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

Here we fucking are.

Me, Nevermore, and the height of absurdity.

If she weren’t already in tears, I’d laugh.

My temporary assistant-slash-copywriter named Poe sent me angsty poetry about bedding me.

Now that I know she’s interested, I’m torn between telling her we should find out just how much color I can burst into her world and apologizing for being the biggest dickhead alive.

I don’t even know if sending me that file was an honest mistake.

The lump of pure guilt in my stomach doesn’t care.

I have her working two jobs. I’m the man putting her under the gun to market an important new line. Hell, I even have her chasing down my damn rolls for Wyatt.

Mistakes happen. I’m a forgiving man, but we need to talk about this.

Still, there’s no denying it would be a far bigger deal if she’d sent that attachment to someone else, though.

Dakota hides her red face in her hands. The neckline of her dress dips into her cleavage as she moves, drawing attention to round globes I hate that I want to maul.

Her rough sniffle keeps my dick in check.

Damn. She’s going to pieces and it’s my fault.

“Miss Poe, look at me,” I say gently.

She doesn’t lift her head. She’s paralyzed, face buried in her hands and at her wit’s end.

“I—I’ll just resign. G-go clear my things now.” Her broken voice trembles. She hears me shifting, beginning to stand when she says, “I need a minute. Please.”

For a few heady seconds, I’m quiet.

“Look at me,” I try again.

Fuck. I’ve slipped into the voice I haven’t used since a combat zone, when using it meant saving lives.

She raises her tear-streaked face slowly, meets my eyes, and darts her head down again.

Shit.

I broke her. I made her cry. I left her pride a smoking wreck on the floor.

Lincoln Burns, you absolute jagoff, I think with my lip curling.

“Miss Poe—Dakota—I didn’t mean to put you on the spot today. I certainly didn’t intend to reduce you to tears,” I say, trying like hell to soften my voice.

“I-I’m s-s-sorry.”

Wonderful. All my request did was turn her occasional sniffle into a sobbing fit.

“Dakota—”

If she hears me, she doesn’t respond.

Do something, you buffalo. Move your ass.

I get up, walk around my desk, and kneel down beside her. I place a hand on her arm and pray she doesn’t flinch.

“Listen—I’m not that upset. I’m confident you wouldn’t throw around your—your work—maliciously. Assuming this was an honest mistake, you’re forgiven,” I say, moving my fingers over hers.

Such soft skin, but I can’t dwell on that now.

It’s almost worse that she’s so fragile, so battered, so shredded apart.

Is this really all thanks to my dumbassery? Or was it just the final thread unraveling this smart, gorgeous young woman?

She won’t even look at me.

Still, I don’t give up. I fucking can’t.

I clear my throat and get on with it.

“If you must know, I won’t accept your resignation. You still have over sixty days, last I checked. I’m sorry for my fit. You do brilliant work. Hell, most days you work harder, longer, and better than half the senior people here.” I pause. “You’ve become a crucial asset in such a short time. I can’t give you up without a fight.”

I’m trying. I really am.

Apparently, not well when she sobs harder.

“I can’t work here anymore, M-Mr. Burns. You’ll think—”

“I don’t think anything,” I rush out.

“Yes, you do. You think—”

I stop her by rubbing my hand up and down her arm in slow circles.

Goddamn, if we weren’t having this melancholy heart-to-heart, my blood would be molten. Even now, I can smell her, and it unscrews my brain in the very worst ways.

“Woman, the only thing I think is that you’re damned talented. Even that little diddy I lost my shit over—it was creative and well-written. I can see why personal writing gives you rather unique copywriting skills.”

“But—” She sobs. “But you were right. It was totally inappropriate. Out of line. And now you just…you know. You saw what I wrote about—”

“Miss Poe,” I clip, silencing her.

I force back a smile that’s beyond inappropriate and immediately regret it when I notice Dakota’s whole face is red. She’s stiff and sobbing, spiraling into a full-blown panic.

Nothing funny about that.

Not even seeing her go to pieces over me finding out I’m in her most private thoughts in ways I never imagined should make me grin.

“Miss Poe, I know what you wrote. Technically, yes, it is inappropriate since we’re both colleagues here. However, I also say it doesn’t matter,” I growl, pushing my fingers through hers. I don’t know if that’ll make this worse and I’m past caring. It’s what feels right. “Who hasn’t stepped in shit from time to time? We spend a lot of time together, and frankly, there’s no one else I’d rather argue with.”

She looks up at me, moving one hand off her face and wiping her eyes with her other hand.

“Fighting? About cinnamon rolls?”

My lips quirk up into a cautious smile.

“Especially about cinnamon rolls. Honestly, your fevered words might be the most interesting thing anyone’s ever written about me. Considering the way the press stalks me from time to time, that’s saying something.” I look at her gently, pausing as she gets her breath back. “I’m well aware I’ve had you working yourself raw for weeks now. I’m impressed you still manage to squeeze in literary pursuits with the workload I’ve piled on your shoulders. You’re a talented woman, no matter what you’re writing. You’re a fountain of words—epic and embarrassing words—and the sooner you learn to laugh off this incident, the quicker you can get back out there and make it rain for everyone at Haughty But Nice.”

With my free hand, I cross my fingers. I’m hoping like hell the pep talk works.

“Laugh?” she repeats numbly.

I nod.

“I don’t get it. If you weren’t mad, why did you pull me in here?” She doesn’t say anything else, but the accusation is clear. Rat bastard, you knew this would be mortifying.

She thinks I toyed with her intentionally.

And it’s a fair accusation because I did.

“I wanted to shake you up. I just went about it in the worst way possible,” I say, looking past her and out the window at an eerily peaceful cityscape outside. “You’ve heard people say I’m a loose cannon around here. Unpredictable. Demanding. That’s how I’ve kept my crew on its toes—only, sometimes I really am Captain Dipshit as you so eloquently named me a while ago. I can’t deny you need to be more careful with the attachments you send out, and I’m sure you’ll be the first to agree. I butchered the delivery, though, and I’m sorry.”

She looks down, then up again, searching my eyes to decipher whether or not the apology feels genuine.

“Maybe you should use separate devices for work and art,” I say. Of course, it dawns on me just then that I could have told her that without letting her know which attachment she sent.

I really am a jackass incarnate.

Maybe some warped part of me wanted her to know that I know she wants me.

“I’ll be more careful. Sorry,” she says softly.

“Don’t be too sorry. I’m the only one who should be apologizing. I never wanted to upset you. I’m proud of what you’ve accomplished in the short time you’ve been here, Dakota Poe.”

Her name rolls off my tongue too easily.

And when we lock eyes, I see something new in the unsettled green and gold and ivory of her face. It’s the wildness and solitude of her namesake—the roughness and beauty of a girl named Dakota, her soul swept with all the biting winds and harsh sunny days of life.

I hold out an arm. She leans into me over the padded armrest of the chair.

Just like that, I hug her tightly, and I probably linger too long before getting up.

When I’m on my feet again, I grab a tissue and hand it to her.

“You can’t go back out there looking like that. The whole company will be after me with pitchforks if they think I made you cry,” I say gently.

With a lopsided smile, she takes the tissue and blots her eyes.

“Oh, I doubt that. For some reason, they like you. Most people,” she adds, leaving me to wonder if she’s one of my honest haters.

Not that I can blame her, after today.

“Only because they don’t know me,” I say, smoothing my tie.

“Right. All of your employees agree you’re a total workaholic, but they think you care about them, I guess.”

“And what do you think, Nevermore?” Another question I shouldn’t ask.

Why does it matter too much to avoid?

It matters what she thinks of me, how she sees me.

It matters if she hates my guts like never before.

The slow smile that lights up her face damned near stops my heart.

Yeah. Or maybe it has more to do with the way her neckline plunges down more than anything else, and the terrible knowledge that she’s been writing erotic poetry about me.

“I think you’re a cinnamon-roll-obsessed, mega-entitled freak. Not sorry,” she says bluntly.

“A freak who burns you,” I whisper.

Bad move. I can’t help it. My tongue has a mind of its own.

Her blush deepens and she glares at me, telling me exactly how much I’ve just fucked up this truce.

“Oh, grow up. We should never mention that again if you really want me to stick around. I won’t survive any other way.”

Slowly, I nod.

“Consider it forgotten.”

“For the record, it’s not like it’s just me who’s noticed you, Burns. Surely, you know the effect you have on single women. But if you ever bring that up again, I’ll quit both jobs, agreement be damned. Then you’ll have to find a copywriter and an EA who can put up with your crazy ass until Lucy comes back from maternity leave.”

“I already agreed to your terms,” I say harshly. “And fair warning—you’ll never quit on me, because if you do, I’ll publish the poem all over social media.”

“You wouldn’t!” she gasps.

“Are you sure? I tried to crib a cinnamon roll off you once for five hundred dollars. I think we’ve established my actions defy conventional logic at times.” I wink at her. “Of course, I’m joking.”

Her color goes back to normal. She pushes her hands against the arms of the chair and leans forward. “You’re despicable.”

“Maybe so, but we’re back to our usual relations, aren’t we?” Are we? I want her to say yes, to razz me like the art brat she is, to show me we’re okay.

She stands quickly and starts toward the door.

“Miss Poe? Where are you going?”

“To work. Duh. It’s better than being stuck in here with you,” she throws back over her shoulder.

She’s out the door before I can get up and follow.

Fine.

That’s the Nevermore I know. A violent little monster armed with sass and a delectable ass I’m constantly fighting to push out of my head.

Shaking my head, I try to get back to my own work. Not easy.

Soon, I’m throwing open my office door.

She’s at Lucy’s desk where she belongs, her face buried in some emails.

“Nevermore?” I ask once I’m standing over her.

“Not my name.”

“Poe? Dakota?”

“Yes?” She blinks up at me like I should just start using her first name.

It scares me where that could lead.

“I need a new batch of prerelease creative for social media approved by three p.m. Let’s change it up this time. Maybe we’ll put the happy couple in a bedroom and show the wedding dress on the floor. What do you think?” I ask, never taking my eyes off her. It’s a test.

She glares at me. Her eye drops to a fruit basket on Lucy’s desk.

Without a single word, the hellcat picks up an apple and hurls it at me.

I’m smiling as I retreat, shutting the door to keep from being pummeled with an orange next. I hear muted laughter around the office as I make it to safety.

Then a resounding thud!

Something splats against my door.

Frowning, I open the door and find a stream of sticky plum juice running down my door to a couple destroyed fruit corpses on the floor.

“You’re keeping the janitorial staff extra busy,” I say, shaking my head. “Was that necessary?”

“Yes, and legal,” she grinds out. “Last I checked, there’s no HR policy against food fights.”

She picks up her desk phone, still daggering me with green-eyed mischief.

“Now what are you doing?”

“Calling for cleanup like you asked.”

“But was it necessary?”

She narrows her eyes. “Very. Also, I’m not out of fruit.”

Little damned minx.

Damn if I’m not thrilled to see her back in fighting shape, though.

With an exaggerated sigh, I shut my door and head for my desk. She’s fast with good aim and I’m not risking a banana barrage to the head.

Honestly, I don’t care how childish it looks to anyone else.

The way I touched her hand lingers in my mind.

If only I’d walked my fingers higher.

If only I’d caressed her face, traced my thumb over her lips.

My cock throbs as I lean back in my seat, caught in a vision of those pert, strawberry lips sucking my thumb.

Even now, after the crap that went down, I’d still like to stroke that delicate skin where her neckline keeps falling.

I’d like to satisfy this weird fuck-fantasy we both share and run my hands over her tits, up her dress.

Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to grab her panties—black lace or dotted with ravens, no doubt—and tear them off her so I can feel what she really thinks of me.

Shit.

How the hell am I supposed to keep my head on straight now that I know she wants me?

It has to be the first poem anyone’s ever written about me, and that wasn’t some soapy love and loss piece.

That was an ‘I want to fuck you because you excite me’ cry from the heart.

Or maybe that’s my own projection talking.

Still, there’s no denying one thing.

Miss Poe excites me in a way no one else has in ages, even if I’m interchangeable to her like she said in the poem.

They’re all the same.

Either way, it’s going to be damnably hard not to try stealing her away, alone, now that I know she wants me to feel her teeth in a different way than I ever imagined.

And isn’t that the problem?

Even if I didn’t have an unbearably large, complicated machine to manage, I know too well that messing with romance only fucks with your head.

Wyatt will never be the same man after the way his ex-wife abandoned him.

I’m sure Dakota isn’t a similar self-centered witch, but my parents were married for over thirty years. They adored each other. Their love for me sprang from their own.

When they weren’t working, everything they did was for our family, and it was beautiful and perfect until the day my father died.

He left a bottomless abyss—complete with pendulum since I can’t get Miss Poe off my mind—in my mother’s soul.

Then there was her.

Regina Swann.

Once as graceful and bright and kind as her name might suggest. I was in over my fucking head.

I believed in an us that never existed, totally unable to imagine she’d kiss me in the sweetest way when I came home. Right after having another man’s cock in her mouth two hours earlier.

She was a walking demolition.

The woman, the siren, the nightmare who taught me beyond any doubt that I’m not cut out for love. The murderer of hearts who made me a rabid monster.

I’m a razor-sharp businessman above all else. Besides assessing marketing that plays on the right emotions, I’m not in the business of love.

My one true mistress is sweat. Equity. Work.

I don’t dream of anything besides chiseling my mark on this world in everlasting stone.

I don’t get mixed up in relationships anymore. Why bother when they’re glaringly predictable?

Sooner or later, they all end the same way.

Heartbreak.

Bruises.

Devastation.

As I break out a mineral water and stare out at the city, I realize there’s another reason why I call her Nevermore, Poe fluff aside.

She might invade my fantasies, but she won’t invade my life.

For my sake and hers, Nevermore is all Dakota Poe can ever be.

I knew it wouldn’t be easy.

For the most part, Dakota avoids me after our conversation about the poem. When she does talk, it’s like her tongue is glazed over. So fucking icy I want to shiver.

I’m back to wondering if she spits in my morning coffee.

Weirdly, being ignored makes me crazier than anything she’s ever said to me.

Ironic.

Anna Patel calls a marketing meeting on Thursday and asks me to sit in. Of course, there’s a vacant chair beside Nevermore.

I hesitate a second too long, leaving an opening for this junior copywriter to step past me toward the seat. I can’t even remember his name.

Jake? Jeremy? James?

He’s a newer kid, and he’s damn near undressing her with his eyes so obviously that if she ever looks up from her laptop, she’ll feel buck naked.

The punk thinks he’s sitting beside her.

Like hell.

I speed up, stepping behind him and grabbing his shoulder.

“Why don’t you take the seat beside Miss Patel? I may need to talk to my assistant.” It’s not a question. My words are professional, but my tone is barbaric.

I’ve never felt so uncivilized in the office, and fuck, it has everything to do with the hot prick of jealousy coursing in my veins.

“Oh, sure thing, Mr. Burns!” he says, fear flashing in his eyes before he scurries off without looking back at me.

That’s what I thought.

I sit down beside Dakota, grateful she’s oblivious to my territory marking.

Until she laughs, leans over, and whispers, “Behave.”

“Why?” I ask, flashing her a clueless look.

“You practically gave the poor guy shell shock.”

I’m not sorry.

He should be scared when he tries to usurp the boss’ seat—or his woman. Let him drool over a hundred thousand other beautiful women in this city.

“You’re welcome, Nevermore. From the looks he gave you, I think he writes angsty poetry about you. If he’s able to write at all. Is he any good?”

I’ve never noticed his work when he’s assigned to a less pressing line under Anna. Hell, like most new hires, I half forgot he even worked here until now.

“He’s where he should be, I think. We don’t collaborate a ton,” she says diplomatically, hiding a rosy blush on her cheeks.

“He should do more writing and less eye-fucking,” I growl in her ear, leaning close.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My nostrils flare at her scent. It’s bad enough that I practically tossed the boy on the floor, and now I’m low-key smelling her like a Neanderthal with a rose.

“Mr. Burns, shut up!” she hisses.

I can’t help smirking as her green eyes roll with shock.

“Did you see how he looked at you?” I whisper, undaunted. “If he was looking for his muse, it damn sure wasn’t interested in PG-13 poetry.”

She’s bright red but she grins.

“You’re such an idiot. Jim does not write poems about me. I doubt he even reads anything that isn’t a bargain thriller. I mean, that’s usually what he’s got his nose stuffed in during lunch.”

Her quip shouldn’t make me happy. At least Nevermore isn’t impressed with his reading habits.

“Takes one to know one with writers, I guess. You are a Poe and a literary princess,” I tease.

Her eyes lock onto mine harshly.

“Boss, I will stab you with my pen,” she whispers.

“Doubtful.”

“Want to bet?”

“I do. I’m the guy who’s signing your checks and your first performance bonus is coming up fast. Wounding me now would be monumentally suicidal.”

“You sure? It didn’t stop me from nearly hitting you with an apple,” she says. “I’m still sorry I missed.”

I snort, shaking my head. “Thanks for reminding me I should put you on an improvement plan.”

Dakota picks up the pen beside her laptop and jabs me in the center of my hand with the butt end.

Fuck.

I blink away the sudden sharp sensation.

“Damn you, are you out of your mind?” I snarl, shaking out my hand under the table.

“Seems to be the theme around here, Lincoln.”

Damn her again.

My urge to flip her over my knee and slap some respect into her plump ass eases ever so slightly when I hear my name on her lips.

At least she’s back in fighting form. I’m about to demand a meeting in my office after this one when I look up at the room, now full with several late stragglers slouching against the walls.

All eyes are on us, and I realize we’re no longer whispering.

“Are you two, um, ready? We should get started,” Anna says awkwardly.

“Of course.” I nod. “Sorry. Take us away, Miss Patel.”

“He started it,” Dakota mutters under her breath.

The few people in earshot burst out laughing.

Wonderful. This insufferable woman twists my balls so tight I’m accidentally giving the entire office gossip machine plenty of grease for the next year.

“Okay, everyone, let’s hear some updates on the wedding line. Let’s start with you, Martha,” Anna says, pointing her pen at the easygoing brunette in the corner.

I try not to glare at the slender blond next to me. I should be avoiding Nevermore, not sparring with her out in the open.

One by one, the team checks in, and they’re all making progress. Several people have completed new ad sequences with samples for us to review on the screen.

The designs are mostly promising.

Jimbo’s comes up somewhere in the middle. It’s a passable image, but the man can’t write his way out of a paper bag. I haven’t seen sales copy so bland since I bothered to read Chicago Transit billboards at the airport.

Dakota even corrects his grammar twice.

When it’s my turn, I offer the best feedback—the blunt kind.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m far from done, but I wait while a couple others pass around my comments. I’m not expecting two tiny fingers pinching my arm. My head whips toward Dakota.

“Will you stop?” she whispers.

“What? He’s my employee. He has to produce content I’m happy with. This is shit.”

“You only gave one or two bits of advice to everyone else. You’re singling him out,” she whispers.

“Hardly. If he wants to write, he needs to learn.”

“And you need to learn a little patience with the people you hire, Burns,” she says harshly.

I kick back in the seat, rolling over her words in my head.

“Come to think of it, he came in here on an internship. You’re offered a job by default at the end if you don’t fuck up. I don’t even remember interviewing this guy,” I say.

Fine.

Maybe I am being overly critical because I didn’t like the way he undressed my woman—my assistant and best copywriter—with his beady little eyes. Or maybe he just feels like a waste of resources.

“When I’m done playing EA, I’ll review his writing and work on coaching him up to snuff,” she says politely.

I shake my head like I’ve just been kneed in the stomach.

“That’s Anna’s job. I’ll mention it to her after the meeting,” I bite off, staring her down.

When I look at the front again, there’s someone else’s work on the projector now.

The image shows a glowing bride with her well-dressed groom holding her hand. They’re besotted with each other. Everything about the shot bleeds luxury through rosy filters and fine-tuned colors.

“…here, I think you’ll agree this is a lovely mockup. Perhaps we should outline the words in a brighter hue so your copy shows up clearly, Dakota,” Anna says.

That’s what I catch, anyway. I’m sure the rest of whatever she said went right out the window, blurred into a Charlie Brown grown-up monologue of toots and whistles.

Fuck me. Where is my mind?

I’m afraid to answer that when one glance at Nevermore tells me.

When Anna stops speaking, everyone looks at me.

Shit.

“I agree wholeheartedly, Miss Patel,” I say, like my brain isn’t grounded on Nevermore and the way her dress is riding up every time my eyes flick to my side.

Her muffled laugh pulls my eyes right back to her as Anna plows on.

“You weren’t listening, were you?” she asks.

“I didn’t care to elaborate. Key difference,” I whisper back.

“Is that everything?” Anna clears her throat loudly as she watches us across the long table. “Does anyone else have any parting questions or concerns?”

There’s a low chorus of ‘noes’ and ‘what’s for lunch?’ comments flying around.

Anna’s face pulls tight, her lips flattened in a straight line.

I’ve worked with her long enough to know she’s not happy, and I hate to think I’m halfway responsible. She seemed content with everyone’s progress this week.

No sense in bottling it up.

“Something wrong, Miss Patel?” I call loudly.

She hesitates, glances down, and then back at me with worried eyes.

“No,” she mouths, and it’s not the people beginning to stir and file out with their own conversations that’s drowning her out.

It’s quiet and not convincing.

“Are you sure?” I press.

She taps her pen off the conference table. “I know everyone is working hard. The ads are coming together nicely, but there’s a segment of the market I still think we’re missing. I just want a little more oomph behind the ads for A/B testing—”

“How about a personal endorsement from our fearless leader? That’s enough oomph to be oof,” Dakota suggests with a laugh.

I lash her with a cutting look.

“What?” I’m never involved in the ad campaigns. I certainly don’t put myself in front of cameras willingly. Not even cameras I control.

She shrugs like she’s serious.

“C’mon, boss. You have the looks. I bet you’d sell this new line to women who are already married if you just asked nicely enough. You have the whole lady-killer vibe,” she says matter-of-factly.

I rake my eyes over her, unsure if this is a real suggestion or more of her unfunny bullshit.

“There’s exactly one lady I’m aware of killing,” I whisper harshly.

She glares at me.

“Dude. Why do you think the press and people after easy views on Insta follow you around? Attraction is a marketing superpower—”

“I’m no model,” I grind out. “If you’re serious, Miss Poe, we can always explore hiring talent.”

“We could. But if you really cared about the wedding line, you’d model the men’s line yourself,” she says with a flick of her hand, wearing a grin I want to bite off her face.

“Slam dunk, Poe! Way to throw down the gauntlet,” our college intern says, flashing some ridiculous hand sign.

“That kid annoys me,” I whisper to Dakota.

“Good. You annoy most of us, but we just bite our tongues because you’re the boss. And he’s hardly a kid. He’s almost as old as me,” she says.

I don’t like being reminded how young she is, even if my cock strongly disagrees.

“You’re far less annoying,” I say.

She beams, stifling another laugh.

“Wow. I think that might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Not true. I’ve told you plenty of times you’re as talented as you are beauti—” I choke off mid-word and slam my yap shut.

Too much.

Too late.

She stiffens slightly, biting her bottom lip, and then she edges over, making more space between us.

I want to laugh at the effect I have on her that’s impossible to deny. A twisted part of me enjoys it, but I hold in my amusement.

We’re still in a meeting with several stragglers around, and I need to be professional.

“Well then, Miss Patel, what are your thoughts? Since Miss Poe says I’m such an irresistible ladies’ magnet, should I consider modeling the groom’s wear?” I’m joking, of course.

When Anna nods with a wide smile that shows her teeth, I almost fall out of my chair.

“Not a bad idea. It’s very original. Possibly the next best thing to suiting up in Haughty But Nice attire for your own wedding—”

The room goes silent. Everyone who’s still here has their eyes glued to us.

Anna’s gaze becomes laser-focused on—I’m not sure what. Her mouth forms all kinds of shapes, but nothing comes out.

“Miss Patel? Anna?” I prompt.

She holds up a finger and remembers how her mouth works.

“Holy crap. That’s it!”

“What’s it?”

“Your wedding.”

“What damn wedding? I’m not getting married,” I say with a snort. “Has my mother been here again? Is this some high-pressure prank to make me settle down?”

A couple of the older employees laugh knowingly.

They get it. My sweet-as-pie mother becomes an unpredictable assassin when it comes to my love life—or lack thereof by choice.

“No, but you and Dakota hit it off pretty well, right?” Anna says, her dark-brown eyes glowing with something I dread when she speaks again. “So, call me crazy, but what if you two staged a wedding? What if you got all dolled up in a photo shoot in Haughty But Nice wardrobes? It’s a unique, interesting angle that could send our sales through the roof.”

Goddamn. It’s worse than I thought.

“You’re crazy!” I snap.

Dakota jerks up in her seat. I almost think she’s more horrified than me.

“Anna, that’s, um—a big yikes,” she spits. “That’s just…a bridge too far.”

That’s putting it mildly.

I can’t believe we’re even having this conversation.

I’d slam my dick in the door ten times before I’d ever get married—even fake married—purely to move my products. And if I were getting married to sell clothes, it certainly wouldn’t be with a frigging employee who already lives in my head.

“Not happening, Miss Patel. You know I welcome exotic ideas within limits, but this breaches them all,” I say.

Dakota leans in closer. “Aside from the you and I part…it’s not half bad. What if I did a few shoots with the intern kid?”

My eyes pivot to the side of the room where the scrawny kid sits with a smug smile.

Dakota and him? That’s even worse than copywriter Jimbo.

Fuck that.

“You need a man who looks the part if you want to sell, Nevermore. Not Peter fucking Pan,” I growl.

“Me and my big mouth,” she groans with a delirious eye roll.

“Guys, calm down, it’s just a thought!” Anna says in my ear. I hadn’t noticed her getting up and moving next to us, taking the vacant seat. “No one expects you to get, like, married-married. Just fake married. And not even married but fake engaged.”

“Do we make Hallmark movies now?” Dakota asks with a laugh. “Fake Married for Fashion. Sounds like pure cheese…”

“I agree, it isn’t dark enough by half for you,” I quip.

With a loud huff, she picks up the pen again and leans over. I can feel her breath as she whispers, “You want to see dark?”

You have no earthly clue, you little firecracker.

I slide my hands under the table, shifting my pants so my unruly dick isn’t pitching a tent.

“I’m joking, of course. This whole idea is laughable,” I tell her.

Dakota lifts a brow and nods.

“Guys, just give it some thought,” Anna pleads. “A fake wedding announcement for the marketing campaign with you both doing photo shoots would be a sensational endorsement. It’s a unique spin, considering your social media clout, Mr. Burns. We could even work up some wild story about how the whole line was inspired by your love. Can you imagine the sales?” Her eyes are huge, gleaming with excitement.

For once, I regret how Anna can be a human Rottweiler when it comes to ideas.

I wish like hell she’d drop this one.

“Personal endorsements have worked out insanely well for other brands,” Cheryl says from the corner, looking up from her phone. “I bought three years’ worth of perfume last Christmas because the owner wouldn’t stop talking about how awesome her life is on TikTok ever since she started wearing her own stuff.”

“That’s cool and all, but marrying my bossasaurus—fake marrying—was never in the job description. That’s just too much,” Dakota says.

“Bossasaurus, huh? I like it,” Anna says with a grin. “See? You two already bicker like a real couple all the time. Are you sure you don’t want to give it the teensiest little try?”

The room bursts into laughter and frantic whispers. Even a few of the people who’d stepped away before are back in here.

Goddamn, do I hate how fast word travels in this office.

Dakota’s face is painted crimson when I look back at her.

My chest clenches like there’s a caged animal trying to get out.

This must be killing her.

Sure, it’s not like the heartbreak in my office when we had that little chat about her poetry. I could bring the color back to her face by letting her know how talented she is and then infuriating her with a few thoughtless remarks.

But we’re in a crowded room today.

She’s justifiably mortified at this, the dumbest shit ever, and anything I say will just make it worse.

Anna shrugs and her eyes meet mine. “I know it’s not your style, boss. I respect your concerns. I just hope you might mull it over. This could be the difference between this line doing well and a Vera Wang breakout success.”

Dakota bites her lip. “Nothing will ever tie Vera. We’re not even in the same category.”

My jealousy bone twitches.

“Why’s that, Miss Poe? We’re a luxury line with a damn fine product, even if we don’t have their international presence and we’re a bit more localized,” I say.

“When I say Hershey, you think chocolate. When I say Vera, you think bridal,” Dakota explains slowly. “And when I say Haughty But Nice…you think high school mean girl or real housewife of King County. Your other lines are pretty well known in the regional market, but if I mentioned this brand back home in North Dakota? Bridal wouldn’t be the first word that comes to mind. Until it is, Vera isn’t your direct competitor.”

Damn her, she’s right.

Marketing this line could be harder than I realized in a crowded space—especially when we’re a mostly local entity native to the West Coast.

I also hate considering that Anna could be right.

We’ll have to flex our creative muscles like never before, but I’m still not fake marrying an employee.

With Dakota being Dakota, me being me, and our entire working relationship resembling a fucking dumpster fire, that spells one word, and one word only.

Disaster, written out in blood-red.