Chapter 11: One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance: Chapter 11

“So, you’ll do it?” Anna asks. “Because we’re not a breakout success until we’re butting heads with the big boys and girls. Right now, we’re the dusty back of the rack at an Alfred Angelo bridal store.”

“Nope. Not even if he were the last man alive and this was the last job on earth,” I say, drumming my fingers on the table.

“Oh, please. If the rest of the world was in ruins, there’d be no more of those damn rolls to fight over,” Captain Snarlypants says. “I hate it just as much as you, but it would be very marketing, wouldn’t it?”

“Would you shut up?”

“I could, but I’m enjoying you flustered too much, Nevermore.”

“Miss Poe can stop panicking, and Miss Patel can quit badgering us,” he continues. “Obviously, it would be grossly inappropriate for me to marry an employee—fake or otherwise—and Miss Poe has already said she’s not interested. Keep bringing it up, Miss Patel, and I’m afraid be my decoy bride.”

She gives him a horrified look.

I meet his eyes suspiciously. Is he me? Really?

Anna folds her arms in front of her chest with an annoyed “I’m willing to take one for the team, but I’m not sure I have Dakota’s special chemistry with you, bossman,” she says with a knowing smile.

Yikes. Isn’t that the truth and the entire problem?

“I’m not sure what chemistry you’re referring to,” Lincoln lies. “However, this engagement ruse was your idea. Since Miss Poe isn’t interested, if I’m crazy enough to let you do this, you’ll have to step up and play ball.”

How is it that something so outlandish makes me feel so jealous?

I stand up, glancing around at the growing audience we’ve collected with worry. I hate being the center of attention almost as much as I like being smiled at by a pack of coworkers who feel like wild coyotes right now.

“Meeting dismissed. This time for real. You can all go eat and stop gawking,” he grumbles.

My cheeks haven’t felt this hot since he read my poetry about bedding his grumpy face. And he’s referred to the thing that should never be mentioned like the top-notch asshat he is several times during this joke of a meeting.

But I’m painfully aware I brought some of it on myself. I should’ve kept my mouth shut about Lincoln modeling the groom’s line.

People walk out of the room around us. Anna starts to leave, but Lincoln says, “Not you, Miss Patel. Stay.”

I study his face.

He’s all simmering emotion, this strange frustration and amusement etched in the shadows of his face.

Naturally, it only makes him hotter, which is the last thing I need.

I hope he isn’t too harsh with her. It was a fascinating idea, even if it is a little out there. I just didn’t want to be involved with it beyond stringing words together.

“Thanks again, Anna. It’s a cool idea, but Mr. Burns is right. Using actors or models would probably make more sense if you guys move forward to avoid any drama.” I head for the door, eager to get the hell out of here before I’m roped into whatever’s coming next.

“It was a whole year before Mr. Burns would even crack a joke with me,” she tells me quietly. “Nothing like the way he does with you. I don’t think he’d open up enough with an actress for the sham to be believable. I know you’re just coworkers, but you two look like a couple. Seriously. You play well off of each other.”

I nod like I’m swallowing a frog and double my pace out the door.

It’s a huge relief when I reach my desk—for all of four seconds.

My phone vibrates before I lay it down. A new message from an unknown number. Frowning, I tap the screen.

I’m going to be sick.

I send back, though I’m sure I have a good guess.

the stranger replies.

I’m so not in the mood for this. That’s probably the only reason I respond.

I frown so hard it hurts, waiting for his pitiful reply, which needles my hand when it buzzes a few seconds later.

See? Pitiful.

Pinching my jaw tight, I reply and hit Send so hard I have to shake my hand out.

New number, blocked.

My phone makes it clear it isn’t done tormenting me for the day when it vibrates again.

But this time, I’m in luck. It’s a slightly less annoying, fairly less cruel man.

Beautiful.

How gracious of you to give me the evening off.

But since I’m working two full-time jobs, his permission really doesn’t matter unless someone else wants to manage Lucy’s inbox, follow up on the contracts, do the filing, or approve a new round of Facebooger ad copy for a wedding line that’s only going to be moderately successful because we don’t embark on marketing techniques from the asylum like sham engagements.

Stop me from screaming.

He’s right about one thing, though. That meeting was beyond mortifying when weddings mesh with my life like an acid bath.

…so, filing it is. Then I’ll follow up on the contracts and hope the copy is passable enough to give it a quick thumbs-up.

Actually, since I have the CEO’s permission, copy can wait until tomorrow. I may need to hunt down Eliza, if she’s back from her trip to make me a stiff espresso shot or five before I can dredge up the nerve to deal with tomorrow.

I spend an hour rifling around in the files, and when I come back, I start following up on contracts I haven’t received signed copies of and forwarding Lincoln proposals to review.

He passes my desk on the way to his office and pauses. “You’re still here?”

“Umm—as kind as it was for you to offer me the afternoon off, I can’t keep up with both Lucy’s job and my own and take time off to play post lady.”

“After that meeting, I’m surprised you care.” His eyes narrow in the usual scary-hot way.

“What can I say? Your money’s good. It keeps me from exploring the dark corners of my mind in lyrical form and accidentally dropping it in your inbox so you can keep laughing at me after you said you wouldn’t.”

The harshness in his expression fades.

“Point taken, Miss Poe. I’ll do better.”

I glare at him.

“I really do need that package picked up,” he says, his voice weirdly gentler. “Leave whenever you want, but make sure you can grab it and meet me at the address by six thirty.”

“Does Lucy always pick up your personal packages?”

“No, but she has been known to do me small favors like this when needed. Believe me, I don’t make this sort of thing a habit. Since you already intruded on this part of my life, you’d might as well be included.”

Is he talking about—oh, right. The park. The homeless stuff.

I’m annoyed that my curiosity rises.

“Careful, Burns. You’re starting to rhyme. Next thing I know, be the one sending me poetry,” I say.

“Careful what you wish for, Nevermore,” he grumbles, trying oh-so-hard not to break into a smile before he turns his back.

“Hey, wait. What did I intrude on? Can you at least tell me?” I ask.

He barely pauses to throw a dark look over his shoulder.

“You’ll know when you get there.”

Jeez. Who can turn down that sort of mystery?

I fly through the contracts as fast as I can because now I want to find out what this package is. I forward the last proposal to Lincoln and knock on his door.

“I’m ready, but I’d rather not take the company car. My bike is here. How big is this package, though?”

“Take the company car,” he insists. “I’ll drop you back here when we’re done tonight.”

“We? So you’re going to be there, too? Where are we going?”

“You have the address.”

“What are we doing?”

I watch his face tighten, his eyes hardening at me for pestering him.

“You’ll find out when you get there, Dakota, like I’ve told you repeatedly.”

I don’t want to acknowledge what hearing my name from that mouth does to me. I’m tingling.

“You’re not going to tell me anything? Not even a hint?” I venture.

“I’ve told you everything you need to know, now scram,” he growls, swiping a hand at me.

I don’t say anything, but my face must speak for me.

Just when I’m expecting him to slam the door in my face, he stops and smiles. His eyes soften.

“What the hell is it now, Nevermore?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a horse’s dick?”

“You, on the day I met you. And I’ll take that as a compliment considering their size. We have a lot in common.”

Oh my God.

No.

Just.

It takes to make my tongue work. It feels frozen by all the awful thoughts conjured up by my boss’ hint that he’s packing below the belt.

“Okay, just…making sure you know,” I say quietly.

How lame.

“I knew there was a reason I keep you around, so I can stay well-informed about my endowment,” he says.

“Happy to be of service. Okay, it’s package time then.” I start moving with a blush, hoping he won’t latch on to that last word.

“Stop at Sweeter Grind and get at least three Regis rolls,” he calls after me. “Hell, get six if they have them.”

I stop moving just long enough to shake my head and look back at him. “You need rehab. There must be a cinnamon addiction program somewhere. I’m worried it’s a bona fide health crisis at this point.”

“Just bring me the damn rolls,” he barks.

I put two fingers to my forehead and salute him.

“Will do, Captain.” Then I spin around on my heel, ready to leave.

“Dakota?” Oh. He isn’t done.

I look back over my shoulder, waiting as he stares at me strangely. Longingly?

“Yes?” I’ve stopped breathing, counting the seconds.

“I like your dress today,” he says sincerely.

Holy crap.

I smile before I can help it.

“Oh. Well. Thank you.”

I’m not even sure what to make of that and I don’t have time to wonder.

Before I drop dead, I race downstairs to the smiling driver who’s already waiting to open the door for me. I climb inside the jet-black town car without a fuss.

I’m glad I do, even if it brings me back to that rainy night he took me home. On the inside, it’s luxe leather, almost limo-like.

“Hi,” I say.

The driver turns and nods at me over his spectacles before we’re moving, looking vaguely surprised. “Hello. You must be the lovely Miss Poe. Mr. Burns told me I’d be chauffeuring this afternoon. It’s a pleasure.”

It’s not the first time. He’s an older man, the same driver who took me home that night, though I didn’t introduce myself then.

“We’ve met, haven’t we?” I ask.

“Certainly,” he says with a low laugh. “Technically, I’m supposed to be invisible. Mr. Burns is a busy man with a big company to manage. He doesn’t make a lot of small talk.”

“That’s sad,” I whisper too loudly.

“Eh—it isn’t half bad. He pays me better than any other place would in this town. Special delivery, I hear?”

“Right. Do you need the address?” I settle into the cushy seat, wondering why I feel so jittery.

“He sent it to me earlier. No worries, I’ll get you there. I’m Louis Hughes, by the way. I’ve been with Mr. Burns for a long time.”

That gets my attention.

I offer a muted “Thanks,” but that’s not what’s on my mind.

Does Louis know Lincoln’s origin story?

Does he have insights into what makes the man tick that most people don’t?

I wonder.

And I wonder a lot of things as the car slices through the cool, dark night.

Like what the hell happened to make Lincoln Burns such a rude enigma wrapped in the grumpy mask he wields like a shield against the entire flipping world.

“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask roughly twenty minutes later.

“Yes, ma’am. This is the address,” Louis says.

“But it’s…a medical supply store?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do believe you’re right.” If Louis is as surprised as I am, he doesn’t show it.

I’m so confused.

“What does Lincoln need here? He’s like the poster boy of good health.”

“I believe he’s been here before, so it isn’t the first time,” Louis says cryptically.

I wait, but the man never elaborates.

My brows knit together.

“Okay, well—maybe it’s something for his mom.” That’s the only rational guess I have.

“Could be. I’m not sure. Mr. Burns is an exceptionally private man when it comes to his personal affairs,” Louis tells me.

More like a walking vault. But since there’s only one way to find out…

I tell Louis I’ll be back soon, climb out, and head inside the store.

There’s an older lady in a wheelchair being pushed by a woman wearing pink scrubs. A large, older man with silvering hair behind the counter hands them a bag and they’re on their way.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

“Yes. I’m here to pick up an order for Lincoln Burns.”

“Ah, Mr. Burns, sure. I’ll go grab it. One minute.” He disappears behind a door marked Employees Only and comes back holding a long box. “Usually, it takes a little while longer to be properly fitted, but since we had the measurements on file and verified, I used those per Mr. Burns’ instructions. However, if this is uncomfortable or he has any trouble walking, just let us know so we can adjust it ASAP.”

Fitted for what? What are we talking about?

“Umm, okay—what is it?” I ask.

The guy stiffens and scratches his chin. “You don’t know? You’ll have to ask Mr. Emory or Mr. Burns about that, I suppose. Privacy regulations are awfully strict.”

“Emory?”

He looks at me reluctantly and shrugs.

My gaze drops to the box. A sticker with a barcode stares up at me.

is typed above the bar code.

is handwritten under it.

What the actual hell is going on?

So maybe Burns only pretends to be a workaholic and he’s actually part of some bizarre art cult. I shake my head, knowing better than to get caught up in a writer brain story.

But if the box says Wyatt Emory, whatever I picked up isn’t for Mrs. Burns, and it’s not for Lincoln either. What’s he doing and who’s Wyatt?

I try to remember if I’ve ever heard that name before, if Lincoln ever slipped, but I’m totally blanking.

I know one thing.

Burns has a cinnamon roll obsession like no other, and he needs another batch. Are the two pickups tonight related in some weird way?

I’ve got a sixth sense twitching that almost knocks me flat.

Lincoln’s obsession with Regis rolls and the homeless must be tied to whatever’s in this box I’m holding. Although what a cinnamon roll has to do with a medical supply device, I can’t even fathom.

“Where to?” Louis asks once I’m back in the car.

“Sweeter Grind, please.”

My phone buzzes.

Oh, no, he didn’t.

But he did.

Jesus. He’s never going to give up and leave me alone until he runs out of dummy numbers, is he?

I send back bitterly.

I purse my lips. I know the worst thing I can do is keep giving him attention.

The second worst is letting his comments infiltrate my head, and I’ll be damned if I’m letting my crappy, cheating ex have that kind of control.

My fingers fly across the screen.

My phone buzzes again before I’ve had time to shove it back in my purse. I don’t even look at the message. I just roll my eyes and type a response.

I flip the screen down and don’t look at it again until it vibrates. I’m relieved when I see Lincoln’s name until I read the text.

I blink and look at the message again.

Oh, crap. Can this get more embarrassing?

The only safe thing to do is brush it off, so that’s what I do when I send, I snort, thankful he doesn’t dig at me over the hate-text meant for my ex.

I frown, wondering what he’s getting at. The message meant for Jay?

Ah, there it is. Any illusion that he cares about my well-being vanishes when I realize he’s just sending me his usual BS.

I punch in.

Another minute of silence.

Another reply that leaves me floored when it finally comes, rattling my hand like a mini earthquake.

Holy hell. My throat goes tight.

I send back.

When my phone pings again, I can’t help but smile as I read.

I actually laugh. When I look up, the car slows as we pull into a familiar, cramped side street lot parallel to Sweeter Grind.

It’s evening, not long before close, so the place isn’t as packed as it is in the mornings. I go straight to the counter.

“Can I get half a dozen Regis rolls, please?”

My phone buzzes again.

But the vibrating barely stops.

“Regis rolls. Got it.” The barista boy behind the counter kneels down in front of the bakery case and pops back up with a tense look. “Uh…looks like we’re out.”

Oh, God. Not mess again.

“Let me guess…cinnamon shortage?” I ask, pained.

“Nope, we just cleared out the last rolls we had about an hour ago. We could make more, but it’s an hour until close.”

“Do it. I’ve been instructed not to leave without Regis rolls even if I acquire them at insane prices from a biker gang. How long will it take to make more?”

“Maybe thirty minutes? Only thing is, you’ll have to buy them by the dozen. New rule for orders like this after two o’clock,” he tells me.

“Fine. Hang on.” I pull my phone—

—out of my purse. “You’re sure it’ll just be half an hour?”

“For sure. Made fresh. They just have to defrost for ten minutes before I can pop them in the oven,” he says with a grin.

I have four new messages I don’t have time to read just now.

Lincoln damn Burns, get a life. Ideally, one that doesn’t revolve around pastries.

I’ll catch up on whatever’s so important in a minute.

Right now, I need to know if he’s willing to buy twice the cinnamon rolls and wait half an hour, so I text, he replies a minute later.

Wait.

That’s Lincoln.

Frick.

I did it again, scrolling up as bile rises in my throat. Sure enough, Jay sent three more messages I missed while ordering.

Yeah, no. Opinions and bad behaviors can be worked out. Leaving a woman virtually at the altar is pretty much final.

Right. If only he’d thought about what he owed me before blowing our wedding off to chase his dumb music and his dumber bandmate’s ass.

I never asked him to give up his band. Not in a million years.

Old me would’ve even followed him to California in a heartbeat if he’d asked me to stay like the lonely, loyal puppy I was. He didn’t.

Oh, jackass. I don’t need anyone’s permission to hate you.

I block his number. Again.

Ugh. I might have to take Lincoln up on that offer to shut him up, whatever it involves.

Then I move to the next message in my box.

Cute. Now I’m getting advice about handling rotten exes from the bosshole.

Is that a thing? I didn’t even know.

Also, what is happening? Lincoln Burns is really helping me? Not just scolding me or having a laugh at my expense with some foot-in-mouth swipe.

I text.

I drop the phone back in my purse.

“Yeah, I’ll take the dozen. Can I get a latte for the wait?” I finally confirm for Barista Boy.

“Of course, no problem.”

I pay for the order and move to the counter where my drink slides across momentarily before I sit down at a table and wait for the rolls.

My phone goes off again. I doubt it’s Jay this time. He may be ridiculously fast, but I’m sure he hasn’t had time to spoof a new number yet.

I stop cold.

Again, the mystery deepens. I realize this must all tie back to his weird charity pastry runs, but a single prosthetic? Apparently for someone very specific?

I send back.

There’s a pause before his next message sails in.

Damn him. But maybe, for once, I deserved that.

God help me, I’m smiling. I’m also hyperconscious of the few people milling around Sweeter Grind watching me and wondering what’s gotten in my head, so I hide my smile behind my hand, nibbling at my knuckles.

Oof. I wonder if that was a slip or intentional. A normal boss would say but this is Lincoln Burns and he’s—

I don’t respond this time, although arguing with Lincoln does make the evening go faster. It’s a warm, clear night. My favorite kind of moon rises high out the window, slowly, casting a pale-yellow sheen over everything that feeds my Gothic fantasies in this city.

Well, Gothic-ish.

I try not to think about the fact that I’m meeting up with my boss under the moonlight to deliver a freaking leg.

He might be an irredeemable vampire of a man, but if it’s meant to be moody and romantic, the weirdness outshines everything.

My phone hums again.

My heart sinks. I wonder how many of my coworkers are whispering behind my back, hoping I’ll take the bait and fake it with Lincoln for their amusement.

With a sigh, I text back, I roll my eyes. He can’t go ten minutes without brandishing his ego, and the worst part is, I know it’s probably true.

I just wonder why his dating life seems so hollow if he has a harem of supposed supermodels lined up. Most men with his looks and his money would barely poke their noses in the office. They’d be too busy banging and breaking hearts in one bad fling after the next.

I’m not game. That’s for sure.

He sends a red-faced emoji with smoke coming out of its ears.

I laugh.

Ten minutes later, Barista Boy calls my name and gently places a box on the counter. I grab it and head back to the car.

“Are we going to the park now?” Louis asks once I’m back in my seat.

“Are we?” Would I really be taking a leg and cinnamon rolls to the park? “Lincoln texted me the address. Hang on, I’ll get it for you.”

I pull out my phone, find the address, and read it off to him.

He pulls back on the road, goes up a couple of blocks, and takes a left turn. Sure enough, before I can blink, we’re back at the encampment in the park, not far from Sweeter Grind.

Nothing about this makes sense.

“Are you sure we’re at the right place?” I ask again, uncertain.

“Once again, this is the address, Miss Poe,” he says.

“Maybe I got it wrong?” I pick up my phone to call Lincoln so I can confirm the address.

But before I do, I see Louis’ dark eyes in the rearview mirror looking back at me.

“I doubt it. He comes here a lot after picking up his rolls. There he is now!” He gestures at the passenger window.

My eyes follow in the direction he’s pointing.

You can’t miss him.

Like a gleaming diamond in the velvet night, the ivory Adonis stands in front of a ragged tent, crisp and cool in a three-piece suit. There’s my modern Gothic.

It’s oddly beautiful, even if it’s also just But not that weird, is it? I think back to the time I saw him when I was in the park with Eliza weeks ago. This was definitely the spot where I saw him talking to that homeless dude and hinting at a million secrets.

What will Lincoln Burns show me tonight?

I wonder.

With excitement burning through me, I grab the cargo and climb out of the car, stepping into the moonlight that rolls out like a bone-white carpet, leading to the answers I crave.