Table Of ContentOFFICE GRUMP
AN ENEMIES TO LOVERS ROMANCE
NICOLE SNOW
ICE LIPS PRESS
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in November, 2020.
Disclaimer: The following book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance characters in this story may have to real people is only
coincidental.
Please respect this author's hard work! No section of this book may be reproduced or copied without permission. Exception for brief
quotations used in reviews or promotions. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thanks!
Cover Design – CoverLuv. Photo by Travis DesLaurier.
CONTENTS
About the Book
1. Happy Friday (Sabrina)
2. Latte Girl (Magnus)
3. Punked! (Sabrina)
4. Old Alma Mater (Magnus)
5. It’s A Cinnamon Morning (Sabrina)
6. Bad Art Project (Magnus)
7. Bad Omen (Sabrina)
8. Lucky Penny (Magnus)
9. The Fireman’s Pregnant Tinkerbell (Sabrina)
10. Nice Accessories (Magnus)
11. Omens, Omens Everywhere (Sabrina)
12. Tie-dye Sunset (Magnus)
13. Secret Santa (Sabrina)
14. Wolf Boy (Magnus)
15. The Kid (Sabrina)
16. Rich Prick (Magnus)
17. Tempt Me (Sabrina)
18. The View With You (Magnus)
19. Sweet Perfection (Sabrina)
20. Happy New Year (Magnus)
21. Black Cat (Sabrina)
22. On the Desk (Magnus)
23. Red Convertible (Sabrina)
24. Smart Stick (Magnus)
25. Biker Boyfriend (Sabrina)
26. Simply Perfect (Magnus)
27. Skywriter (Sabrina)
28. A Merger (Magnus)
29. Sea Queen (Sabrina)
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About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
My “interview” with bosshole supreme was anything but normal.
He picked the worst day ever to chase me off my favorite park bench.
I retaliated with a spray of cinnamon latte all over his Italian shoes.
Then—for some unholy reason—Magnus Heron offered me a job.
Even his name sounds like a piece of work.
Guess what? He is.
But when you're single, broke, and barely surviving in Chicago, you hop on the gift horse offering
a six-figure salary and ride.
I picked the stallion on a one-way trip to hell.
It's not the impossibly long hours working under Grump-zilla.
It's not the fact that he's snarly, demanding, horribly rich, and chiseled.
It's not even the pesky way he makes me blush every flipping time we're together.
Mag is my boss. I'm his lowly assistant. Some rules are carved in stone.
That's my mantra until we're sharing a sunset too beautiful for life.
Alone with wandering lips, whispered secrets, and disaster in the making.
The plan was simple: punch the clock, get paid, and keep hating my boss.
What's the blueprint when the office grump brings me to my knees?
1
Happy Friday (Sabrina)
I
know the moment I open my eyes that it’s going to be a day.
It’s Friday the Thirteenth, the worst day ever invented in the history of time.
A date belonging to screeching black cats, tumbling salt shakers, and broken clocks.
Not a day where good things happen to hardworking girls who wake up on the wrong side of their
beds—and the achy crick in my neck tells me today’s black magic already started on my pillow last
night.
Awesome.
Somehow, I manage to crawl out of bed and get showered and dressed, without losing any limbs.
But as I hop out of my bedroom in a brand-new outfit, still zipping my knee-high boot while trying to
check my phone for the time, I realize what else feels off besides my poor neck.
I’m flipping late.
Apparently, the alarms on my phone love this infamous day just as much as I do.
“Ohhh, Brina, big date tonight? You look amazing! But you’re late.” Paige holds out my purse and
a paper coffee cup with an easygoing smile.
“Where would I be without you?” I mutter, unsure whether I’m rolling my eyes at her for going all
Captain Obvious or the fact that I would be worse off without a friend like her.
I jerk the boot zipper the rest of the way up, then snatch the cup and purse from her. I’m wearing a
sweater dress with a jacket thrown over it and high heeled boots, an ensemble pulled together more
for Chicago fall warmth than fashion. And I’ve thrown my walnut-brown hair into a ponytail this
morning because it’s the quickest fix.
“No dates written in stone yet. You know how flaky Tinder dudes are,” I say, checking my phone
again, willing time to slow down.
“Don’t worry. You’ll make it,” Paige says with a sunny confidence I wish I had. “Personally, I
think you should rock the Miss Superstitious vibe. You’ve already got the name and we’ve been
through this before—”
“Right, and it always ends with the same question. Do I look like a teenager or a witch?” I watch
her lashes flutter as she bats her eyes so innocently.
God. I’m starting to wish I was magic because if I don’t make my bus...hello, doom.
As I’m lunging for the door, I realize it’s way too early for my night owl of a roommate to be out
of bed. “Why are you awake, anyway?”
“I’m going to Lincoln Park to meet a potential client.” She runs a hand through her blond hair like
it’s totally natural for anyone to be so beautiful this early in the morning.
So maybe I wish I could steal her confidence along with her style mojo, too.
“It’s Friday the Thirteenth,” I remind her. “Be careful.”
She sips her coffee with a loud snort. “Oh, you and your hocus pocus. Some of the best things ever
happen on Fridays ending in thirteen.”
“Like what?” I call over my shoulder, but I don’t have time to wait for her answer. I power stomp
down the stairs without a second look, hoping she’s right.
But seriously?
Good things?
Today?
No. Nope. Never.
Racing down the block, I glance at my bus stop...
...just as the bus drives away.
“Sonofa—” I cut myself off mid-curse when an old lady out for a stroll casts me a dirty glance.
Rather than daydream about how heavenly it must be to waltz around this early without panicking
over a job, I push my lips against my coffee cup and slurp so loud I hope it scares someone.
Third time this month I’m late. Happy happy, joy joy.
Luckily, no one at the office ever said anything the last two times. Mostly because I work my ass
off and I always make up the time in the evenings.
I rage-gulp my coffee and then toss the cup in the trash, waiting on the next bus to come, keeping
my eyes peeled for more bad luck.
So far, no velvety black cats on a personal mission to ruin my day.
Small consolation.
When I finally catch the next bus and stumble into the building’s elevator, the metal doors start
closing in slow motion right in front of my face.
I’m already forty minutes late. Again.
No freaking way am I letting these doors shut before I’m in. Stretching one foot in front of the
shiny doors, I jiggle it, hoping to set off the sensor so they reopen.
Instead, they close.
Right over the spike of my high-heeled boot.
Oh.
Oh, God.
I gasp, terrified by the loud crunch! that erupts through the silence.
Bones?
Heart pounding, I wiggle my toes, bracing for the worst.
But my foot doesn’t hurt at all.
It only caught my heel, tripping the sensor—though the second the door pings open, my mangled
heel hits the floor. I throw myself in as fast as a girl on one heel can and scoop up the broken part
with a sigh.
These things happen.
It’s Friday the freaking Thirteenth.
If shearing off a heel and a late bus are the worst things today? I’ll be fiiine.
Except, from the instant the elevator stops on my floor, I know something’s off. It’s weirdly quiet
inside Purry Furniture & More’s downtown headquarters, and I’m half expecting to see the cutesy
black cats on the posters come leaping out after me with their claws drawn.
I also spot Vanessa, my boss, as soon as the steel doors pull apart. She stands at the front desk and
smiles.
Not a nice one, exactly. More like a wooden smile that says, oh, hey, I’m trying to pretend I have
it all together, but I’m actually juggling atomic bombs, and I’m about to drop one in your lap.
What now? Is it my timing?
I step out, brandishing my heel.
“Vanessa, so sorry I’m late. My alarms were off and I had a little mishap with a hungry elevator,
so...” Before I can even get my whole sob story out, she stops me with a raised hand, her fingers
splayed apart.
“No big, Sabrina. Can you come into my office for a sec? I need to talk to you.”
Odd.
So is her ominously formal use of my name. Why didn’t she just call me Brina like always? Like
everyone always has, since the dawn of time.
As I follow her, limping on my broken heel, I swallow a cold, bitter rock in my throat.
Friday the Thirteenth.
My boss wants to “talk.”
How screwed am I?
She wheels herself behind her massive glass desk with another awkward semi-smile and tents her
fingers in front of her.
“Well. Sabrina, there’s no easy way to say this and you’re too good for me to sugarcoat it, so here
goes. You’ve been a fabulously talented, hardworking member of our Purry creative team. We
absolutely love your designs; however...I’m afraid we’re facing budget cuts.”
“Oh.” That sounds like a downer. But I’m a valuable member of this team. I get things done! “I...I
thought you told me the designs I did were phenomenal? Half of them are hanging around the office.”
“And they are, yes. But the hard truth is, Mr. Tillis, the owner, believes it’s time to take a look at
hiring talent to save costs in the same places where our furniture is manufactured. Jack found a way to
get similar graphic designs from Bangladesh at about one dollar a piece. They’re not quite as
polished as yours, of course, but...”
I’m not listening anymore.
Jack? Did she just say Jack? Jack-ass?
“You mean the frat boy I’ve been training—um, I mean, the—Jack the Intern?”
Frowning, Vanessa clears her throat and nods.
Holy Hannah. It’s hard not to roll my eyes right out of their sockets.
Now I get why the kid was so interested in buzzing around my desk to find out what parts of the
process we—meaning he—could automate or outsource. All for a shiny unpaid internship to slap on
his college resume.
“So this means I’m fired?” I ask numbly.
Her eyes widen in a Goodness, no! kind of way.
For a flimsy second, I think this day might not sink into the tar pit it’s heading for.
“Let go,” she whispers, as if that softens the blow. “Mr. Tillis prefers the phrase right-sizing.”
I choke on the air in my lungs and focus on trying to breathe through cement so I don’t flip her the
bird by reflex.
You’ve got to love whatever evil genius came up with comically brutal corporate speak like
right-sizing.
Whatever we call it doesn’t change the cold, hard facts.
This is the third entry-level position I’ve lost this year.
The last time, in the spring, I had to beg Paige to cover my rent for a couple months. Hardly a
burden for a girl who’s grown up semi-wealthy, but I hated it with a vengeance.
I also chowed down on ramen noodles and instant mac and cheese for every meal. Going out for a
six-inch sub felt like an extravagant use of my funds.
I’ve known young adult poverty in the big Windy City, and it sucks to suck. Definitely not
something I want to revisit.
Vanessa stares at me with a worried look from across her desk.
With the resume-dusting, pavement-pounding, ass-kissing horrors of the job search swirling in my
mind, I wonder if it’s not too late to rewind and salvage this job. Make such a good impression during
my exit interview that she decides she’s making a terrible mistake.
If I could just get her to sweet-talk surfer dude cat furniture mogul CEO Tillis into keeping me
on...
“Vanessa, tell me one thing...is there anything I could’ve done differently? To help me at my next
job?”
She gives me a relaxed, sad smile. “You’re a hard worker and a positive employee. You haven’t
even been here long enough for me to give you any kind of real appraisal beyond that, I’m afraid.
These things happen.”
I feel my eyeball twitch.
Why, yes, these things do happen on a craptacular day when the entire universe spins on its bitch
axis.
“It really is a budget cut. Nothing personal and no reflection at all on your impressive skills,” she
drones on. “Your last paycheck will be direct-deposited next week. I’ve paid you for today, but once
you’ve packed up, you’re free to leave.”
Lovely.
“Isn’t there like, um, another job here I could take? Maybe a position that pays less?”
Pity flashes in her eyes. So that’s a hard no.
“With the business plan to lower operational costs, most of our personal assistant roles are being
handled in the Philippines. If you’d like, I’d certainly be happy to keep your resume on—”
Nope.
Done.
Let her file this.
I scurry up from my chair and walk out without looking back, feeling like I’ve been slapped
across the face. Really, though, it’s par for the course in Sabrina Bristol’s career world.
My first job was with a start-up firm. They went belly up when a big, bad G rolled out its own
revolutionary app update, rendering their company obsolete a couple weeks after I started.
After that, I took a temp-to-hire position. The pay sucked, and they never kept any of the temps, so
that was another dead end.
Purry Furniture & More seemed like an ideal fit. I mean, witchy black cats aside, I love animals.
Once you get past the idea that the entire job was marketing pet furniture, it was a pretty sweet
starting place. Crap pay, sure, but it was supposed to be good experience, an open door, one more
step up the ladder, dammit.
Three freaking months. That’s not experience.
That’s a radar blip, just enough time for a boss to decide you’re disposable when a penny-
pinching knucklehead decides to right-size you right out of a job.
I don’t say anything to the few people milling around, avoiding me like I’m carrying the plague. I
just go clear out my desk.
There isn’t much to remove, honestly.
A lonely picture of Paige and me at the Navy Pier on New Year’s Eve. Another photo with my
parents from Christmas a couple years ago.
My last designs are scattered across my desk, a set of grinning cartoon cats raving about how
Meow-some the company’s latest cat beds are. I never had time to pitch them properly, and I hope
Jack the Rat hasn’t seen them.
Contrary to what my supervisor thinks, not everyone can purr-fectly picture cat and doggy heaven
like I did in these mock-ups. So I’m swiping them for my portfolio before they claim dibs on the
rights.
I throw the framed photographs in my purse, and when I don’t find anything to put the prints in, I
swipe a hot-pink bedazzled folder off an intern’s desk. I throw a couple of dollars down to make up
for taking her folder. I don’t leave a note. I doubt she even knows my name.
All of my high quality, professional work gets crammed into pink bedazzle.
Don’t get me wrong, I like pink. But I always pictured myself with a sleek black leather briefcase,
not walking around like some high school art kid.
Ten minutes after my unceremonious departure, I’m back in the elevator that ate my heel as my
phone vibrates.
A guy I talk to on Tinder, Brad B., messages to ask if I’d like to meet up at two p.m.
So maybe things are looking up?
He’s cute from his picture, at least. Seems hard-working, says he’s on track to be a partner at his
accounting firm. He’s cute and funny, and his self-deprecating messages lead me to believe he might
be the last normal single guy left in Chicago.
Sure, Sweeter Grind okay? I text back.
It’d better be. I’ll die without good coffee and a pastry today.
You’re on, Brad sends.
Cool. This fluttery hope sails through me. Maybe Paige is right.
Even though I lost my job and my heel, maybe, just maybe, things can still turn around.
At precisely one forty-five, I plant my butt in a booth chair at my favorite coffee shop and wait for
him to arrive. I scour the web for graphic design jobs—nada—all the while glancing toward the door
for Brad.
