Chapter 9: One Bossy Proposal: An Enemies to Lovers Romance: Chapter 9

Work is as awkward as you’d expect the next day.

It kind of comes with the territory when Mr. Hyde turns into Dr. Jekyll and almost kisses your face off.

What that?

The soulful eyes, grounding me in the noisy rain around us.

The storm.

The silence as he gazed through me with an unmistakable hunger.

I’d be a filthy liar if I said I didn’t feel it too.

Against our better reason, against all sanity, we came one breath away from—

God, who knows? I don’t know why I’m surprised. Much less why I’m disappointed.

Isn’t this always what men do when they play the game?

Close in, act nice, steal hearts, make promises, and commit.

No, wait.

They actually lead you on and march you through the slow, heartbreaking realization that they don’t have the balls to deal with the consequences of their own actions.

I’m dealing with something, alright, hunched over these social media posts and trying to work.

Lincoln comes out of his office around noon and heads for my desk. He’s been evasive ever since our brush with human emotions.

“We have a few special projects that need to be done by end of day, Miss Poe. I’ve already sent you a list,” he says neutrally.

I don’t look up until he’s looming over me.

“I’ll look it over as soon as I send this to Anna,” I say quickly.

“Be quick about it—and thanks.” He turns without a lingering look, marches back to his office, and shuts the door with a deafening click.

Also, he’s not joking about the extras.

I’m cooped up until almost midnight finishing everything. It’s a cool, clear night, and I don’t even think about his stupid chivalrous crap while I’m biking home.

The next day goes the same way. Fresh mini projects with whiplash turnaround times.

Sigh.

It’s like he’s punishing for that almost-kiss.

Does he thrive on this kind of drama?

Does he get some sick enjoyment from everyone whispering about his dating life—or lack thereof?

I wonder.

He’s been perfectly frosty ever since it happened. He piles on more work, deeper and higher like he wants to bury me alive.

If he’s trying to make me quit before my ninety days—if he’s that freaking selfish and petty—screw him. I’m not backing down.

I’ve maybe slept five hours tops since this started, and I’ve almost gotten used to it.

I haven’t had time to work on my poetry for more than short blocks in weeks.

With Eliza out of town visiting a relative, I haven’t even gotten a square meal that isn’t reheated in plastic or dripping with frosting and cinnamon.

So, yeah, I’m spiritually committed to surviving this job and the ogre who runs this office.

I won’t fall behind, no matter how much I’m juggling.

Lincoln damn Burns won’t get the satisfaction.

When Saturday morning finally arrives, work slows down enough so I can peck at my work-in-progress. But Lincoln constantly interrupts me with questions about the wedding line’s timeline on my break.

I move between five different documents. When I’ve had no stupid texts in ten minutes, I pull out my notebook, thinking it’s safe to hack at my poem for a minute or two.

I stick the pen into the corner of my mouth and read what I’ve gotten down so far. Working title, “Ivory Adonis.”

My phone pings.

Ugh, not now. I’m on a roll.

He interrupt me while I’m scratching out an angst-ball on paper that’s totally not about him.

Okay. Whatever.

I know it’s far from perfect. But considering the ivory asshole has me working since nine a.m. on a sunshiny Saturday morning in this godforsaken waterlogged city, I’m just happy to spend a few minutes on something besides a new wedding dress ready to set the world ablaze.

Then again, is it that I’m writing about how Not Lincoln ignites my body?

I take a quick photo of the poem with my phone to save it since I’m old-school and still use paper. Then I pick up my phone with a wince, already wrinkling my nose at whatever dumb demand he’s slapping me with.

But it’s not his name on the screen—or CAPTAIN, as he is in the contacts.

It’s worse.

Why? So you can rope me back in and wreck my heart all over again?

I think bitterly, smashing my phone down screen-first.

But it pings again insistently. Sighing, I turn it over, and hate that my ex isn’t done.

I don’t want to respond.

I don’t want to remember he still exists.

But my fingers move with a mind of their own, and before I know what I’m doing, I’ve typed out a message.

I do—it’s burned in my brain for life—because I was already at the church.

I’m pinching my teeth together so tightly they could break when my phone buzzes again. I almost fling it across the room. But I do something worse instead.

I read more of his utter bullshit.

I send back with a smile that hurts.

I’m not even joking. I’m just disappointed he hasn’t met a nice Lorena Bobbitt yet. He could use a stab-happy bitch to up his game in the bedroom, that’s for sure.

Fury churns through my veins, venomous and hot.

I throw back.

I stare at my phone for what feels like five minutes of sweet silence.

Finally.

I think I’ve shut him up.

Until I set my phone down for exactly two seconds and it buzzes again.

Holy hell. At this rate, I’ll scream bloody murder and call the bosshole out of his office, tripping over his polished shoes.

I wish my eyes wouldn’t betray me with the urge to read more, but they do.

Oh, but that would be too easy.

My phone pings two more times. Great, now he’s sending whiny texts in a row.

But when I look at the screen with my breath stuck in my lungs, I see CAPTAIN instead.

I send back, relieved it’s not more Jay.

I open an email and attach the timeline and the “ivory package.” I have no idea why Isabella the designer named it that when most wedding dresses are just plain white. We’ll come up with a better name internally…

Lincoln texts a second later.

My eyes do a double roll.

Jeebus. If one went through, they both did. He’s probably too dumb to find both.

Whatever. For Mr. High and Mighty, I send the damn email again.

I’m rewarded with another that grates on my eardrums.

I send, gritting my teeth.

Oh my God, But he doesn’t. My phone keeps chiming, bringing back the horrible face of a man I don’t want to remember.

I hate having this conversation, but I really hearing that Jay still carries around any piece of me. Of us.

Assuming he’s not just lying through his teeth for sympathy, which is always possible.

But my vision blurs anyway like a heavy, unwelcome rain sweeping in.

I send back with trembling fingers.

Of course, he doesn’t listen.

He never did.

Yep. I’m fully crying now, ducking down in my chair so nobody else can see the mess rolling down my red cheeks as I bury my face in a tissue.

I send a minute later.

He’s…he’s drowning me. It hurts to breathe. I muster just enough energy to tap at the screen and send one more frantic F-you.

It’s a miracle I’m almost alone by the time I log off in a huff, grab my purse, and for the elevator.

I barely manage to scramble on my bike and pedal home, counting every breath and every second until I’m nestled in the sanctuary of my bed.

My ex’s comeback attempt by text couldn’t be more pathetic.

Except, feel pathetic, wrapped up in the blankets and forced to remember so many times I’ve spent the last year teaching my brain to delete from my head.

Leave it to this human virus to short-circuit what little memory immunity I had.

Leave it to him to bring me back to the biggest disaster of my life.

Violins wail at me from another world.

My phone, annoying as ever, but at least this time it’s not a reckless little boy I’d love to push off the top of the Space Needle.

My body is on fire. I’m so wet I’m in no mood for cinnamon roll duty today. Especially for a man who isn’t welcome in my dirty dreams.

I wish he’d get over his addiction already.

Why can’t my day start with a nice brisk ride to the office instead of having to make a mad dash for some overprivileged suit’s pastries?

Why couldn’t I have bought that Bitcoin crap back when I was a pimple-faced part-timer at Amelia’s Bed and Breakfast? I could’ve sold it for a billion dollars by now and had all the time in the world to write poems about good men who don’t suck.

I practically crawl through a cold shower and shake off like a dog because…yeah, it’s that kind of day.

After blow-drying my hair as fast as I can, I throw on the first dress my hands touch and shove my feet into ballet flats—easier to bike in than heels.

I’ve just hopped on my bike when my phone pings.

I pull out my phone. I have two texts.

I grit my teeth and don’t even cringe at the sensation.

All I can think about is my dream, and him, thrusting like he’s staking his claim.

Sad.

Stress does atrocious things to the brain. I shake it off, rolling my shoulders as I type, His reply comes zooming in.

I send him a gif of a cartoon cinnamon roll flashing the middle finger—thank God there’s a gif for everything—and check the second text.

Guess what?

It’s Jay.

I owe myself a nice harsh slap to the face for forgetting to follow through on blocking his number.

He left me at a church full of people on my wedding day.

He was cheating for God only knows how long.

I send bitterly.

Like not to trust men—or anyone who isn’t named Eliza, for that matter.

How many times did singer girl Sam laugh it up with me oh-so-sweetly? Usually over a bottle of cheap wine at our crappy little rented farmhouse while she was banging my fiancé behind my back.

People. They suck.

So does wasting more neurons on this brutally desperate half-wit.

I gave him the only shot he deserved at a life together.

He flunked it magnificently.

Also, I don’t have time to argue, so I shove the phone back into my pocket and pedal like hell. By the time I get to Sweeter Grind, he’s texted five more times.

They’re all the same trashy woe-is-me messages about how he magically realized he can’t live without me and how he was oh-so-wrong.

I order the boss’ stuff and then move to the counter to wait on the drinks. I don’t even know why I replied. Maybe just raw curiosity.

I’ve had it.

With a hurt snicker, I pull up my contacts and block his number.

“Coffee for Nevermore!” A barista sets a large cup down loudly.

I grab the coffee and weighty box of Regis rolls and flounce out the door, but I can’t get to my bike.

I think with a huff.

There’s some random guy about the same height as Jay with the same mousy-blond hair strumming what sounds like folk music on a six string. He’s not the reason I can’t get to my bike, though.

A barefoot woman dances around madly a couple feet away, wearing a full-blown semi-formal wedding dress. Loose ringlets cascade down her back with every turn, but she’s between me and my bike.

Awesome.

Portland might be the weird capitol of the Pacific Northwest, but Seattle isn’t that far behind for the silver medal.

I shouldn’t be so pissed. At least they aren’t hassling anyone or blocking traffic.

It isn’t fair to hate Guitar Man for resembling Jay, either. Betrayal shouldn’t course through my blood so deep, but it does.

I try to go around the dancer, but she smacks into me mid-twirl.

The coffee cup crunches between us.

My mouth falls open in slow motion. Then I feel it before I see it.

Scalding liquid runs down my torso, biting my skin through the fabric.

“Ow!” I tumble down on the sidewalk, sandwiched between the pavement and the street dancer, who’s somehow landed on top of me.

“My dress—it’s ruined!” she shrieks, jumping to her feet like only a bride with a soiled wedding dress can.

I scrape myself off the ground and stumble to my feet, thoroughly annoyed.

“That’s probably why most people don’t dance around in their wedding dress in front of a busy shop,” I bite off.

“But we’re getting married!” she says, her lips curled in agony. “And now—

I have to do it with a coffee stain.”

Perish the thought.

I can’t bring myself to apologize. I just glare, my already low empathy tank has no fumes to spare.

“This is where we met,” she prattles on, oblivious to my death stare. “Our friend is coming to officiate. You just crashed my wedding…”

Oh, hell. For all that’s holy, Jay abandoned me for this kind of utter bullshit. I have exactly zero patience for it.

“Welcome to the club. If it makes you feel better, someone ruined my wedding, too. But if your guy’s still here and ready to put a ring on it, I’d hardly call that ” I’m still holding the crushed cup and I give it another loud crunch in my palm.

Then I move to the trash can in front of Sweeter Grind and toss it.

“You deserved it, bitch! Karma!” she shouts after me.

I don’t look back because I have a bigger problem now. I raise the half-attached lid on the box of Regis rolls and groan.

They’re spattered in coffee and half their icing was ripped off in the fall. I toss them too and go back into the coffee shop.

There’s no chance I’ll be on time today. I Burns to raise hell about it.

“Nevermore?” The guy behind the counter looks up. “You’re back and covered in coffee? Tell you what, the new drink is on the house. Nasty spill out there.”

I wave my hand. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a company expense, but I need the same order again…”

“Will do.”

This time, when I walk out of Sweeter Grind with my new goods, guitar dude and his panicked lady are standing in front of a guy lecturing them about the evils of 5G wireless signals and trying to sell them what looks like a tinfoil ‘shield’ stretched over cardboard.

I roll my eyes and hop on my bike.

When I get to work, Burns stands outside of his office with his arms crossed like a pissed off teacher waiting for the last straggler from recess to show up.

With a sigh I don’t even hide, I walk up to him and shove the loot into his arms.

He snatches the cup out of my hand, sloshing me with a few beads of piping hot coffee for the second time today.

“Sorry about that.” Before I can respond, though, he snaps, “Come on in. We need to talk.”

I follow him into his office, glaring at the box of Regis rolls as they land on his desk.

He slams the door behind me and waits for me to sit, silent as the grave.

My phone goes off.

“Is that important?” He falls into his office chair, pointing.

“I wouldn’t think so. You’re here.” I shrug. “I guess it could be my mom.”

Somehow, I don’t think I’m that lucky. Jay probably found a dummy number by now to keep blowing up my messages.

He nods.

“Miss Poe, I’ll be blunt. You sent me the most unprofessional, inappropriate, frankly crazy fucking email I’ve ever received in my whole career.”

I blink, totally dumbfounded by what he means.

“Don’t even try. We both know you’re a depressingly bad liar.” He crosses his arms again, leans back in his chair, and tilts his head up, spearing me with those stern earthy eyes. “Are you going to pretend you don’t know?”

“Don’t know ” I’m about to lose my shit. I’m so not in the mood for guessing games today. “I’ve done you’ve ever asked me to, including working two full-time jobs. I get your coffee, your stupid rolls—which I had to buy today because the first batch spilled—you’re welcome. I always reply to your messages promptly even when I’m not on the clock.”

I run out of breath, giving him the opening he needs.

“And you think that justifies the bullshit you pulled Saturday?” he growls.

What did I pull on Saturday?

“You’ll have to be more specific. With the workload you’ve belted me with, I’m running on four hours of sleep most days.” And dealing with ridiculous messages from my loser ex. “From what I recall, I spent most of the day writing copy for an ungrateful boss.”

“Cute. You expect me to believe that’s all you were writing?”

“Huh?”

“You weren’t writing copy, were you?”

What the hell? Was he spying on me somehow when I spent five minutes working on poetry?

“We’ve been through this. You do not own me. What I do away from here or on my breaks is none of your concern.”

“It is when it’s wildly inappropriate and you send it to me attached to an ordinary work email,” he snarls back.

Seriously, is he talking about?

I cock my head, giving him a look that warns I’m a stick of dynamite with a fuse getting dangerously short.

“Mr. Burns—Lincoln—this would be way easier if you’d just tell me what the hell you’re talking about. I have no earthly clue. And if you think I’m lying, forget the ninety days. I’ll walk right out this door without waiting for a pink slip.”

His eyes soften as he uncrosses his arms and wheels his chair closer to his desk. He lays his arms on the sleek wood and leans forward.

“A lesson she never learns. And so she burns,” he says darkly.

Wait. What?

I thought he didn’t like poetry? Hearing this man quoting anything literary sounds obscene. Certainly NSFW in that angry smolder he calls a voice.

The words coming out of his mouth are filthy, too, making me blush.

They’re also—familiar? Startlingly familiar.

But before he even speaks, my heart forgets how to beat.

“Burns who? Burns what? Burns me,” he quotes slowly. Lethally. “But he’s her king. Her fling. Her boss. Her loss.”

Inwardly, I’m flipping screaming my insides out.

My throat closes. I grasp the sides of my chair so I don’t fall out of it. The blood rushes away from my head.

For a split second, I think I might pass out. Thank God I’m already sitting.

I think about the other lines, too shameful to even dwell on Oh, God.

He’s read it all and he’s disgusted.

And honestly, he should be.

I need to follow through on my threat to quit.

Resign right now.

That’s the only way I fix this.

There’s no crawling back after this. But first, I’ve got to stop crying.

I cover my face with my hand. Hot tears won’t be held back and they come pouring down my cheeks.

This time, it’s not a dream, and I’ve got no hot imaginary knight to save the day.

My boss knows my deepest, darkest desires.

He knows my pain.

He knows my art, my life, my soul revolves around him.