.

“Look, Wyatt. I’m not here to save you from yourself. We’ve both been through hell together. All I’m offering is a break from all this for a day, a week…whatever. Take a vacation and come back here recharged. There’s no good fucking reason why you can’t crash in my vacant guesthouse so we can have drinks together at the end of the day, and you know it.”

He snorts dismissively.

“We can do that anyway. You’re here now. No point in me mooching off my best friend or stinking up space someone else could use. Your rich neighbors and maid are gonna think you’ve lost your mind, moving some random homeless guy in. And fuck, your mom—”

“You’re not some random homeless guy,” I say sharply. “You’re my best friend. I wouldn’t be here without you.” I inhale sharply, feeling ghostly vibrations ripping through solid bone from that day. Even my muscle memory is keenly aware I’d be six feet under without Wyatt Emory. “You saved my life and you can’t even crash at my place for a single night?”

He shakes his head like a bull, pulling at his wiry beard.

“It’s nothing. If shit went the other way, you would’ve saved me too. You don’t even have to keep up with the cinnamon rolls or my life. Hell, I don’t even want to keep up with my life.”

That’s obvious, and a deep, toxic depression talking. I wish I could somehow reach inside him and rip it out of him like a parasite worm.

I hate that he’s his own worst enemy.

Always too proud to accept any help.

Only, now I’m afraid he might be too scarred, too damaged to ever consider it.

Where the hell does that leave me trying to help him?

Do I just throw my hands up and watch a good man die?

Should I bother continuing this conversation?

I hold in a sigh because I’m afraid I’ll exhale my soul. Talk is cheap, and tonight, it’s damn near worthless.

I doubt it gets us anywhere, except for frustrating Wyatt more, causing him to dig his lonely heel into the ground.

My eyes flick over him, cool and assessing.

Part of me says make him get back on his feet. Just haul him off in a headlock and get him help. I’m sure Louis would help me wrestle him into the back seat.

He’s on one leg and losing a few more pounds of muscle every month, even if he’s still as strong as a pit bull.

It’s not like he could run, but the only thing that’s kept the poor SOB alive this long is his damn stubborn pride. His agency.

Take that from him—however well intended—and he might break forever.

I reach in my pocket and pull out a phone, holding it out to him.

“If you won’t come home with me, at least take this. It’s prepaid and has a lot of minutes on it.”

He stares at it silently. He doesn’t reach for it.

“Damn you, Wyatt. Take it. Keep it handy, just in case you need to call me or have an emergency. It’s no big deal. I got a deal on it when I upgraded my phone, and yours broke a long time ago.”

He stares into the fire for a minute before he reaches out and grabs the phone.

Thank God.

“My number’s pre-programmed in the contacts. Number one. Call me anytime,” I say.

He doesn’t answer.

We sit there in silence for a while together, two old souls set in their ways like concrete.

It’s getting late. I should go. But how will he even get back in the tent on one leg without crawling? If I ask, he’ll bite my head off.

Maybe if I sit here long enough, he’ll ask for help.

He doesn’t, though, and eventually I take the hint and leave.

As I’m heading back to my town car on the curve, I wish the rain was colder. It can’t dampen the hot fury lashing around inside me.

“I hope you’re happy wherever you are, Olivia, you backstabbing fuck.” I growl to no one, my fist tightening as I picture Wyatt’s ex.

That’s another thing we have in common, even if he took more damage from his cheating ex.

As the rain picks up, I mutter a dark prayer to Mother Karma.

Just this once, I wish that a good man who’s suffered so much could find some relief.

I also wish prayers actually came true.

Monday morning, I get to the office before eight a.m.

There’s already a draft of new ad copy from Miss Poe waiting in my Inbox.

If she thinks a rushed job warrants her salary, she has another thing coming. I’ll bring her in and set her straight. I open the document, almost salivating at the opportunity to rip it apart and haul her into my office to chew her out.

Hold the drool.

I blink at the screen, seeing neat lines of ads mocked up with punchy phrases and paired with eye-catching images.

It’s damn good. Spotless, in fact.

There isn’t anything to sink my teeth into. I can’t be disappointed at a job well done.

At least my hiring decisions are spot on, even when they involve a pastry thief in a seductive black dress.

Regardless, I have a meeting scheduled with her today so we can clear the air. I’m not interested in leaving either of us languishing in a hostile work environment—no matter if she’s eighty percent responsible for said hostility.

Yeah, I won’t admit I’m to blame for how we started out.

This line needs talent, focus, and zero distractions. Something tells me she won’t be the one to swallow her pride and make peace.

Time to step up and be the leader everyone respects around here.

If I’m lucky, I’ll win her respect, too. She might start looking at me like I’m the boss instead of an inquisitor holding her salary hostage.

Fifteen minutes later, she steps into my office. Her slender legs, curvy hips, and annoyingly luscious ass are outlined in fitted black slacks today.

Her full breasts are hugged by a sparkling silver blouse that yanks my eyes to the tightly formed V on her chest, straight to her cleavage.

Fuck me.

For several heady seconds, I can’t yank my eyes off her. My fingers drum against my desk, wondering if I should impose a new dress code, because there’s nothing inappropriate about this outfit.

Fuck, Linc. Get it together.

“You summoned me?” She says it too obediently. I half expect her to add Master to the end.

Then I catch the cactus-like look in her eye and realize it’s all sarcasm.

Damn this insufferable woman.

Damn her lips, too, so full and so sweet it’s a crying damn shame they’re also full of it.

I never noticed her pout before. Maybe it’s just the siren-red lipstick accenting her look today, but hell.

Her eyes, man.

Focus on her eyes. Prove you’re a man in control of his faculties and not a gibbering orangutan, I growl inwardly.

“Sit down,” I say, motioning to the seat in front of my desk.

She nods, trots in, and sits down before she holds up a notepad and puts a pen to it. “Do you have corrections to go over?”

Good. She’s ready to work rather than waste our time trading insults.

I can respect that. Professional, businesslike, blunt.

I never would’ve guessed she had it in her, but I’m open to seeing another side of her. Too bad we have a very unprofessional subject to bat around.

I shake my head.

“Your copy is clean enough to eat. That’s not what I wanted to discuss,” I tell her, leaning back in my chair.

She lowers the notepad and pen, her eyes wider and more suspicious.

“Oh?”

“A lot went down between the two of us before your interview.” I pause, clearing my throat. “I can certainly appreciate your talent and your backbone, Miss Poe. What I can’t appreciate is ignoring the pissed off elephant in the room, that day you decided to make off with my Regis roll—”

“You mean when you were harassing me over a flipping cinnamon roll?” she spits, her eyes flashing.

Ah, there’s my hellcat, and she’s all claws today.

I glare at her like the sucker for punishment I am.

“Actually, I meant you being too selfish to part with your precious cargo even for five hundred dollars.” Her mouth opens and I hold up a hand. “Listen, it doesn’t matter. I’m not here to re-litigate two regrettable battles at Sweeter Grind. I’m offering you a truce so we can work together like two gears in the well-oiled machine that is this company.”

She narrows her eyes, obvious acid on the tip of her tongue.

“Why? If I’m producing clean copy and doing my job, why wouldn’t we get along? Professionally, I mean. You can see I do my job, regardless of any past brain-dead debacles.”

I pause, shooting her an assessing look.

“Maybe so. However, I still feel we should spell it out so it’s an easy working relationship.” I hate how she practically glows with the morning light spilling in. “I’ll also feel better if you’ll accept certain changes to benefit your work here in the interests of minimizing the potential for future conflict.”

“Changes?” she echoes, biting her lip. “And what conflict? God, you can’t mean pastries again…”

My lips twitch, trying to pull up a smile.

Because the fact that I do probably deepens her portrait of me as textbook psycho.

“For one, you can quit biking to work. We’ll share the same ride in my town car and place our coffee order bright and early every morning, well before the cafe has a chance to run out of anything.”

She stares at me, incredulous.

“Very funny… You are joking, right?”

“I’m doing you a favor. Pastry business aside, I thought you’d appreciate a ride, rather than facing the elements on your—”

“Dude. I happen to like biking to work, thank you very much. And you can’t just order me to take a different means of transportation into work. You don’t own me when I’m off the clock, Mr. Burns, and just—what is your obsession with the freaking cinnamon rolls? Do you have a pathological addiction to cinnamon or something?”

Adorable.

She’s strangely alluring when she’s red-faced and staring at me in disbelief, her breath coming faster, giving her body this extra pulse that’s a delicious hell on my eyes.

Also, it’s none of her damn business what I need the cinnamon rolls for. If they were purely for me or the office crew, I’d say so. It’s not my place to go around telling Wyatt’s tragic life story, though.

So all I can say is, “Sure.”

“Huh?” She blinks at me, clearly caught off guard.

“I’m not just an addict, but a pusher,” I tell her with a shrug and deadpan delivery. “It’s an awful habit I developed in my college days. It happens. Now when I log off as CEO of a multibillion-dollar company, I spend my nights on the streets, cutting up cinnamon rolls and dealing bagged up bites to anyone who wants a hit.”

“Okay. Now you’re definitely joking unless you’re completely—”

“Insane? Try me, Nevermore. Why the hell else would I offer five hundred bucks for a cinnamon roll?” I fold my arms, glaring until it’s almost uncomfortable.

Lame story, but my delivery makes her wonder if it’s true for at least a few seconds. More importantly, it diverts her from the real reason.

It’s not like I’m trying to keep the man who saved my life alive or anything.

“Your sarcasm sucks,” she mutters quietly, heaving out a sigh. “I hope you’ve got Anna or someone from marketing critiquing my writing. I’m not sure you’d know a good story if it whacked you across the face.”

“Ask stupid questions, get stupid answers,” I say matter-of-factly.

“It wasn’t a stupid question. It was a fair one. You’re legit crazy about cinnamon rolls. It’s just…weird.” Her voice goes up on that last word before she throws out a hand. “You know what? Fine. Keep it a big dark secret. I honestly don’t want to know.”

Miss Poe stares at me like she’s trying to decide if I just stepped out of one of her ancestor’s short stories.

Say something, idiot. You don’t need to scare her.

True enough. She writes clean copy, and I don’t want her to walk out of here so rattled she quits on the spot. Especially since Lucy told me this morning that she’s starting to have contractions.

“You have to admit, the Regis rolls are worth a princely sum.”

“Yeah—they’re good. Just not psycho-stalker good.” She looks at me, her green eyes glittering and her lips twisting before they purse up in a duck face. “…can I tell you what it looks like to the rest of the world? Assuming you even care, anyway.”

“Is there any way I’d stop you?” I throw back.

She ignores that. “I don’t think your mantrum—”

“Mantrum?”

“Man tantrum—”

“Hardly, Nevermore. Also, that’s a pretty sexist remark and sexism doesn’t belong in this workplace. My mother would storm the place like a mad hornet if I let that shit fly,” I grumble.

“Nevermore?” For a second, she looks at me, too stunned to speak.

I should apologize. Juvenile nicknames aren’t exactly becoming around here either.

I should.

Only, I don’t want to, especially when the name suits her.

“Look, Mr. High and Mighty, I didn’t want to start my first real morning here debating office power dynamics. I’m pretty sure you’d lose. May I continue?” She ignores the hot glare I level on her and barrels onward without waiting for an answer. “The rest of the world thinks your mantrum over the cinnamon roll happened because you’re an entitled prick. You’re so used to being handed everything you want that you couldn’t handle not being able to get your hands on your morning sugar fix, so you freaked.”

I glare at her as she continues.

“Then, when I wouldn’t immediately cave and relinquish it for what’s probably pocket change to you, it bruised your fragile little ego so much that you just had to clobber me the second time with the only thing that matters to you. The only thing that makes you think you’re better. Money.”

Fuck, the mouth on this raven.

When she puts it like that, I’ll admit, it does sound pretty bad. I want to tell the pastry witch she’s wrong, but my brain seizes, tripping over the way she’s called me out.

“I called you in here to offer an olive branch, Miss Poe. Not to burn this place down,” I warn darkly.

“Oh, okay.” She pauses, rolling those eyes like jade marbles. “I have a better idea.”

“What?”

“I quit. Effective immediately.”

Before I can even breathe, she’s out of her seat, heading for the door.

I’m up like lightning, flying past her and blocking the door.

“Quit? You can’t just—”

Her look says try me. “This just isn’t worth it, Burns. I wanted to make this work, but it was wishful thinking, and wishes don’t come true.”

“Ninety days,” I snap off, my mouth moving faster than my brain.

“Huh?”

“Ninety goddamned days,” I repeat, pinching the bridge of my nose before I look at her again. “If you make it until then, I’ll quadruple your performance bonus. And based on what you turned in this morning, keep that up, and I’m sure you’ll make at least an extra hundred thousand. Not from the company coffers, but my own.”

There’s a long, terrible pause before she huffs out a breath.

“Again, you’re trying to buy me. How cute.”

I inhale sharply. “Nevermore, I’m trying to make you comfortable the only way I know how. I’m offering you a choice.”

She tilts her head with a sarcastic smirk.

“Even you can’t sneer at six figures for a few months of work. If you’re out the door after that, I won’t stop you,” I say, shaking my head. “I want you here. Working on my wedding line. Not wasting another minute bickering over frigging sweets.”

“Ninety days,” she repeats to herself, her brows pulling together thoughtfully.

I wait, trying not to make it obvious I’m holding my breath.

I’m not sure when the fuck I started to care this much, or why.

She’s a stranger and a royal pain in the ass. Letting her go before she’s even started shouldn’t feel like losing something critical.

“Well?” I prompt, scuffing my shoe against the floor. “We don’t have all day, lady.”

“I suppose a quick payoff like that might be fair compensation for putting up with your rudeness.”

I blink. “My rudeness?”

Does she hear herself? I’m offering to pay her from my own pockets for the privilege of retaining her services—and she’s calling me fucking rude?

“That’s right. And to help make sure it won’t be a problem, I’ll make the Sweeter Grind run every morning and grab your stupid coffee and your stupid Regis roll. And I’ll do it on my bicycle. In the event there’s only one Regis roll when I arrive, I’ll generously give it up to you.”

Not what I expected her to say.

Not at all.

I fucking despise how it’s a sane offer—probably a better one than I deserve—and I wonder why.

Is it because she’ll give me three months? Even when she clearly hates my guts more than ever?

“Am I such a tyrant you can’t stand sharing a car for twenty minutes?” I ask.

She hesitates.

Not good.

“Can I be honest?” she asks softly, looking up with her long lashes fluttering.

What the hell? She’s been holding back?

“Are you ever not honest, Miss Poe?”

“When I saw you in the interview, I almost turned around and walked right out. Staying here isn’t an easy decision. But I don’t want to give you the satisfaction—I couldn’t.”

Her sheer disgust rips through me like an arrow.

“I took the job for the pay—and I’ll give it ninety days for the same reason— but that doesn’t mean I have any desire to be friends,” she says, deepening the wound. “Taking a car together every morning punishes me for something I didn’t do. So I’ll pick up your coffee, but let’s limit our interactions to the office, okay?”

“I’m trying to make amends,” I say slowly. “We’ll be working very closely together and—”

“Yeah. Right there. It’s the ‘closely’ part that’s the problem. We both love our jobs, right? At least, I want to love mine…”

I nod. What’s she getting at now?

“Good. Then that should be enough. In fact, that is enough.”

“What do you mean?” I rake a hand through my hair, fully regretting this stupid peace summit.

“We can coexist as professionals and leave it at that. Frankly, I’ve never been great friends with anyone I ever worked with anyway and always kept my distance.” For a second, she glances away, as if she’s revealed too much. Then she continues. “So. How about I write some awesome copy and send it to you for approval or revision? I can check in at team meetings and take notes, or you can mark the document, and I’ll correct it. If we just talk business and do our jobs, there’s no reason to even worry about being frenemies or whatever…”

“Frenemies?” I echo.

She gives me this fake plastered-on smile I want to yank right off her face.

What the hell would it take to make her smile for real? I must be sick in the head for wondering when I did a pretty damn good job of making sure I’ll never see it.

Not that it matters.

“Dakota, this organization is a team. If I can’t get along with my own right hand—”

“Um, Lucy’s your right hand, isn’t she? And you two have a great vibe. I’m just a copywriter.”

“You’re a highly specialized copywriter assigned to a flagship product line who reports directly to me. You are an appendage like my own hand. Care to guess how many other writers fit that criteria?”

“Not really. Since you keep mentioning your right hand, though, I’d see somebody if it’s giving you grief. That must be pretty awkward when you use it to—never mind.”

“Go to hell, Nevermore,” I snarl. “I wanted to set things straight, not continue sniping at each other like middle schoolers.”

She barely holds back a snicker.

“And yet aren’t you the one who started the silly nicknames?”

My brow furrows. She makes it painfully hard to ignore her fuckery.

“Miss Poe, you don’t understand. If the rest of the team sees us at each other’s throats, office morale crashes and—”

“They won’t,” she clips, slowly walking to the other side of the room. “I promise you my work will get done so efficiently no one will ever question it. I won’t even let anyone know about our little agreement, or the fact that I think you’re certifiable—”

“Do you always tell your boss who’s just given you a huge bonus that he’s a nutjob on your first day?” I raise my brows in challenge.

“No. But then again, I’ve never had a boss who ruined my breakfast before I started working for him, either.”

I wish I could just be honest.

If she knew about Wyatt, she’d know I’m not a lunatic chasing his next sugar high and maybe show some remorse for her bullshit.

“We don’t know each other very well, but I trust you’ll find I never do anything without a damn good reason.”

She crosses her arms. “You mean you had a good reason to harass me and buy out every cinnamon roll in the shop the next time you saw me? Were you feeding half the city?”

No. Just the office, plus one brutally obstinate man.

My brain grinds like it’s rusted shut. Yeah, buying all the rolls for revenge might have been petty.

I could apologize.

Obviously, I could, but then where would that leave me with this green-eyed pixie who glares up at me like she’s smelling blood in the water?

I stare back as something resembling a vacant smile turns up my lips.

“I offered you a roll at the interview, and I had a good reason for needing them that day.”

She raises a brow. “Let’s hear it.”

“At this point, it doesn’t matter. I don’t answer to you,” I snap.

“Right. Because your reason doesn’t exist.”

“What?” My smile contorts into a frown.

“Clearing the air was your idea, boss. You say you have this wonderful reason for desperately needing four dozen cinnamon rolls, but you can’t say what it is. I’d be willing to bet five hundred dollars to a Regis roll the reason doesn’t exist—oh, wait! Only one person in this room is rich enough to make a bet as uneven as that, though, and it certainly isn’t me.”

“It exists,” I growl.

“Does it?” I hear her heel tap the floor impatiently.

I glare at her, burning her into the ground.

“It’s not your concern, Miss Poe. We should be discussing the vision here and workplace morale in more detail. That will help you understand why I’m bothering with this shit show.” I pause as she looks at me, wide-eyed and dripping disdain. “Look. I’ve worked hard to build an efficient work culture here. I’m not going to watch it get hammered apart purely because we get along like a mongoose in a cobra pit.”

“Am I the mongoose or you?” she asks absently.

Inhaling deeply, I don’t dignify her question with a response.

“Whatever. I guess I just find it hard to believe a man who’s almost criminally obsessed with his breakfast cultivated an atmosphere where people need to be friendly with each other. Then again, if friendliness is a job requirement, is it really friendliness or just forced socialization? And do you really think we can just call a truce and forget our run-ins? I don’t think so. I’ve never had so much venom from a total stranger in my life. I’ve only ever met one man who might be as self-centered as you, and even that might be a stretch.”

“Who?” I grind out. I’m a lot of things. Workaholic, yes. Jackass, sometimes. Self-centered, no.

“Huh?” She reaches up, fixing a loose lock of hair, suddenly avoiding my eyes.

“You said you’ve only met one man as self-centered as me. Who is he?”

She stiffens and goes red, clearly regretting the ammunition she’s handed me.

“Oh, so Miss Nevermore has secrets too?”

She’s even redder now, and I can’t tell if it’s shame or anger.

“None of your business,” she says quietly.

Too quietly, really.

Why is she so flushed? What happened to her fire?

“See? Sometimes you have the answer, but it’s not worth sharing with the world,” I say gently.

Her eyes whip to me, hurt and furious.

“I highly doubt it’s the same thing.”

I shift in my seat, curious who could leave this frosty impression on her.

“Let’s make a deal right here. Tell me who beats me in the pompous jackass department, and I’ll tell you my reason for trying to jack your Regis roll. We can understand each other, Miss Poe. You go first,” I tell her.

Of course, I can’t give her the full truth in naked detail. If she answers the question, I’ll come up with something.

Predictably, she stares at me in awkward, cold silence.

“Is there a fucking draft in here or is it just me?” I wonder out loud, giving her a stare that could melt the arctic circle.

I already know she won’t play ball.

Whatever else this strange blond slip of a woman in black is, she makes a mule look accommodating.

“That’s what I thought,” I say coldly when she doesn’t answer. I’ve regained control of the conversation, at least. “Now, moving on, I’d like to walk you through my vision.”

She glances at her digital watch and then grins at me like I didn’t just knock out her soul.

“Sorry. I’d love to stay and chat about your corporate vision, but Anna needs me in a meeting in five minutes and this place is huge. Have a blessed day, Mr. Burns.” She turns and strolls to the door, puts her hand on the knob, and looks at me over her shoulder. “Just text me your morning coffee order. I’ll be happy to bike it in for you tomorrow. Although, that sounds more like an assistant’s duty than a copywriter’s. I’m not sure what coffee runs have to do with marketing, but since you insisted, I’m a team player.”

She throws the door open.

Damn her, I never insisted on anything with the coffee.

“Wait,” I call.

She freezes, glancing back in slow motion.

“What?”

“You have a notepad. Just write it down now. Make it a large black coffee with a dab of heavy cream and two Regis rolls.” I reach into my wallet and pull out two crisp twenties, which I push across my desk to her. “Since we’re not friends, there’s no reason for me to have to text you, or for you to pay for my order, and since this is a personal matter, it shouldn’t involve a company card. I’ll expect my change.”

Our eyes clash like two warring cats, all teeth and claws in the silence, snarling for dominance.

“Did you get that or do you need to write it down?”

“Got it. I’m not a moron. I’ll remember,” she mutters, walking out the door.

Goddammit.

So much for the cease-fire.

I’m starting to think my failure with Wyatt brought her into my life. I’m not a particularly religious man and I don’t put much stock in that old saying about God giving his biggest battles to his strongest warriors.

There’s something painfully ironic there, though.

Because I couldn’t move one mountain of a man, now I’ve got a stone-cold second peak to deal with. And unlike Wyatt, Miss Poe has the pedigree to make my life a frozen hell.