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

“Okay, I think we’re off to a fantabulous start. Class dismissed,” Anna says with a wide smile, calling the meeting to an end with a sharp clap of her hands.

I stand, watching my staff file past with the usual mix of wary respect or affable nods. When you’re in my position, you appreciate both.

I wait until the last person files past before I start moving.

“Mr. Burns?” Anna calls. “Can you stick around for a minute?”

Shit.

I’ve been around long enough to know nothing good ever comes from a subordinate asking for my time, even if she’s my hardworking and loyal marketing head.

Anna waits a few more seconds until she’s sure we’re alone.

The look she gives me says you fucked up before the words are out of her mouth.

“Something on your mind, Miss Patel?” I urge.

“Well, please don’t take this personally but…Dakota Poe is very talented. She hasn’t been here long, but I think she has that missing ingredient in creative we’ve needed for a long time.”

I nod slowly.

Get to the point. I never doubted Miss Poe’s talents.

“And? You say that like it’s a problem,” I say, folding my arms.

“I just…well, I hope she doesn’t quit,” Anna tells me point-blank.

I’m taken aback, even if I don’t show it.

“Quit? Why would she? She just got here, and considering her previous position and pay, I’m sure she’s happy we’ve given the stray a new home.”

“The pay, sure, but that’s not what I’m worried about.” Anna hesitates until I clear my throat impatiently, urging her to spit it out. “Boss, I think you upset her. You got sort of personal back there. And if you’re going to do it, does it have to be in front of everyone she works with?”

“I said nothing wrong,” I snarl back defiantly, looking away and then back at her again. “Did I?”

“Mr. Burns. I mean this as nicely as possible but… Would you be okay if a superior asked how you were fit to oversee a wedding line? Because you’re pretty single yourself, last I checked. I mean, you’re spearheading the entire line, and in fairness, the same question could be asked of you.”

I’m single for good fucking reason, I almost growl back.

“I wouldn’t mind answering it,” I bite off.

Not true.

I’d very much mind revisiting an engagement that went down in flames.

My heart bristles like it’s crawling with hornets, a lying face flashing in my mind I’ve tried like hell to forget.

Goddamn. Is that what I just did to Miss Poe? Pulled bad memories to the surface?

Perhaps Anna Patel has a point.

“Not everyone has your bluntness. Especially when it comes to marriage,” she says softly.

Damn. As much as I want to swipe away her concerns, a small, distant part of me screams she’s right.

From the way Nevermore hightailed it out of here, I may have thrown sea salt in an open wound.

“I didn’t mean anything by it. I was simply curious,” I say.

Anna doesn’t say anything, but she holds my gaze with a disapproving glint in her dark eyes.

“Maybe so, but it struck a nerve. And Miss Poe doesn’t seem like the sensitive type.”

Yeah, she’s normally a walking spitfire, but everyone has their breaking point. Their touchy spots. Their defeats in life that they’ve pushed into a pit and buried.

Maybe more so if your last name is Poe.

And maybe I struck a nerve I shouldn’t have like the social porcupine I am.

Dammit, I hate that Anna has to be my conscience. I didn’t mean to upset Poe, but I have no idea what I could say to make it better either.

“Relax, Miss Patel. I’ll go deal with it.”

I’ve worked with Anna for a few years now. I’ve never seen the worried hangdog look she’s giving me now.

“Fine. I’ll go apologize if that’ll help you nix any plans to pull out your pitchfork and come after me.” I straighten my tie like I’m tightening my own noose.

I hope I don’t fuck this up more.

Anna brightens and slowly nods. “Good choice. I’m a pretty crummy shot with a pitchfork, but the rest of the mob might aim straight for your balls.”

“What a delightful image. Are we done, or do I need to suffer through more of your humor?” I say with an exaggerated yawn.

Smiling to herself and shaking her head, her heels click past me and into the hall.

I trail after her out the door, staying several paces behind her, and decide to take my usual walk through the building.

Downstairs, people are still standing around in busy clusters, holding cupcakes.

Odd. I didn’t order cupcakes today.

Through the murmurs, I hear the name Tillie more than once.

Beautiful.

My mother blowing in for a nostalgic hello is the last thing I need right now.

I’d hate it when she “drops by to see old faces” if it didn’t make her so damn happy. I have to admit it’s an easy morale booster, too, when the entire office knows a visit from Matilda Burns means food and long breaks chitchatting.

Say goodbye to a productive day.

Scowling, I look high and low for raven chick, but don’t spot her in any of the people clusters. I move to her desk, only to freeze in my tracks.

Mom is hunched over her in a spare chair, patting her on the back. Poe’s face is a crushed red tomato.

Goddamn, this is bad.

Not only do I have to apologize now—and fucking mean it—apparently, I have to do it with my mom standing watch like an empathic Doberman.

Before I can back out, their eyes flick to me.

“Mother,” I say with a friendly nod before I glance over. “Miss Poe.”

Nevermore won’t even look at me.

“Oh, Lincoln, you’re just in time! I found this precious young thing with a heart sting in the break room. I had to pry it out of her, but she finally told me some thoughtless manager made a nasty comment about her ability to do her job due to her marital status in the middle of the meeting. Can you believe that?” My mother’s eyes flash violently like she wants to pull said idiot’s throat out with her teeth. “I trust you plan on having a serious discussion with the perp. That’s not how we do things here, especially to a new hire. When I was in charge, no manager would’ve dared breathe a single word of that BS.”

Fuck.

If only she knew what “manager” went tripping over his own dick.

Of course, Nevermore knows.

Beneath her sad eyes, she smirks at me like the venomous little devil she is behind my mom’s bristling shoulder and immediately straightens her face.

Even those puffy eyes don’t look quite so devastated anymore.

“I promise I’ll look into it,” I grind out.

“Tillie knew you would. She told me she’s certain you’d never let anyone talk down to your employees like that in your presence,” Poe says in an innocent way.

Damn her.

“Absolutely not,” I say without hesitation.

Nevermore blinks. Her mouth forms a shocked and appalled “oh,” but the shape of her full lips in my mind is far less innocent.

“And yet you were there, sitting beside me the whole time,” she whispers.

Mom’s eyes lash from me, to her, and back to me again.

“Lincoln Burns. I hope I don’t need to be very disappointed in you,” Ma warns with a frown that almost rolls off her face.

Fucking hell. Am I sixteen again?

I run this entire company with well over a thousand people’s lives in my hands. She can’t just come barging in and treat me like a child, undermining my authority.

We have employees who have worked here since I was a kid, and they need to know who’s boss. I’ll talk about my shortcomings, personal and professional, with my mother later.

For now, I need to deal with the little schemer who can throw me to the lions at a whim.

“We wouldn’t want that, would we, Mr. Burns?” she asks too sweetly.

I glare at her.

“And why haven’t you introduced me to this precious little thing before now, Lincoln? You know how much I adore my marketing bees. Without them, we’d never move a dab of honey. Did you know she’s a nationally renowned young poet? You should tell me when we get new faces—especially such interesting ones!” Mom says, slapping her thigh.

“Mother, you’re retired. Forgive me if I won’t drag you out of enjoying retirement for every minor change in the office,” I say flatly.

Her face goes blank, her lips form a straight line, and she stares me down.

Here we go. The mom look written large. I haven’t seen it this severe since before I left for the Marines.

“I’ll make a note to introduce you next time,” I promise.

Satisfied, she nods and looks at Dakota. “I hope you can help my son sell wedding wear with a little heart. He doesn’t know the first thing about weddings.”

“I’m trying my best, but I’m not really an expert, either. After all…there isn’t even a ring on my finger, right, Mr. Burns?” She looks up at me with a buttery laugh.

An ugly, strange contrast with the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“Personal experience in weddings hardly matters,” I say, leveling my gaze on her. “I’m confident you’ll research it the same skillful way you’d research any assignment I give you, Miss Poe.”

“True. Your mom told me prom is the last time you really dressed up for a date. That had to be a while ago, huh?”

Did she just call me old?

My stare sharpens, wishing I could melt her like a candle.

“Not quite, I went to the military ball a couple of times.”

“His friend’s sister wanted to go,” Mom says with a muffled whisper.

Dakota laughs.

I’ve had enough. I push an agitated hand through my hair.

“James and Sally are in the back corner, Mother. They’ve both been talking about how much they miss the old days when you and Dad were at the helm. Why don’t you go share some old stories?” I motion to the older couple from accounting.

“Ah, I’m starting to see why! With the nonsense you’re allowing, they might wonder if it’s even the same company.”

I hold in a sigh.

“Still, you should go say hello.”

“I will. Thanks, love.” She stands and saunters away with a quick peck on the cheek.

I watch my mom leave with a clenched fist and I take her seat.

“That was evil, Nevermore. Don’t think your name gives you a pass to slash up every rule of office politics,” I growl.

Dakota shrugs. “Meh, I don’t know about that. I kinda thought a strong warning shot was warranted.”

“Warning shot? I’ll never hear the end of it now.” I fold my arms and stare into her soul.

“I’m so sorry.” There’s nothing sorry in her tone, but fuck if I care.

The little angel Anna Patel put on my shoulder reminds me I deserve it.

“Before you riled up my mother, I came here to apologize,” I say.

“Why? You have nothing to apologize for, but I do have a mountain of work. So maybe we can play catch-up and pour out our hearts another time?”

“Dakota—”

She smiles. “Miss Poe.”

I bite my tongue, wondering how the hell I could slip.

“Miss Poe—” I correct sharply, but she cuts me off.

“Another time, Mr. Burns. Working.”

“Regardless, I’m sorry. Sincerely. I didn’t mean to give you an interrogation in front of your colleagues,” I say sternly.

She won’t even look at me, her fingers clicking on the keyboard.

“’Kay. Look, unless you need to talk about the assignment—”

“I spoke out of turn. I know I made it way too personal, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I can be dense with my bedside manner sometimes—”

“Yep, and there wasn’t even a cinnamon roll involved today. Imagine that!” she says with a muted glare.

Will she ever let me fucking finish?

“I’m a professional. I’m your boss, and I know you’re not here for my personal entertainment.”

If you weren’t so damn beautiful, maybe my tongue wouldn’t get so loose, I think darkly.

This girl obliterates my better senses like no one else.

“To show you I’m sincere, I’ll take Sweeter Grind duty next week to make it up to you,” I say slowly. “How does that sound?”

“Well, there’s nothing to make up for, but whatevs. Knock yourself out, boss.”

Her fingers pound the keyboard, drumming this conversation into silence.

Whatever is right.

Even when I try to get along with this moody creature, she freezes me out.

As I turn and stomp away from her desk, I wonder if Ma’s concerns aren’t valid.

Should I have let this raven into my home?

Is my gamble on her about to win me a hostile work environment?

After work, I sit in my living room, reviewing the latest drafts from the ad team and muttering at everything.

It’s bland. Droll. Missing heart.

Everything except the ream of concepts with a name attached that won’t stop rapping, rapping at my skull.

Dakota Poe’s copy is undeniably on-point. Hell, I can even tell it’s her advising in a few mockups where her name isn’t directly attached.

Her concepts are funny, well written, and friendly, if a tad impersonal.

My only suggestion—a real one this time—would be to make the writing more intimate. Still, it’s nice working to improve the meat on what’s already impeccable bones.

I’m tempted to text her and pay her an honest compliment.

Though after the way she ran out of the meeting today and the showdown after, I’d wager that’s inviting trouble.

She’s not the sort of girl who gets bent out of shape over an asshole comment or a flippant one-off.

I grit my teeth.

All because I’m realizing, slowly but surely, that I’ve been a colossal dick to her—and by some freak stroke of black magic, she makes me feel guilty for that.

I pull out the earlier drafts and flip through her previous work. I come across the picture of the runaway groom and frown.

It was a half-baked concept to start with, but Dakota’s feedback attached to the image catches my attention.

Yeah, we might want to leave this one somewhere in 1999. Nothing attracts a modern girl to a wedding line like chasing down some loser who doesn’t really want to marry her. What if we sell a runaway bride instead? Turn the tables. That’s a little more interesting.

Her interview pops into my head. When Anna mentioned she’d be working on the wedding line, she went stiff as a board.

Call me a sucker for punishment.

I pick up my phone and fire off a text. Not a fan of men who skip out on their own weddings, huh?

I go back to reading and my phone dings sooner than expected.

We’re not friends. It’s after work hours. Why are you texting me?

My pulse slows. Another pang of that damnable guilt.

Answer the question, I demand, punching Send. I add, Please. I’m simply pinpointing where the original concept went wrong.

It’s insane what she does to me, even when she’s not in the same room.

I don’t think I’ve ever glared at those three swirling dots on the screen as she types. Her message arrives a few seconds later.

I mean, who *would* be thrilled to have a man leaving the altar? Why even propose to a woman if you’re not going to see it through? Better yet, with the time and expense that goes into getting married, how do you make it to the wedding day without knowing you don’t want this? Isn’t it kinda obvious?

There.

I’ve pissed her off again.

Texting probably won’t solve anything, so I call her instead.

I’m half expecting her to ignore me and let it go to voicemail, but she answers on the first ring.

“Can I help you?”

“Tell me one thing. Am I saying stupid shit again?”

I hear a muffled gasp.

“The only stupid shit is my boss calling me at eleven o’clock on a Friday night. Kind of ridiculous if you ask me, but hey, no one did.”

“My bad. I didn’t realize it was so late or that you had plans, Miss Poe. I’ve been going over drafts and lost track of time. Listen, if there’s something I need to know about your work on the wedding campaign—”

“Is there a problem with my work?” she asks, venom in her voice.

“Not at all. Your writing is fresh and the concepts are the sort of ass-kicking we’ve needed for a while. Still, I’m confused by the way you stormed out of the meeting today. I know I was harsh and I apologized for that. It occurred to me the wedding line might be too much if there’s some personal reason behind your aversion. Listen, if there’s another line you’d rather work on, I can make that happen. I can—”

“I’m sorry,” she interjects, soft but firm.

I wasn’t expecting that.

“I—I was supposed to be married about a year ago. It didn’t end well. End of story. Life goes on. I’ll get over it.” She pauses, drawing in a long breath before adding, “I’m already over it. Seriously. If the ring was worth anything, I would’ve sold it and taken a writing class.”

You’re not over a damn thing, I think to myself. The way you fled earlier today and reacted to my dumb ass tells the truth.

Even worse, I know that reaction.

It’s been years and it still doesn’t take much to bring back Regina, and finding her in bed with that pathetic, underhanded little fuck—

“Mr. Burns?” she asks softly.

“I’m still here.”

At least now I understand why she was so upset when I pointed out her missing ring like the goddamned lumbering bear I am.

“I appreciate your honesty and the additional context. Again, I regret saying what I did today. Love may be the trickiest business of all,” I tell her.

There’s a long pause before she says, “Oh, really? Is that why your mom was asking all the old ladies in the office if they had a daughter or niece they could set her son up with? She made it loud and clear she wants grandkids and her boy can’t seem to get the job done.”

I rock back in my chair, gritting my teeth.

What I wouldn’t give if I could get Ma to jet off to Maui, the Turks, or the Maldives like an ordinary retired woman in her sixties with all the money in the world to burn.

Anything to keep her and her big matchmaking mouth the fuck out of my office. You’d think that after the hell I went through, she might just accept my permanent bachelorhood.

“Burns? You still there or did Smithers tuck you in for the night?”

I bite back a smile. “For such a sharp writer and someone tired of Poe jokes, I expected better. You’re only the ten thousandth person to make a Simpsons crack with the name. Congratulations, I suppose.”

“If the glove fits…” she shrugs with her voice. “You have to admit, you kinda fit the bill. You’re single, loaded, and you like to throw your weight around. You’ve even got one up over the old cartoon gazillionaire in the looks depar—”

She cuts off abruptly, and damn it, now I am smirking so hard it hurts.

“What was that, Miss Poe? Something about my looks?” I wait. Crickets on the other end of the line. “I do put my time in maintaining this body for my health and appearance. It’s nice knowing you appreciate it.”

“I shouldn’t be the one appreciating anything,” she whispers. “Your mama has a point.”

“She does not. I manage my own dating life very well,” I growl, drumming my fingers on my knee.

“Do you?” she snickers.

Why did I call to apologize again?

“What?” I snap.

“They call you Mr. Undateable in the Seattle press,” she says. “I’m sure you’ve seen the Google footprint? Either you don’t handle your own dating, or you don’t handle it very well. I’m not sure I’d admit the second.”

“Stalker,” I grind out. “Also, there are things journalists will never know.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re Google stalking the boss. Barely a week after you called me psychotic,” I remind her. “Does hypocrisy run in the family and precede crazy? Should I worry I’ll wake up buried alive next?”

She snorts pure derision. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

“That makes one of us.”

“See how antsy you get when someone asks personal questions? And there isn’t even a room full of people here.” She clucks her tongue like the annoying damned bird she is.

“I apologized and even picked up your coffee duty—you’re welcome.”

“Which was never in my job description,” she throws back.

I’m about to rip out my hair.

“Why did I call you?” I growl slowly.

“If I had to guess, to annoy the hell out of me. Or to soothe your guilty conscience. Guess it isn’t working, though.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I spit.

“Off the record, you’re a jackass. You’re rude, crass, kind of oblivious, and mean,” she hisses.

“Tell it to the next person whose cinnamon roll you try to snatch.”

“Oh my God. Could you drop that already?” She sucks in a harsh breath.

“Why?”

“Because you’re just…” She trails off, probably running out of ammo.

“Not a good reason, Miss Poe, and it sounds like your well has run dry. Tell you what, I won’t keep you struggling through new ways to insult me. I’ll see you Monday to discuss your latest efforts in person.”

She doesn’t answer.

“Poe?” I move the phone closer so I can check the screen.

She’s already hung up.

Glowering, I chuck my phone across the room.

I don’t realize I’m hard enough to hit a home run until I stand, my face twisting with disgust.

Why the fuck am I hard after that?

Maybe I should see a shrink.

How does this girl get me so worked up like nobody else?

I pace the room like a caged animal, only stopping to stare at the fireplace before I take a few steps the other way.

Enough of this fuckery. Enough of Nevermore, too.

There’s a calming predictability in weaving a path across my floor, at least until my eyes catch on the photos.

I get a glimpse of my once happy parents perched above my fireplace. My mother has the biggest, most beautiful smile of her life, and Dad has his arm around her.

She hasn’t smiled like that since the day he died.

She may still smile a lot, but I doubt I’ll ever see that high-on-life look of hers again.

The next picture houses another ghost from the past, a man I haven’t seen for too long.

I’m almost ten years younger, hunkered down with Wyatt in a landscape painted shades of tan.

We’re both dusty as hell, two clean-shaven boys sitting around a fire at a base camp about twenty miles outside Mosul.

One more smile that will never be the same again. Wyatt had all of his limbs then and was smitten with his wife.

Less than a year later, he was discharged with a purple heart and no leg from the knee down, abandoned by the woman he trusted most.

Bitterness floods my veins, remembering how quickly the descent came after she left him.

First his addiction to the painkillers—a beast he managed to get a handle on—but only after it cost him everything. He couldn’t hold down a job and he’d lost his wife and son.

Now, because he loved, he lives on the street.

Barely alive except for his obsession with fucking pastries.

Love is a tricky business, just like I told Dakota Poe.

It’s the most hellish, unforgiving, ass-biting business I know with razor-sharp teeth designed to kill.

Some people who get bit wind up torn to pieces, digested, and shat out with all the care of an owl swallowing a mouse.

I can’t forget that. No way in hell am I falling into that trap again.

I can’t end up in a tent like Wyatt or at the receiving end of a knife in my back.

I can’t do anything except the only thing I’ve ever been good at—running this company.

People depend on me.

Mother still receives a pension like countless others who need it even more than she does. My employees depend on their livelihood. It’s my job to keep this machine thriving.

Love is a fucking landmine, all too capable of blowing everything to kingdom come.

I’ve seen what happens when people fall for cupid’s schemes, that sneaky little shit.

For every Happily Ever After, there are a dozen hearts fractured and stomped into the ground like shattered ornaments.

I have rules when it comes to women for good reason. Hookups are fine as long as everyone knows it’s a hookup, though I haven’t even bothered with one-night flings in a long time.

Feelings—relationships—those are for suckers. And if my parents did one thing right, they didn’t raise one of those.

I don’t date. I damn sure don’t have any business being interested in Dakota frigging Poe. Being an employee makes her forbidden fruit of the worst kind, and that’s all she can be.

I move to the wet bar and pour a scotch, downing it so fast I almost choke, coughing into my hand.

Yeah, it’s that kind of night.

The silvery city lights can’t banish the looming blackness that pulls up bad memories like imaginary monsters from my closet.

When you’re a boy, it’s easy to get through nights like this with a flashlight and a brave face.

When you’re a grown man with regrets, obligations, and failures—when you’ve had your own heart hammered to a pulp and you’ve seen everyone you care for emotionally mutilated by romance—you need something stronger.

Tilting the glass bottle over the shot glass, I pour two more fingers, down it, and repeat.

I’m on my sixth gut bomb when my phone rings.

Her name flashes across the screen. I almost drop the glass.

What the hell? Does this chick have multiple personalities or something?

“Hello?” I answer.

“I’m sorry I cut you off. It was nice of you to call and apologize. Before you went off with your usual BS, I mean. I shouldn’t have egged you on. And shit, I realize it’s probably too late to be calling my boss—I’m sorry—fuck, I said shit. Ugh. I’m screwing this up.”

“It’s fine,” I mutter, a crooked smile on my face.

She sighs. “Look, because of the way we met with you going bananas over my cinnamon roll… I sometimes forget I need to be professional around you. I’m working on it. I promise you I am, even if it may not seem like it.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I didn’t think she was built with an apologetic bone in her body.

“It’s fine, Miss Poe. My offer stands. I have other lines you can work on if weddings just aren’t suitable. You’re skilled enough to retain on other projects for the long haul, even if they’re assignments I didn’t hire you for. We can be flexible.”

“No, not necessary. I’m…able to compartmentalize well enough. I’ll keep delivering quality copy on the wedding campaign, or wherever else you need me.”

“Whatever you want,” I say with a nod. “For the record, I’m sorry too for that last conversation. It takes two to tango and I’m a terrible dancer.”

She laughs softly before she speaks again, this small, gentle sound hanging in the air.

“So, we’re good, Burns?”

“We always were. You’re the one who didn’t think there was any point in being friendly.” Why did I say that? This conversation has been almost civil.

“Right, because you’re a psychopath.”

“Yes, and the most undateable prick to ever walk the earth, which you know because you spend your free time Googling me.” I’m grateful, but mildly surprised I haven’t heard her mention Regina, lover boy, or the lawsuit yet.

Apparently, my gag order worked better than I thought.

“Why did I call expecting an adult conversation?” she mutters.

“Easy. You needed to hear the sound of my voice.”

Where the hell is my tongue? Get it together, Burns. Now you’re just flirting and she’s radioactive. Not to mention she has an attitude the size of Mount Rainier. A girl like Nevermore won’t hesitate at all to walk out when things get tough or when something better comes along.

“Dang, you got me. That’s it. I need the majestic sound of grumpy men with tiny fuses to lull me to sleep…”

“Don’t call my fuse tiny, lady,” I growl jokingly.

She snorts laughter.

“Question,” I say, wisely ignoring her crap. “Because you caught me off guard in the meeting today—”

“Oh? That sounds like a first.”

“What’s your idea of the perfect wedding?”

She hesitates. “You’re really asking me that, knowing weddings are off-limits?”

“You asked first. Fair is fair, Nevermore. It’s just us here. No audience.”

“Well, I don’t believe in marriage. Not anymore. But on the off chance I’m ever drunk enough to get Vegas hitched or whatever… I think I’d elope,” she says.

“Elope? Why?”

“Weddings are all for show. The average groom never does any real work. I’m not willing to go through that for some dude to maybe change his mind when we’re thousands of dollars deep and on the hook socially. He’s either serious enough to get married the minute he proposes, or he can keep his ring.”

“You’re hardcore,” I say without thinking. “I like it.”

“No, I’m jaded.” She huffs a loud breath. “Like why don’t guys spend six months planning what they’re going to wear at a wedding or what color the flowers should be? Because someone will do it for them, and then it’s ‘cute’ when ads show her having to chase him. I still have no idea how that ever sells a dress. I mean, nothing screams romance from the rafters like the notion that I should beg to be good enough for some guy who supposedly wants to be my husband.”

She’s gone all ranty.

I’m smiling like a dumbstruck fool.

“Damn. That was the wrong question, I see,” I tell her, trying to save face.

“Hey, you knew it was a sore spot, bossman.”

I chuckle. “It’s hard to believe you called me to apologize.”

“You’re right. But I am sincerely sorry.” She pauses. “Technically, you’re still a complete freak over breakfast rolls, but we’re cool even if we’re not exactly friendly. I’ll see you next week with less attitude.”

“I hope you’ll continue being a little psycho, Miss Poe. For the sake of good creative, of course,” I say.

“Psycho? Am not!”

“Are,” I growl.

“Dude. I’m not the one flipping out over a cinnamon—you know what? No. I’m not getting baited into going around in circles again. I apologized. Good night, Mr. Burns.”

She’s exasperated and I’m enjoying it far too much.

Shit, maybe I really do have a screw or ten loose.

“You turned down five hundred dollars for a ball of dough for your pride. That’s objectively crazier than offering five hundred dollars for said dough.” I still maintain if she knew why I needed the cinnamon roll, she’d stop calling me a lunatic.

“I was having a bad day,” she says absently.

“Why?” I grip my empty glass, hating that I suddenly care.

“None of your business.”

I say nothing, knowing I’m teetering on the edge of another blowout.

“Burns? I just told you—”

“What’s the first rule of dealing with clients in copywriting?” I blurt out.

“First rule? I don’t know. I was a creative writing major. I only turned to copy and marketing because poetry doesn’t pay the rent. I never went to business school.”

“How have you made it this far without knowing that?” I scratch my face, far too warm. Blame it on the booze.

“I’m good at writing. I don’t do peopling unless I have to.”

I pause, thinking over my words, because I mean this and I’m not sure how she’ll take it.

“To move up in this industry—to reach your full potential—you may have to get over that,” I say carefully.

“I know but…I’m okay with making a steady income and focusing on my poetry. I’m not a ladder climber. I probably shouldn’t have bothered telling you that.”

“It’s fine. I just hope you reconsider somewhere along the way,” I say. “You know you’re talented, Poe. The first rule of talking to a copy client is this—you have to go three whys deep. Your first reason for refusing to accept five hundred for a lump of flour, sugar, and cinnamon is that you were having a bad day. That could be anything from ‘I tripped leaving the house’ to ‘I just got hit by a truck.’ So, if you want to shut me up, give me one more why.”

“It should have been—” She pauses. “Would have been my wedding anniversary.”

“I see.”

Dammit, I’m a clod. A total buffalo-brain.

She was left at the fucking altar. I should’ve known. Also, I have an inexplicable urge to punch the guy who left her stranded and humiliated.

“Mr. Burns?”

“We don’t need to go three whys deep,” I say sharply. “I get it now.”

She’s quiet for a heady moment.

“Why did you really want that cinnamon roll so badly?”

Face, meet floor. I made my own bed, didn’t I? And I just taught her how to not let up.

“I was starving,” I lie.

“Are you on a cinnamon-sugar diet? You had options. There was a case full of bear claws,” she reminds me.

I glower at the screen.

“Would you believe I’m allergic to almonds?”

“Not at all.”

Didn’t think so.

“Fine. You got me. It was for my mother,” I say with a twist of my guts. It’s not technically a lie. If there were two rolls, I definitely would have saved one for Ma.

I just wouldn’t have pitched a fucking fit over it.

“Your mom only eats Sweeter Grind?” she asks incredulously.

She’s getting warmer. Closer to the truth.

“She has fond memories of head-sized cinnamon rolls growing up in old Seattle. Sweeter Grind’s are the closest, even if they’re a newer shop.” Again, not a total lie since it’s truly why Ma fell in love with them. Still a lie by omission.

“Why?”

Fuck, I have no idea how to spin this further.

“We used to share them when I was a kid,” I tell her.

“Oh, and your mom was jonesing for memories to the tune of five hundred bucks?”

“She was having a bad day,” I say, amazed I don’t trip over my own words.

“Bad day? Really?” Nevermore prompts.

Because it was her wedding anniversary. I don’t know. Leave me the hell alone.

“She doesn’t always enjoy her retirement, I’m afraid,” I say. “Especially since my father passed away a few years ago.”

There. Hard truth. Now she can buzz off and go torment some other grief-stricken madman on the verge of revealing too much.

“Oh—well, I’m sorry.” Her voice is sympathetic and oddly sweet, lacking her usual caustic bite.

“You should get some rest, and I should finish my scotch. We’ll talk Monday. Sweet dreams, Nevermore.”

Probably not the best goodbye for an employee. Too late.

“You too—sweet dreams.”

Bullshit. I don’t want her and sweet existing in the same universe.

That’s how we got here, sniping at each other, and somehow trading secrets better kept inside the dark chambers of our hearts.

“Good night,” I mutter.

When I look down, my screen is blinking.

She’s gone like the strange little fever dream she is, fading back into the bottomless night.