Wall Street Journal bestselling author Nicole Snow returns with a screaming funny romance where two office enemies fake love until they’re all out of make-believe.
You know that awkward moment when your lava-hot boss says “marry me?”
Not for love. Not for real. Not without a mammoth payoff.
Of course, this fortune comes with a ginormous snag—Ward Brandt.
Call me bananas.
I must be short of a full bushel rejecting Chicago’s finest billionaire.
Who knew he was my boss when he crashed my worst date ever?
Oh, but he found out.
He swore I wasn’t fit for Brandt Ideas, chewed me up, and spat me back out.
I vowed I’d prove him wrong—and sabotage a metric ton of his coffee.
Then tragedy strikes, upending his limitless ego.
Guess who needs an image makeover to shore up the family business.
Big fat hell no.
King Snarlypants has a peanut-sized heart and a chip on his shoulder bigger than a redwood.
Find another sucker, Ward-hole.
Even if I agreed, my shields are up.
No magnetic kisses. Zero butterflies. Nix the blushing when everyone gushes over what a “perfect couple” we’d be.
Then again…it’s just ninety days and mama needs a windfall.
What’s one little white wedding lie with a bossy grump built like a god?
Full-length enemies-to-lovers romance loaded with banter, drama, and so much slow-burn heat you’ll want that Happily Ever After shaken over ice. A storm cloud of a man stuffed into a suit strikes a deal with the girl whose smart mouth drives him to the ultimate madness called love.
When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I do is check my email.
I’m expecting Miss One Glass to send back some whiny message about how unfair it was for me to bury her under an avalanche of projects.
There’s nothing like that, but a slideshow of the final bid in its current form attached to a blank email with the subject line Done.
Damn her.
It’s incredible how she maintains her scathing sass with a single word.
At the office, Nick stands in front of Miss Holly’s desk, sipping his sugar rush mocha and leering over her. Probably trying to look down her shirt.
Careful, you idiot. This girl knows Illinois employment law by heart. She’ll have your balls stapled to your jacket.
Muttering silently, I stop on the way to my office and my eyes meet hers. “I take it my coffee’s waiting on my desk?”
She looks up and glares a second too long, those green eyes glittering like a jungle cat’s.
“Nope.”
“No?” I spit back.
“Shocking espresso shortage. The Bean Bar only had enough left for a mocha and one double shot, and Mrs. Beatrice Nightingale Brandt takes seniority. If I’d waited for them to resupply, I’d have missed your oh-so-important deadline. Mrs. Brandt told me to let you know you could see her if you had a problem with it, though.” She flashes me a murderously triumphant “gotcha” grin.
“The Bean Bar does not run out of espresso,” I snarl through clenched teeth. The coffee shop has its shit together better than anything else in this city—the whole reason we love it and treat ourselves to Chicago’s finest dressed-up caffeine overload a few times every week.
“Sorry. We’re one cuppa joe short, but I figured the project was more important, so...” Holly just smiles and shrugs like a schoolgirl who’s gotten away with cherry-bombing a high school toilet.
The motion sends my eyes lashing down her face to the low cut of her blouse.
For a tortured second, I’m no better than my idiot brother, my eyes glued to a pair of ample tits I’d like to boss around with my tongue, my teeth, my—
Damn her to the moon.
With nothing else to say, I turn around and nearly slam into Nick.
“Whoa, where’s the fire?” He greets me with his usual lopsided grin.
“Nowhere, apparently.” I level a glare on him. “Shouldn’t you be in your office working?”
He holds a hand up. “Bro, if you’re jonesing that bad for coffee, I can run down to the bar downstairs and get you an espresso. My treat.”
“That won’t be necessary.”
I need to move it before my humiliation is complete, so I push past him, go to my office, and slam the door shut. Then I remember, I’ve only seen one completed project this morning.
Where’s the other?
I open the frosted glass door and stick my head out. “Where’s the Winthrope comp catalog?”
Miss Holly looks up, twirling her blond hair like spun gold. “I’m working on it now! I can send you what I have. The final should be ready before lunch.” She points to her computer.
My eyes narrow and I fold my arms.
“It was due at eight a.m.”
Nick watches us for a minute and huffs loudly. “Yo, Ward, give her a break. It’s still her first week.”
“No excuse to miss deadlines. She has the credentials and work ethic, when she applies them,” I say.
“Aw, c’mon, the last girl took at least a solid week to make those catalogs,” Nick fires back. “There’s so much crap in them—”
Miss Holly jumps in. “Most of it I’ve been able to copy and paste, which is why I’m done with the North American hotels for comparison. Since Mr. Winthrope is coming by for a check-in this week, I thought the slideshow was more important. I’ll be done with the catalog today, like I said.”
Nick’s eyes trace from Paige—Miss Holly—to me.
Get her the hell out of your head, I demand inwardly. Yes, she’s beautiful, but she’s a wine-sloshing trouble maker with a whip for a tongue. Stop feeding her.
Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found her love of writing by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her great escape from boardrooms. Her work roared onto the indie romance scene in 2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.
Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes, unbelievable suspense, and swoon storms aplenty. With over a million books sold, she lives for the joy of making two people fight with every bit of their soul for a Happily Ever After.
Current fan favorites include her Enguard Protectors series, accidental love novels, plus long beloved MC romance thrillers like the Grizzlies and Deadly Pistols.
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