Chapter 3: One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance: Chapter 3

“I’d love to. Let’s see, where do I begin…” I say, then everything goes right out the window.

I can’t even remember the question.

And it’s all thanks to the brute in the suit who’s painfully close to me, staring like he’s holding my death warrant.

I draw in a deep breath. “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that?”

“I was just asking if you could tell us about the project you did for the florist,” Anna says, cocking her head like she’s wondering if I’m okay.

Right. It’s face-saving time.

The job was for almost no pay and involved thousands of dollars’ worth of flowers. I slogged through it the same way I’ll strap on my mud boots today, too.

“They were having a hard time competing with the bigger chain shops. Most of their previous campaigns focused on the flowers themselves. After studying competitors’ ads, I realized they focused more on the experience. So I asked the florist, ‘Why buy my bouquet from you instead of the place down the street?’ She said, ‘It will be every bit as beautiful at half the price.’ ‘Why do I care?’ At this point, she looked at me like I was dumb and told me, ‘You’ll save money. Obviously.’ But again, ‘Why do I care?’ She came back with, ‘Duh! You can use that money to fly to Hawaii with your new husband!’ And that’s what I went with. She gave me the perfect concept, unwittingly. A smiling couple leaving for their honeymoon with the bride still clutching her bouquet. The flowers were almost an afterthought when sentimentality makes brides buy flowers.” I pause, stretching my hands on the table. “Copywriting is all about emotion. We all like to think we make decisions based on logic, but really, most people let their hearts do the deciding.”

My eyes unintentionally fall on Satan. He’s fit for the fallen angel part today with that navy-blue suit stretched over his mile-wide shoulders, a brown tie tucked neatly into his suit that’s barely a shade off from his dark, piercing eyes.

What emotional connection does Lucifer have to his cinnamon rolls? I wonder.

I remember how he just offered me one for the ego stroke.

Does he get off on power play involving pastries? Is this how he buys loyalties and seals business deals?

I almost laugh at the absurdity, but it would make a twisted kind of sense.

a voice whispers in the back of my head.

“What made you go into copywriting?” Anna asks.

“Copywriting—well, actually writing in general—has been my jam since I was eight years old.” I smile. “I started a lemonade stand in my front yard. My first banner was pretty boring and it said something like . The first two hours, people kept walking past. When I went inside for lunch, I made a new banner.

I remember using three exclamations at the end. I made ten dollars and we ran out of lemonade before sunset. That’s when I realized that the words you use matter. Sometimes a whole lot.”

“Smart thinking, especially for a kid. What’s your biggest achievement?” Lucy asks.

“When I was in high school, I won the Young National Poet’s award—”

Lucifer snorts. So loudly I stop mid-sentence, my eyes whipping to him.

“With a name like Poe, it must be in your blood,” he growls.

“You’re not a copywriter, are you?” I glare back at him, hoping if I act fearless long enough, then maybe I’ll actually feel brave sooner or later.

He glares at me. “I’m the CEO.”

I almost choke. This maniac runs the entire company?

I had him pegged as some high-level project manager, a midwit with a God complex inflated to Jupiter.

But it looks like he owns his own corporate kingdom to help justify the mania.

Somehow, this keeps getting better.

“Well, marketing copy has to be original—you can’t just swipe it from somebody else,” I explain.

Anna snickers.

“Yeah?” Lucifer asks. “I’m not sure what you’re implying, Miss Poe.”

“Oh, nothing. Just that I’m confident you’re better with big decisions than with words. We hope, anyway, am I right?” I shrug, winking at the other women in the room. “You’re a little late with the Poe jokes, by the way. The guy who came in second place in that poetry contest swore that it was rigged for me because I’m very, very distantly related to Poe. Nah, dude, sorry. He just lost. I told him to his face to get over it and he didn’t like that. Some boys are just sore losers when they don’t get their way and never take the hint.”

Burns’ eyes become brush fires.

Ida notices his death stare and looks back at him, until he notices her and straightens up, leaning back in his seat with a shoulder roll and flex of his arms.

God. It’s almost obscene how he moves.

I hate that he’s chiseled—one more ridiculous thing that makes him a perfect fit for the royal title I kindly bestowed on him—and he probably uses his good looks to push people around.

“Well, congratulations. That’s a real accomplishment for someone so young,” Ida says.

I nod. “Thanks. It came with a scholarship in the arts at a public university of my choice. All of my professors agreed I could sling words well enough, and since I started with a lemonade stand, copywriting just made sense.”

“You can write copy anywhere,” Burns grumbles. “Why here? Why Haughty But Nice out of dozens of other companies in this city that would be thrilled to have you?”

Ugh.

Now that I know runs the place, I’m not sure I want to work here. But I do like holding my own in this interview.

“Well, Haughty But Nice sells an upscale product without being over the top. It’s the kind of style I appreciate,” I say. “I also love that it was started by a busy mom, and the marketing you’ve been putting out lately has been pretty eye-catching. You produce innovative copy. I’m a creative at heart more than anything else. I’ll be an asset here, but I’ll learn a lot along the way, I’m sure. A challenge keeps things interesting.”

The women smile, impressed with my generous, easygoing answer.

Ogreman frowns, of course.

Obviously because he knows I nailed it.

Nothing I said was kissing up or untrue. It was all genuine—at least, it was when I first walked in here with answers to questions like that drafted in my mind.

“We asked about the florist project because it’s the closest to what you’ll be doing here,” he says coldly. “We’re preparing a major launch for a brand-new line of luxury wedding attire, and our current copywriters already have dedicated projects. We need fresh blood. Think you can handle that?”

My whole body stiffens.

I detest them.

They’re sentimental fluff designed to keep a sixty-billion-dollar sham industry alive. Plus, there’s always a risk your personal investment becomes a catastrophic loss when the groom runs off with his secretary—or you know, a bandmate—leaving you with nothing but your tears.

My face must give me away.

“Miss Poe? Is wedding content going to be a problem?” he asks, snapping his fingers to draw me out of my trance. “Surely, being a Poe doesn’t mean you’re stuck writing about dreary dungeons and atrocious maniacs, right?”

I keep my face stern and meet his eyes.

“I like writing about the beating hearts of the men I bury under my floorboards only occasionally.” I cock my head while the women around us snicker. “It’s no problem at all. I can write about anything as the depth of my portfolio shows.”

“Very original, Poe,” he throws back.

“Not even close. I’ve been collecting bad Poe jokes for twenty-four years. Unless you’ve been writing them that long, you don’t have one I haven’t heard.”

“Sorry, but I have to ask… Do you guys know each other?” Anna looks at me.

I stop and stare like I’m caught in the headlights.

“We’ve met,” the suit answers for me. “It’s becoming a regular occurrence in the morning coffee line. If I’d known it was her, I could have saved us a lot of trouble,” he adds under his breath.

“Trouble?” Ida asks.

I smile at her even though I’m breaking inside.

If this is how it’s going down, I’d might as well get the last word in.

“He means that this whole interview is just a formality, right? He’s already made up his mind,” I venture.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean that at all. Do you, Mr. Burns?” Ida asks. When he doesn’t answer for a few seconds, she looks at him and bites her lip. “Off-record reminder, it would be highly improper for a publicly traded company to make hiring decisions outside of the structured interview process.”

Hot Shrek shakes his head and looks over my resumé.

“No decisions made and no objections lodged. Not I’m still eager to find out what Miss Poe can do for us and why she’s the best person for this job. Since the next questions are softballs, I won’t risk any personal bias clouding the hiring. I’ll step out and leave you fine ladies to the assessing,” he says, sliding out of his seat.

Without a single look back, he’s out the door, moving his hands to his throat like he’s adjusting his tie—or making a cross like he’s warding off a vampire.

Lucy rolls her eyes, slurping her coffee. “Nice save, bossman. Now, Miss Poe, can you tell us what you think your greatest strength is?”

I spend the next half hour fielding their questions, talking about my experience, thinking more and more about my potential boss and his rancid attitude. His absence almost makes it worse. I’d rather dance with rabid wolves.

But I survive the final battery of questions, and I’d like to think I impressed them. At the end, they fall silent.

I guess it’s over. Time to go home.

As I’m dreaming of tasting the freedom that’s outside the door and wondering if any new jobs have been posted online today, a male voice growls over my shoulder.

“The new wedding line is crucial. You’ll be reporting directly to me even while you’re technically working under Miss Patel. A little spine goes a long way, and yours is made of diamond. Don’t make me regret this.”

Regret it? Regret what? Did I get the job?

What the actual hell?

The idea of working for this guy feels terrifying.

I’m too stunned to even muster a thanks.

But he stares at me, expectant. Like I’m supposed to fall down and hug his leg. Genuflect. Kiss his ring. Kiss his—whatever.

“I’m hired then?” I ask softly. I need to hear it from the horse’s mouth.

Those bottomless honey-brown eyes drop from my face to my lips.

Just like the day he tried to bribe my cinnamon roll away. And just like that first ugly morning, that gaze on my lips makes me tingle.

He shrugs. “No point in wasting more time pretending it’s not a done deal. Are there any last-minute objections?”

He waits while heads shake around the room. I’m glued to my seat in awe at how utterly ballsy and open he is.

“Good. We’ll have your background check by the end of the day. Barring any surprises, you can start ASAP. Always remember you can leave just as easily as you came, so don’t get cocky,” he says.

“Well, okay. We just need to hammer out the details,” Ida says.

“Why don’t you get the paperwork? We can take care of it right now,” Burns tells her.

“Stop by when you’re done and I’ll introduce you to the team,” Anna says cheerfully.

“That’s great. Thank you,” I say numbly, my mind whirling with a tornado of thoughts.

The ladies leave the conference room one by one, filing out and leaving me alone with Prince Douchenozzle.

“Congratulations,” he grinds out reluctantly.

“Thanks…I think?”

The glare he levels could vaporize me several times over.

Yeah. If I want this position, I’m definitely going to have my work cut out for me, and it’s got nothing to do with the actual Ida comes strolling back in with her laptop a minute later. “We still call it paperwork, but it’s mostly digital.”

“What do you make at your current job?” she asks.

“Thirty-five thousand a year.”

“Wait.” Burns throws up a hand, making an exasperated sound. “You make thirty-five thousand dollars a year and you turned down five hundred dollars for a damn roll? And you called me insane?”

Easier said than done.

Ida scowls at him over her laptop.

“Start her at ninety even with immediate performance incentives, plus the full match in her 401k,” he says.

“Oh-kay.” Ida draws the word out so much it’s almost two. “When can you start, Dakota?”

“Soon. I need to give two weeks’ notice and tie up any loose ends before I—”

“She’ll start Monday,” Burns tells her point-blank.

My toes curl up in my shoes.

“But I…I need to give two weeks’ notice.”

“Why’s that, Miss Poe? It’s not like they’re paying you,” he snaps.

Woof. He’s so rude.

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” I say with a sniff.

He waves his hand dismissively.

“So is paying your employees. Your choice, I suppose. You can start Monday with a job that pays more than double your current salary, or you can hang out at your discount agency and keep nibbling at crumbs. I need someone ready to dive in now.”

Well, thanks, Mr. Hardass.

He says it in a way that tells me he’s not used to having people argue back, much less delay his beck and call.

“Fine. Can I get the offer in writing?” I ask through clenched teeth.

He nods, never taking his eyes off me.

“Have her sign off on it and send it over for my signature.” He turns and starts moving across the room, but stops with a hard glance over his shoulder. “Free tip: the next time you’re in a job negotiation, don’t tell anyone your current salary. It’s none of their business. They’ll pay what you’re worth and nothing else.”

I never knew it was possible to hate a total stranger this much.

He strides out of the room with the air of a mafia don who’s just given his new capo one chance not to wind up dismembered in a dog’s dinner bowl.

Ida blinks and laughs awkwardly. “You certainly bring out quite the reaction in our fearless leader.”

“So, he’s not always like that?”

She twists her lips. “He’s a hard worker and doesn’t tolerate much foolery, but he’s not usually such a jacka—bad guy, I mean. Not usually.”

So I get to be the magnet for his lightning storm of assholery.

Why? All because I got to the freaking coffee shop before him and swiped the last cinnamon roll?

What a psycho.

A psycho who’s willing to pay me almost six figures to work for him, but still…

Just what will this job cost me if Lincoln Burns stays obsessed with making my life suck?

“Good Lord, I think I’m high on the fumes alone,” I say, pushing into Eliza’s apartment.

Her laughter echoes off the low ceiling. “Do you want coffee?”

“Do you have more of that sexy vanilla?”

She shakes her head. “I brewed up a hazelnut cinnamon blend, a coconut, and chocolate pecan today. What’s your poison?”

“Chocolate pecan.”

“Good choice. There’s a vanilla scone with your name on it, though.”

“When are you opening a cafe?” I demand, giving her a mock-stern look with my hands propped on my hips.

“As soon as I have the money sometime this century. Commercial rent in this city ain’t getting any cheaper.” Eliza heads for her kitchen coffee lab to start prepping “the caffeinated flight” as she calls it.

She’s basically my dealer at this point, besides being my bestie and neighbor.

I take a stool in front of the kitchen bar, basking in the heavenly smell of her place.

She returns a minute later with two steaming mugs and scones piled high on a plate.

“How was the big interview?” she asks. “Tell me we have something to celebrate.”

“Bonkers, honestly, but—” Big pause. “I got the job.”

“Yes!” She puts her mug down to throw both fists in the air and then hugs me. “I knew you’d pull it off. When you said bonkers, you must mean the awesome kind.”

“Well…” I clear my throat and take a comically long sip of coffee.

“Uh-oh. Don’t tell me it’s a traveling job or something. Dakota, if you’re leaving me, I’ll lose it.”

“No, nothing like that,” I say with a sigh. I wish it was that simple because at least it’d be a relatable, human problem. Not whatever this thing is with a charging bull who buys cinnamon rolls by the bucketful. “Okay, so you remember the crazy who tried to buy my Regis roll for five hundred smackeroos a few days ago?”

“Yeah?” She blinks at me.

“I saw him at the coffee shop again this morning, and he remembered me. He decided to be an even bigger swinging dick. Before I could even flip him off, he stepped up and bought four dozen Regis rolls to make sure I didn’t get a single one.”

She stares at me in disbelief.

“Talk about issues! But that means the cray cray happened before the interview then. That’s good news, I bet?”

“Um…” I hesitate. “That wasn’t the biggest drama.”

“Dakota,” she presses, setting her cup down and rubbing her weary eyes. “Look at me. I spend at least twelve hours a day every day smelling like a human coffee bean and baking my butt off. My knees haven’t taken me on a walk farther than a block for a week. When you have drama and you hold back—no. Girl, you ”

I’m laughing and sympathetic as she takes an annoyed slurp of coffee.

“Fine. He’s the frigging CEO, and he was on the interview panel.”

I’m hit by a sudden warm mist on my arm. Courtesy of Eliza, laughing so hard she spews coffee everywhere.

“Get out! Sorry.” She looks down, grabs a rag, and starts wiping up her mess while she says, “So how did go?”

“About like you’d expect. He kept making unfunny dad jokes about my last name and my interest in joining his lowly copywriter team. He even mocked my poetry scholarship. Sorry, but not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths. Some of us had to work.”

“This weirdo owns Haughty But Nice? The whole shebang?” Eliza asks.

I nod.

“Unfortunately.”

“They own a lot of lines. Do you know what you’ll be writing for?”

I don’t want to say it, much less do it. But I kinda have to, so I should just make my peace with it and move on.

“Dakota, hey…you look like you’re sucking on a lemon and I know it’s not my food. My stuff never sucks.” She laughs.

“They want me on their new luxury line. A wedding campaign. Lucky me.”

Her face falls. A moment passes in dead silence.

“Oh. Oh, jeez. Can you…can you do that?” Eliza asks softly.

I roll my shoulders in something resembling a shrug.

“I have to if I want that payday. I’ve written copy for everything under the sun, including a pet cemetery—”

“That gig was so sad. But at least the pets were dead.” She shakes her head. “Never a dull moment with you around, is there?”

“I can’t imagine writing for a wedding being tougher than selling doggy plots,” I say miserably.

“Enough! You’re freaking morbid, but you really don’t like weddings. You have good reason not to, I mean, and—”

“I don’t. You’re right,” I agree with a heavy sigh. I abhor them. “If I’d known they were hiring specifically for a wedding line, I wouldn’t have applied. But after I got there and found out the Cinnamon Roll King was interviewing me, I couldn’t do anything but beat the odds or blow myself up spectacularly. Now, I kind of want the job just to prove I can handle it. He needs to know I’m not intimidated and he has no control over me.”

She grins. “You sure he doesn’t? That sounds like a lot of effort for—”

“He . Okay?” I’m surprised at the sternness in my own voice.

“Fair enough. But you’re spending a lot of time thinking about this guy,” she says gently.

“Not like I want to. He just keeps popping up in the worst places like a bad rash. I’ve never said anything nice about him.”

She shakes her head slowly, her hair swaying loosely.

“No, but after Jay…do you really want another dude in your life who’s nothing but bad news? Even if he’s not the romantic kind…”

My heart sinks. I ignore her question because we both know the answer.

I grab a vanilla scone and bite it in half.

“It gets worse,” I tell her, chewing loudly.

“Um, what? Your coffee shop arch-rival is about to be your new boss, and apparently he’s as hot as he is arctic-hearted. How does it get worse?” She takes a long pull off her coffee.

I take a deep breath.

“My new job, of course. I’ll be reporting directly to him.”

“Oh! Oh, shit. That should be…fun?” She hesitates.

I glare at her.

“Hardly, but it’s almost triple my current pay. More than a living wage for once in this city. So, hell yes, I’ll do it. I’m signing away my soul on lease if I have to spend the rest of my time there with him riding my ass. I’ll put up with a lot for ninety thou.”

“Big reward, but I’m being serious now. Are you you can handle the wedding stuff? Taking the job to make this prick hurt is one thing, but you’ve done that. Mission accomplished. If it’s just going to make you miserable, don’t take it. If the asshat will pay you well, someone else will too. You don’t have to be desperate.”

I smile, genuinely thankful for her insights.

Eliza always has perspective I don’t.

I slurp my coffee and set the cup down before I answer.

“Well, it’s a little awkward, I guess. But I have to move on at some point, right? It’s been over a year. Weddings are a lucrative industry. I can’t avoid all things wedding forever if I want to keep my options open—and this one screams ‘get in.’”

“Dakota…”

“I know. I’ll be fine, I promise. People get jilted all the time. Life doesn’t just stop with one awful breakup.” I know I’m saying all the right things. I just wish I could internalize them enough to them.

“True. You’re moving on up in the world and you shouldn’t let anything hold you back,” she says warmly. “You’ll get a condo soon and won’t even need me feeding you anymore.”

“If I get a condo, you’ll be my roommate. I can’t make scones.”

She laughs. “Glad to know you keep me around for a reason. So, you’ve got a new job title, new pay grade, and soon you’ll have a new place. You just have to do a little dance with the devil. Hey, if you play your cards right, maybe you’ll come out of this with a new marital status too.”

I choke on my scone, shooting her a dirty look when I stop coughing.

“Don’t. Don’t even joke. There’s no way in hell. I don’t believe in weddings or marriage or fairy-tale love—not anymore—and this guy will never be anything but my boss. The dickhead is my polar opposite. Oh, plus the internet rumors—”

“Rumors? You Googled him?”

Busted.

“No. Yes. I mean, only he interviewed me and said I’d be reporting directly to him. I just wanted to know who I’m working for…”

Eliza nods, but her smile says she doesn’t fully believe me.

“And what do the rumors say?”

“He’s loaded. Big surprise. He’s also a lot more invisible than most guys with his holdings. The good looks make him a magnet for women who must be sick in the head to overlook his crappy personality—go figure—so he takes a lot of flak for being Mr. Undateable.”

Eliza winces.

“That’s rough, but who cares, right? You’re working for him, not warming his bed. In fact, in HR circles, that’s a big no-no.”

“Still. It shows you what a fire-breathing jerk he is.”

“Are you okay? You’re a little red,” she tells me, her eyes widening.

“I’m just annoyed.” Yeah. More like flustered. Hating that my ticket to financial freedom and a better life involves this bitchslap to the face. “Even if the rumor mill didn’t say he was undateable, his freakout in the coffee shop basically proved it. If I were the sort of girl who believes in cheesy crap like love, I wouldn’t date a guy who loses his shit over a cinnamon roll.”

“Is that cool, though? Like how will you market weddings? You just said you hate cheese.”

“If I ever have a dog die, I’ll bury it in my backyard. But that didn’t keep me from selling puppy plots.”

“You don’t have a backyard. Also, ”

“Good point, but I also don’t have a dog.” I sigh, sipping my coffee before I continue. “Then there were the lame jokes about my last name.”

Eliza sips her coffee. “I don’t get what that has to do with anything.”

“Nothing, I guess. Just makes him extra undateable. You’d think a man so awful could at least make you laugh… I’m just saying. Why would I ever date a certified bosshole? Why would anyone?”

“He was probably just teasing you, but who are you trying to convince? Me or you, Dakota?” She stares at me, waiting for an answer.

I feel a little dizzy, and I know it’s not just the coffee and sweets.

“You, of course. Who else? I won’t even joke about dating the d-bag going forward. Since you brought it up, I’m just trying to let you know why it won’t happen.”

“But I didn’t exactly bring it up…”

Didn’t she? I replay our conversation in my head.

Wait.

Oh, God.

She’s right.

What am I stumbling into? I’m writing for an industry I hate and reporting to a man who might be criminally insane.

Oh, let’s count the ways this could go wrong.

It’s true that my growing salary means I’ll no longer be a disposable intern or busy fixing some creative idiot lead’s mistakes. But is there more wrong than right with this job?

It’s a decent move up, all right, but at what cost?

Can I actually survive this?

“You got quiet,” Eliza urges softly.

“I’m okay.”

“Buyer’s remorse?”

“Not yet.” But I’m terrified once I actually start the job, buyer’s remorse might be the least of my concerns.

I finish my coffee and scones while we talk about the latest happenings around the neighborhood.

“I should go. He wants me to start right away, and I have a million things on my mind. The first is how I’m going to tell my current employer I can’t give two weeks’ notice. Thanks for the coffee and moral support.”

“Anytime, Dakota. If you need anything at all, just give me a shout. I’ve got your back, but I don’t think you need it. You look ready.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I mutter.

I so, so wish that was true.

When I creep back to my own four walls, I wonder how much I’ll regret my wishes coming true.