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

I wake up in a tangled fit of sheets with a curse on my lips.

All from the kind of insane dream you instantly remember—and regret.

I wore my wedding dress.

Dad walked me down the aisle.

I was walking to meet Jay—what should’ve happened in real life on that awful day—but when my dad put my hand in the groom’s, he wasn’t that backstabbing mouse of a man anymore.

The stranger groom wore an impeccably tailored Haughty But Nice tuxedo.

He was taller and broader and more imposing than Jay, and his eyes sparkled like fine polished mahogany. When he smiled at me, oh God.

I went from bride to butterflies to butter.

A giddy emotional noodle who couldn’t decide if she wanted to break down crying in confusion, or in happy ugly tears for a man who pushes every button.

The second it hit me who I was about to marry, I burst into a raven and flew away.

Okay, so dreams are hardly ever realistic, even when they’re annoyingly real in other ways.

The raven probably came from my shoulder tattoo. Since I couldn’t live down the constant jokes about being an English major named Poe, one day, I decided to just rock it.

I always loved “The Raven,” anyway.

The godly tux and Lincoln effing Burns obviously came from the stress I have to deal with at work. Oh, plus the glaring fact that Lincoln was the last person I talked to before I went to bed.

I don’t have a crush on my boss.

I don’t.

I’m not even stupid enough to think love is real.

Still, it’s the kind of dream you have to process.

So, I sit at my tiny table with my notebook, working through the chaos that’s my brain the only way I know how. I dive into words, pounding out meter and rhyme and feelings like juggling knives.

When a sharp sound goes off behind me, I almost go tumbling out of my chair.

“You should really start locking your door. Some crazy could walk in.” Eliza strolls inside, holding a steaming hot mug with both hands.

My heart leaps at the sound of her voice and I slam my notebook shut.

“Yikes. Thanks for the reminder. Can’t believe I forgot to lock up last night.”

Was I that distracted from talking to him?

I don’t want to know. I also don’t need anyone else thinking I’ve fallen so far down the rabbit hole that I’m writing angsty poetry inspired by my cinnamon roll snorting boss.

“You okay? I didn’t mean to scare you.” She sits down beside me and slides the mug over. “Try it. I’m calling it Raven Blend just for you.”

“What? Now you’re cracking Poe jokes too?”

“Nope. I named it after your bitchin’ tattoo.”

I burst out laughing.

God. Eliza’s humor reminds me that my encounters with the bosshole have made me overly defensive.

“Sorry. I think I just woke up a little tightly wound today. Probably the new job or something.” I pick up the drink and take a long, pleasing sip. “Oooh. Wow, Eliza—wow.”

“Perks you up before the caffeine hits, doesn’t it? It’s two parts cinnamon and one vanilla.”

“It’s wonderful,” I say, praying I’m not developing a cinnamon aversion.

“What’s wrong?”

I take another drink. It’s good, but not mind-blowing the second time around, and I don’t think it’s the coffee itself.

“Oh, nothing. Nothing with this drink, that’s for sure.”

“But you’re feeling restless? It’s that dillweed you work for again, isn’t it?”

I sigh. “No.”

“The job? I was afraid writing about holy matrimony all day might be hard. But if anyone can do it, it’s you.”

“Sorta. Technically, I guess it’s psycho-boss. The guy tries not to be a twenty-four-seven asshat, and when he tries to be nice…somehow, he’s just worse. Or it’s just me. After last year, I’m overly sensitive with weddings. I’m also not great at the whole forgiveness thing, especially when it involves dumb remarks from a dangerously handsome, powerful billionaire with my future in his hands. Not forgiving might be safer.”

“You knew he was an attractive jerk when you took the job. Too bad you can’t get hazard pay for that.”

“I know,” I say glumly.

“So why did you do it?”

“Huh?” I shake my head. “I guess it just…seemed like the next logical step. I couldn’t be a lowly assistant with a sucky salary for the rest of my life.”

“I think there’s more to it than that. You could’ve gotten other jobs in this city, Dakota, but you chose to stick it out.” She takes the mug and sips. “Also, it’s a nice sunny day and we’re not wasting it. How about we talk it out on a bike ride?”

“Really?” I glance up, surprised.

Eliza has always been more of a Pilates or yoga kind of girl. Not to mention somewhat of a homebody on the weekends when she’s in full coffee mad scientist mode.

She grins and nods. “Yes! Let’s go.”

“Let’s ride to Sweeter Grind first. My treat.”

“I just made you coffee.” She gestures frantically at the cup.

“And it’s great. But hardly anyone goes to Sweeter Grind for the coffee over other places here. It’s all about the baked goods and the atmosphere.”

“True. Okay, I’m in.”

Ten minutes later, we’re bustling downstairs to retrieve our bikes.

“So what did the human dildo do this time?” Eliza asks.

“We were in a meeting full of people, and he asks me how a woman with no ring on her finger knows so much about weddings.”

She grimaces.

“God, the nerve. You should have asked him how a man with no game sells so much shit to women.”

I laugh hard. She’s in fine form today.

“If I had your brain, I would have. He had it coming. Only, he called me up last night trying to apologize…”

“At least, he tried, I guess? You should teach him social skills and charge him out the butt.”

He did try.

By the end of our little chat, he actually seemed sincere. That should make me happy.

When we get to the cafe, I go to the counter.

“Two Regis rolls, please.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl behind the counter says with a wince. “We just ran out.”

“Again?” My eyes bug out. “Wait, don’t tell me. A tall, growly guy with a black Centurion card?”

She laughs. “How’d you know? We had half a dozen left about ten minutes ago. Same guy bought ’em all up.”

The bosshole. I’m a thousand percent sure as soon as she confirms.

“Did he have mocha-brown eyes?”

She giggles. “Yeah. He was pretty built. The guy looked like he could rip you in two, except I’ve seen him before and he’s usually wearing a three-piece suit—not today.”

Eliza and I exchange a slow, agonized look.

I hate that I wonder what Lincoln Burns is wearing, too.

“He used to come in and just buy a few rolls at a time, but now he’s like…hoarding them? He buys at least half a dozen Regis rolls a few times a week now,” the barista says.

Eliza’s gaze never leaves me.

“That’s Captain McGrowly, all right,” I tell her. “And I think we’ve found the source of his superpower.”

What the actual hell, though? Is his mom a cinnamon roll serial killer if she doesn’t get her fix?

“I have no idea, but he really likes his Regis rolls,” the barista says. “He’s been coming around for about a year. Do you want to try something new? The apple turnovers are good.”

I nod. “Yeah, we’ll take turnovers. Do you have any idea where he goes when he leaves?”

I’m too curious. This is a man who doesn’t take sugar in his coffee and stashed the goods in his drawer when I brought them.

The barista shrugs. “I don’t know. Sometimes he comes in with a driver, but when it’s nice out like this, he takes off on foot. I think he was heading for the park today.”

“Is there anything between here and the park?”

“Anything you’d need six cinnamon rolls for? Not likely.” She gets into the bakery case and bags up two pastries for us.

I realize how dumb that question sounded.

I just wonder what he’s really up to.

Does his mom hang out there? Does he feed the birds cinnamon rolls and think they deserve no less than Sweeter Grind?

Rich people can be nuts, after all.

I pay and grab the paper sack holding our baked goods, then Eliza and I take our pastries outside.

“So what’s the plan?” she asks.

“No clue. I say we eat our turnovers and enjoy the spring day.”

“Don’t you want to find out what he’s doing at the park? She said he blew through about ten minutes ago. We could catch him,” Eliza suggests.

I pause, rolling it over in my head.

“Sure, but…it doesn’t seem like a great idea, stalking my boss at the park on the weekend. Being curious about what he does with a pile of rolls every week isn’t the best excuse.”

“I vote we live a little, Dakota, and my vote counts more,” she says with a grin. “We’ll stay back so he can’t see us. He has a head start. He may not even be there anymore.”

“Maybe…” I hate how good she is at luring me in.

“It’s Saturday! And it’s not like we have anything else to do besides enjoy the weather,” Eliza says.

“Don’t make me regret this,” I say.

It’s a quick ride to the park.

I’ve been to the edge of this place a few times before, this open green field with a wooded area at the back. At least what counts for wooded with a few lingering copses of trees in the city.

Once you get past the entrance and a little playing field, the open area is covered in row after row of tents, where the homeless camp out.

We stop and I scan our surroundings. None of the people on the benches or milling around the edge of the park fit Lucifer’s description.

“No sign of him yet. Let’s hide the bikes and stay close to the wooded area.” I hop off my bike.

Eliza scans the encampment. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

She has a point. The bikes could be jacked and sold to buy food or supplies by any bad actors in the camp. “We’ll stay close enough to see them.”

She nods and we move behind the trees, hiding our bikes in some brush.

“This isn’t the kind of park I’d expect a dude with a fashion empire to frequent,” I say, my brows knitting together.

“What? You mean you’re surprised your billionaire boss hangs out in a tent city? I mean, Seattle’s no stranger to places like this—it sucks and I feel for the people who live here—but yeah, it’s pretty weird for Mr. Moneybags to come strolling through here. I wonder why?”

Your guess is as good as mine.

We trudge on for a few more minutes before Eliza stops, grabbing my arm.

“Hey, wait, I think I see him!” She extends her arm, pointing in front of us and to the left.

“How do you know? You’ve never seen him.” I follow her finger with my eyes and I don’t spot him at first.

“I’m guessing he’s the only person here who looks like an Instagram thirst trap? That guy fits the description—holy mchottie.”

Sure enough.

Lincoln stands in all his sculpted glory, dressed in dark-blue jeans that accent his powerful hips and a button-down shirt with military shoulder traps. There’s a Sweeter Grind cup pressed to his mouth.

A few seconds later, he sits on a box next to a man with an overgrown beard and a face smudged with dirt.

Lincoln pulls a cinnamon roll out of the bag and then hands the rest to the bearded guy. They both have coffees from Sweeter Grind.

The entire scene does not compute.

I think my brain crashes and reboots several times before I realize my heart stopped beating seconds ago.

I might be watching the sweetest, most unexpected thing ever.

He’s feeding the homeless.

Guilt crashes over me in a tidal wave. Was he planning to feed a homeless guy this entire time with that roll I wouldn’t sell him?

“Dakota, is it him?”

“Yep. Good eye,” I say, blinking. “You’re looking at the dude who throws fits over Regis rolls. I guess he has coffee and pastries with homeless people. I’ll never figure him out.”

“Maybe he isn’t as big of a jerkwad as you thought?”

Hmm.

Is it possible?

He did call me up yesterday to apologize. But then again, if he hadn’t been such a nosy prick in the first place, he wouldn’t have needed any sorries.

“…I don’t know,” I say, realizing I don’t really know anything about him.

“They’re talking about a kid,” Eliza says.

“You hear them from here?” I look at her.

“My grandma was deaf my whole life. I used to stay with her while my mom was at work. She taught me to read lips. The crazy beard beside him says he’d give up his other leg and both arms to see his son again.”

“Other leg? Does that mean he gave up one leg already?”

“I don’t know. Can’t tell from here, but the best I can follow, it seems like maybe he did,” she says.

I don’t need her lip reading to process what happens next.

Lincoln drops a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. He says something with a gentle, heartfelt expression. His head is tilted down, and Eliza can’t read his lips.

But the other guy smiles for the first time since we’ve been here, and Lincoln doesn’t immediately move his hand. The billionaire jackass certainly doesn’t treat the homeless guy like an untouchable.

I’m stunned.

Also, a little humbled.

…hadn’t I called him entitled? Repeatedly?

But catching Lincoln Burns in this parallel reality makes it harder to hate him for his rotten behavior.

That’s not a good thing.

It’s like I can feel a big, jagged piece of my defenses falling down and crashing to bits.

They’re talking again. I paw at Eliza’s arm like a hungry puppy.

“What’s he saying now?” I whisper.

“Bossholio’s asking—no, more like begging—the homeless guy to…come home with him? What the hell?”

Yeah, I’m lost.

Charity is one thing, but that makes zero sense.

It’s hard enough to reconcile this scene with the self-absorbed fiend from the coffeeshop and the prying tyrant at the office. But this is beyond anything I imagined.

Everything I thought I knew about this gorgeous, bad-tempered freak is officially upended.

I don’t need Eliza to read lips to know the homeless man isn’t impressed by this invitation. He lurches up and shoves Lincoln away with what looks like harsh words. Then he disappears inside the tent behind them and zips it up.

I glance at Eliza. “Ouch. Was he a dick about it when he invited the guy to come stay with him?”

She shakes her head slowly.

“He wasn’t. Not at all.”

“But—”

Eliza shrugs. “I don’t get it either.”

With an angry look, Lincoln picks up an old coffee can beside the tent and shoves a wad of bills in it before slamming the lid back on.

“He gives them money, too?”

“Looks like it,” Eliza whispers.

He puts his hand in front of his face like he’s keeping the sun out of his eyes and surveys the line of trees at the back of the park. When he turns our way, I duck down, even though I think—I hope—we’re too far away to see.

“Oh, crap. What’s he doing?” I whisper.

“Not sure,” she says.

But the second he starts toward us, panic.

“Did he see us? Eliza? There’s no reason for him to come this way…”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve seen enough. Time for that bike ride!” I run back a few paces to grab my bike, hop on, and pedal as fast as I can through the trees to get the hell out of here.

I’m not even sure where I’m going. I just need to stay out of sight, to avoid being caught by Burns after I eavesdropped on such an intimate moment.

I barely remember to look back to see Eliza behind me, straining to catch up.

Monday morning, I drag myself out of bed and get dressed.

I’m about to bike to Sweeter Grind when I remember that’s not my job this week.

I can go straight to the office today, get to work, and—enjoy a visit to the principal’s office, apparently. One look at my phone has me frowning. It’s barely the buttcrack of dawn and Lincoln Burns is already in my texts, scolding me.

Come straight to my office when you arrive, he says. I have your breakfast. We need to talk.

Awesome.

What now? I send back, my fingers punching the screen.

Lincoln: We’ll talk when you get here.

Awesome again, staying mired in suspense.

Twenty minutes later, I get to the office as fast as my body can move those wheels. Anger is a hell of a workout.

Burns leans against his office door, filling the space like an annoyed bear protecting its den.

“Nevermore,” he says coldly. “Breakfast inside.”

“Thank you.” I give him the world’s fakest smile.

I walk into his office, brushing his massive chest as I slide past and hold in a sigh.

No bad case of the Mondays ever felt so dire.

He closes the door behind us and moves to his desk with a single word.

“Sit.”

“Your wish is my command,” I say flippantly, flopping down in the chair across from him. “What’s wrong now? You said my work was stellar.”

He slides my coffee and cinnamon roll across the table like some grizzled cop in the movies giving the hotshot rookie his badge.

“Your work is unimpeachable. That’s not why we’re here,” he tells me, pushing his massive hands against the desk.

He’s good at this whole intimidation act, I’ll give him that. Too bad for him that’s never really worked on me.

“Why are you so pissed then?” I ask.

“Pissed? Is that what you think?”

“Er—I’m not sure what we’re talking about,” I throw out, taking a huge bite of cinnamon roll heaven. Mostly so I have a reason to not look at him.

He opens his desk, pulls out a napkin, and slides it over.

“You have frosting on your mouth.”

While swallowing, I take the napkin cautiously and wipe my face, trying to decipher that look in his eyes. God, what is his deal today?

Is this about the park?

His nostrils flare as he draws in a deep breath and says, “For someone who doesn’t like people rummaging around in her personal life, you have no issue digging in mine. How interesting.”

Boom. Hammer, meet head.

The way he calls it interesting certainly feels like a cranial blow.

…so he might be a tad better at the whole intimidation schtick than I gave him credit for.

“Umm—you mean because I called you close to midnight on Friday?” I try, praying that’s it. “Look, bossman, I’m sorry. I thought it was fine because we just talked.”

“Do I hire dumbasses, Nevermore?” he grinds out.

I’m taken aback by the question and sit up straighter, mostly so I don’t rock back in my seat.

“Um, no?” I blink. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at…”

Is this some weird backhanded insult? Is he calling me a dumbass?

“You know what I’m talking about. And because you’re not a dumbass, that means you’re a terrible liar,” he growls.

Holy hell.

I scratch my chin, averting my eyes before I meet the steel trap of his gaze again.

“Mr. Burns, I have no fricking clue what you mean. But let’s say I did—which I don’t—but if I did, we’d be even because you dug first…wouldn’t we?”

“No, ma’am. We are so far from even you couldn’t get there by jet.” He lifts one big hand and places it in the other, loudly cracking his knuckles.

“Can you just tell me what you think I did?” I sputter. “I just…I don’t like games. Spit it out.”

“Stalking the boss is a serious offense.”

My heart skips. I hate how my blush betrays me more than words ever could.

“What? Because of my Google-fu?” An exaggerated laugh falls out of me. “Maybe don’t wind up on the internet and I won’t read about you?”

I know I’m playing with fire. But I’m going to make him say it.

If he saw me, I want to hear it from his lips.

“How about you and Tweedle Dum following me to the park on your day off? Ring a bell?” His voice is a quiet storm.

Yeah, I’m so not ready.

His look cuts me in two, so hot and glaring it’s like he’s stripping me naked right here in this office.

“The park…what makes you think it was me?”

“You’re whispering, for one, and that isn’t something you do,” he says, stabbing up a finger midair. “Two, you don’t think the blond ponytail gave it away? I’d know that hair anywhere, Nevermore. Do not bullshit me.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” I mutter, waving my hands frantically. “That’s your evidence? A blond chick in a city of almost a million people happens to be at the park with you, so it must be me? And that must mean I’m stalking you? I’m in awe. I never thought I’d meet Sherlock Holmes.”

He isn’t impressed.

Neither am I, honestly.

The bosshole leans forward and stares into my eyes.

“Sweetheart, it’s not just the hair. Although it’s a perfect platinum-gold shade I haven’t seen too often—”

“So, you like my hair?” I stare at him.

He rolls his eyes.

“Not the point. You’re the only woman who wears a black dress with silver corded straps while biking. Were you going for a joyride or out to a cocktail party?”

“If it were me—and I haven’t said it was—but if it were, the options are joyride or the library. Keep it straight.”

His gaze only deepens until it’s bone-deep.

“Nevermore, I’m not a betting man. However, if I were, I’d bet every dollar I own that only you have a raven inked across your shoulder,” he says.

Ouch.

Busted.

He knew, and he’s toying with me now.

I touch my shoulder, making sure my sleeveless dress is thick enough to cover the tattoo. It is. I’ve never shown it off at work.

He smiles.

“It’s a nice accent on a well-toned body on a sunny day. Between you and me, it was damn hard to look away from,” he rumbles, his eyes flipping drilling me now.

Heat pumps under my face.

So he’s noticed—and likes—my ’well-toned’ body.

Eep.

I put a hand on the desk to stop my knees from shaking.

“…so maybe it was me. And what if it was? Am I fired?”

He hesitates for a horrible second.

“Maybe.”

What? I bolt up in my seat.

“I thought we agreed to ninety days! And we weren’t following you. I swear. That’s not fair, Burns.”

“Neither is spying on your boss. Unless you’re telling me you always hang around homeless sites for fun?”

Prick. I doubt he’s serious about the firing threat. He just wants to see me squirm.

“Do you?” I fling back.

“That’s my business, and mine alone,” he clips, sliding back in his chair.

“Why?”

“Because what I do away from work isn’t your concern,” he growls, irritation creeping into his tone.

“Why?” I repeat just to screw with him.

“Were you even listening?”

I smile slowly. “A boss once told me I have to go three whys deep.”

“I’m not a fucking client,” he snaps. “And you should stick to your morgues and haunted houses. You’re no comedian, Miss Poe.”

“And you’re my boss, Mr. Burns,” I say sweetly. “You’re the ultimate client. But you know how it’s none of my business why you were at a tent city inside a public park?”

“Of course I know. That’s what I want you to figure out.”

I try not to laugh. Why does it feel so good getting him worked up?

“It’s technically none of your business why I was at the same public park on a gorgeous day, biking with a friend. It’s not impossible or even implausible for two people who frequent the same coffee shop a few blocks away to wind up at the same public park, is it?”

Ha. Argue with that.

“Have you been there before? Don’t lie to me now. It’s very important I can trust the people I work with,” he says, towering in his seat as he straightens, his hands clasped in front of him.

I can’t help the way my eyes wander to those fingers. For a man who spends so much time in the office, his hands look rough. Worn.

They’re the kind of hands that could do appalling things to me in my darkest dreams. The ones I’m totally not having where my boss grabs me, shoves me against the nearest wall, and shoves his hands between my—

“Miss Poe? Are you home or did the ravens make off with your brain today? I asked a simple question,” he snarls.

“No. It’s not usually a place I go. I’m more the type to head over to Alki Beach or maybe take the ferry over to Bainbridge for the day. But where did you see Eliza and I—”

“That’s Tweedle Dum? Eliza?”

I glare at him.

“Where did you see us before we all wound up at the same park?” I ask pointedly.

“Saturday morning? I only saw you at the park,” he says.

“Then I couldn’t have followed you there. Thanks for proving my point. No stalker, no drama, so maybe let’s just get on with our day like grown-ups?”

Like hell, his snapping brown eyes say. You’re not getting off that easy.

“I must have overlooked you at Sweeter Grind,” he says slowly.

“Doubtful. Since we’ve established I have nice bright hair and a tattoo on a well-toned body you’re obsessed with, you wouldn’t have missed me.”

“Touché.” He levels a long look on me.

Why does that make my blood run hot?

“You’ve seen me go to the park from Sweeter Grind before,” he says, his eyes sliding up and down my torso, hot and assessing.

“And I just instinctively knew you’d be there?” I make an exasperated sound. “I don’t think so, man. I might like my horror and fantasy but I’m no psychic.”

He shrugs. “Maybe you found it on some nosy little rat’s social media. You like reading about me.”

I snort. “What? Your trips to the tent city are so frequent they’re online?”

He’s quiet for a moment, deep in thought.

“No. That can’t be the case. I’ve never seen anyone following me or snapping pics, no matter how often I go.”

“Then how could I have read it?” I slap my thigh.

I’m so annoyed. And extra annoyed that getting this riled up is a two-way street. It’s like we’re just feeding off each other’s suspicions now.

“How did you find out I was there?” he demands.

I start laughing.

“You took all the Regis rolls again. Duh. We got to the shop after you blew through. I’ll admit, I was curious, and Eliza put me up to it. I wanted to know where you went with the rolls and the Sweeter Grind girl said you head for the park sometimes—”

“What is it with you and those damn cinnamon rolls?” he barks.

“You’re asking me? You’re the one who needs at least half a dozen every day…”

“She told you how many I bought? That should be confidential.” He sounds mortified.

I laugh helplessly again.

“Nope, everybody knows you’re a junkie. Sorry, buddy.”

“All joking aside, I don’t think you should go back there. Not for work, and not for your personal stomping grounds.”

Oh my God.

He’s serious, isn’t he?

My boss is trying to dictate what parts of the city I’m allowed to visit.

“Yeah, no, that’s definitely not your business.” I roll my eyes right out of my head.

“Probably not, but this isn’t about your juvenile spying. It isn’t always the safest place if you’re not sure where you’re going or who the bad people are there. You and Tweedle Dum—”

“Would you quit calling her that?” I lean forward, flicking a fallen lock of hair over one ear.

“You and your friend seem like easy targets,” he corrects.

“That’s not your problem,” I snap.

But I’m actually stunned that he gives two craps about my well-being. Even if he tells me with zero tact.

“Wrong, Nevermore. It’s very much my business if I lose my best copywriter and her sidekick to some sneaky fuck looking for an easy payday—or worse.”

The way he bites off that last word leaves a yawning silence. Ominous.

“…I doubt I’m your best copywriter, Mr. Burns,” I say. “You have people with vastly more experience than me under their belts.”

“Your ideas are fresh and funny. That is, when your wit goes in a focused direction with our product and isn’t trained on me.” He thumps his chest with a hilarious glower, his brow pulled low.

Amazing. He’s so far up his own butt that he actually believes his BS.

But he does genuinely care about me getting robbed—or worse—and that’s unexpectedly sweet.

I take a slow sip of coffee, trying to shake this weird dizzy feeling.

“Are we done here? As much fun as it’s been, I have a mountain of work. Can I go?”

His look leaves me anchored in place—and that’s when it hits me.

As long as I work here, I’ll be answering to a man who can’t take a joke or get a clue.

I just wonder what sin I committed in some past dreary life to wind up at the mercy of Lincoln freaking Burns.