by Snow, Nicole
And I know how he operates with women he wants in his bed. I’ve heard him blab about it at least a dozen times while I shuttled his player butt around.
There’s pathetic, and then there’s reality.
I need this job.
Even so, I don’t need to let some slick ego-beast with a warped sense of ’doing the right thing’ sweet-talk me into an HR nightmare.
I definitely don’t need those searing looks from him every time he thinks my back is turned. Those looks are too hungry, too heated, too magnetic. They pull the winter chill right out of my bones and braise me with a bubbling, unwanted heat I won’t acknowledge.
I won’t.
Yep, this sucks.
And as I glance at the flowers again, gently picking them up and twirling them in my hand, I wince.
Is it sad that I’m starting to miss him thinking I’m Mr. Halle?
* * *
It’s a sunny day with winter slowly giving up its hold, attracting a gaggle of people to fight through for parking.
When I pick him up at three, he climbs in the back of the car with a giant spool of cotton candy. He leans forward and passes it up to me.
Gag.
“What’s this?” I ask, dreading the answer.
“For my gorgeous—for my driver with the gorgeous, always on-point personality,” he says firmly.
Nice save. He only stumbled once.
“Thanks.” I toss it in the passenger seat next to the flowers.
I’ve never actually had cotton candy, but this heaping spool of neon-pink sugar looks like something that could put me in diabetic shock.
Unlike the flowers, at least I have a practical use for this gift. I’ll give some to Millie. She’s always up for a sugar rush like every kid her age.
“You seemed unimpressed by the flowers, so I thought I’d try again,” he explains, holding his hands out.
“You must be psychic. It’s just like I always say: when flowers don’t get the reaction you’re going for, a pink toothache is the next logical step.”
Yes, I know I sound like a fire-breathing bitch, but I don’t want a third not-sorry gift from this man.
“You can’t be serious. You hate cotton candy too?” he says with genuine disgust. “It’s like dessert and a show. Pretty fascinating, really, the way it’s made. Don’t you have fun, Miss Halle?”
“Not when I’m on the clock,” I say.
He frowns. “You could make this easy. Tell me how to make up for—”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” I insist.
“Bull. I know your short-term memory isn’t fried. I made you help me lug a sweaty, half-naked drunk guy to his room,” he growls, running a hand across his face.
“And I believe you promised a fat quarterly bonus for that, right? Not a dental disaster, which my niece will thank you for when I hand it off to her.”
“You’ll get your bonus,” he promises. “End of the quarter reviews are next week. I made that promise when I thought I was making a reasonable request from another gentleman, and I’m a man of my word.”
Oh my God.
Hearing Nick talk like an adult—with freaking manners—tells me this isn’t all fake.
He’s not just saving face.
He...he actually feels bad about his bruising mistake, and everything he put me through.
There goes my heart. Then I pinpoint what’s wrong with the latest, very specific apology, and sigh.
“Again with the sexism.” I shake my head in mock offense. “That’s not just me saying it, but HR. I read the handbook my first day.”
“What?” he clips, his eyes going wide.
“Why would it be reasonable to have your short, scrawny male driver lug a drunk guy to his room, but not your petite female driver? Expectations should be equal in all positions, per company policy. If a woman can pull sixteen-hour days assembling ad campaigns in Marketing, then I should’ve been able to help with that request as your driver, no matter what you thought I was.”
His brows pull together, casting this annoyingly handsome expression over him when he’s confused.
“I’m listening. Then why, pray tell, did you—”
“My point is, it wasn’t reasonable, Mr. Brandt. No matter who your driver is.”
Nick flumps back in his seat. “You weren’t this easy to talk to when you were a guy.”
God, that’s what’s at the top of his mind? It’s my turn to laugh.
“Because you never let me talk!”
Thankfully, I’m pulling up to his building and he throws open the door. “See you tomorrow?”
“As always,” I say with a wry smile.
I sigh as he slams the door.
Even though I tell myself not to, I can’t stop looking at his perfect posterior as he heads through the revolving doors.
Jesus. I don’t want to know what’s wrong with me.
Sure, the man has a lot to admire physically. And yes, he can be funny.
But that’s it.
A grown salamander would have more social poise than Nick freaking Brandt.
He’s like a moody salesman, putting on this easygoing mask to hide whatever’s eating him when people aren’t looking, always trying too hard to get on everyone’s good side.
Why can’t he just accept that not everyone will like him?
Didn’t anyone ever tell him to just be himself and put on the brakes?
...I wish I knew, and that’s the worst part.
This cocky suit’s heading home for another evening that’ll probably be full of whatever debauchery he does when he’s not working—and he doesn’t realize he’s already moved into my head, rent free.
* * *
After work, I visit my sister.
Millie bounces up to me with big blond curls flopping around her head.
“Auntie Reese!” she squeals, holding her arms up.
“Hey, bumblebee. Ready for a surprise?” She flashes me a grin to die for as I pick her up and hand her the spool of pink fluffy candy.
“Hey, that’s a lot of sugar,” Abby says suspiciously. “Since when do you eat cotton candy?”
I’m only holding on to my smile for Millie’s sake.
“Gift I didn’t need from the boss. Remember what I told you? He’s determined to make up for mistaking me for a dude and all the stupid sh—”
Abby’s eyes flick to Millie in my arms.
“All the stupid stuff he said when he thought I was a guy,” I correct. “First he bought me flowers, and when I didn’t freak out over those, he brought me a ticket to the dentist.”
“So now you’re pawning it off on us?” Abby snorts, tugging playfully at Millie’s locks. “You know I’m gonna have to ration this stuff for the next month, right?”
“I’m sure it’ll be fine. At least somebody gets to enjoy it,” I tell her.
“I hope your boss will pay for her cavities,” Abby says with a laugh.
“He’d probably do it in a heartbeat if I asked. Unfortunately.”
“Dang, sis. So you have a billionaire hottie wrapped around your finger—and you’re complaining? What? I can think of worse things.” Abby tosses her head, dumbfounded by my feelings.
I roll my eyes. She doesn’t understand.
“Well, if he doesn’t wear you down, tell him your poor lonely sister needs the comfort of a hot billionaire employer. I’m ready and willing to be comforted any time after seven thirty every night,” she says cheerfully.
That wins her a smile. Unlike me, Abby follows all the trash-talking gossip blogs, Twitter bullies, and might be a walking encyclopedia of who’s who on Insta and TikTok.
Worse, Nick is her favorite Brandt, scandals and all.
“Whaaat?” she croons. “It’s a serious offer.”
Millie wiggles in my arms, cooing as she tugs at the plastic around the cotton candy, trying to tear through it like a feat of strength.
“C’mon. The only offer I’m considering tonight is my niece’s s
ugar rush,” I say.
* * *
The next day, when I pick him up for work, he’s armed with another present.
Joy.
This time, he hands me a bottle of champagne that looks like it was shipped over from a Parisian catacomb.
“It’s a hundred and nine years old,” he says. “You’re welcome.”
“So I look like a lush now? Your gifts are getting stranger, boss.”
“You can’t tell me you don’t like good champagne,” he quips. “Everyone enjoys champagne from 1912, Miss Halle. It was a good year.”
“Because the Titanic sank?” I snicker, remembering that old movie. In some alternate universe, he would’ve made a good Jack Dawson. “I don’t think I’ve ever had champagne, honestly. I’m sure it’s nice and bubbly, but alcohol just seems like an odd gift for a driver.”
“It’s not like I expect you to guzzle it down on the clock. I’d never trash your sterling reputation,” he says, thumping his chest lightly with his fist. “How have you never had champagne, Halle? Are you part of some bizarre religious cult?”
I shrug. “More of a beer girl sometimes. They both fizz, right? I guess I’ve never seen the appeal in plunking down half a week’s pay for a nice champagne.”
A chill sweeps through me when I imagine what that bottle must be worth.
“Modest palate. Beer. Got it,” he grumbles, choking back what sounds like a sigh. “Did your niece enjoy the cotton candy?”
He stares at me hopefully, this hangdog look on his face.
“Her mom decided it was too close to bedtime to eat more than a pinch,” I say. “But she gobbled it up.”
“Fair enough. Glad someone likes it.” He nods, scratching at the trimmed halo of dark scruff covering his cheeks.
The next day, when I pick him up for work, he gets in the car and hands me a white envelope. My heart immediately starts pounding like he just flashed a knife.
What now? A concert ticket? A new car? A gift card to some outrageously beautiful (and overpriced) spa on Maui?
“Do I want to know?” I whisper, swallowing an anxious lump in my throat.
“Open it, damn you,” he bites off. “It’s a card. A nice one I picked out personally.”
I know this is where I should call it.
I should swallow my pride, tell him we’ll let bygones be bygones, and forget he ever treated me like a frat punk.
That’s what most reasonable folks would do, but they’re not me.
I’m not done having my fun or satisfying this morbid curiosity that makes me wonder just how over-the-top this man gets.
Putting on my best ice-cold glare, I toss my nose up in the air with an offended grunt.
“Now, you’re acting like a chick,” I say.
“Sexist!” he spits, snapping a finger at me. Then the smug glint in his eye fades. “...does that finally make us even?”
It physically hurts not to burst out laughing.
“Never,” I hiss.
And with one misplaced word—one bad decision to keep yanking his tail—I sign my death warrant. The game that should be winding down revs up.
Nicholas Brandt is many things: handsome fire, annoying as hell, and oblivious to the world beyond his own ego. But he’s also a gold medalist in determination.
The same act goes on for weeks.
Ten days in, I’ve given up and told him to forget about it a million times.
Surprise, surprise, he won’t. Every day he gets in the car with some bizarre new offering. The day he hands me balloons, I say, “I like steak.”
“What?”
“If you won’t let this go and insist on treating every day like Christmas...can tomorrow be a steakhouse gift card?” I ask, batting my eyes because it’s all I can do not to gouge them out.
“If I’m your plus one—”
“Nope. Not happening then,” I throw back.
His face heats red, and he’s quiet the rest of the ride home. He doesn’t even fight me when I punch the privacy screen up. One last glance and he looks like a human grenade struggling to push his pin back in before he explodes.
I should feel bad, but guess what?
I don’t. As long as this continues, I swear to God Almighty I’m not letting Brandt find a single crack in my armored heart.
A few days later when he gets in the car, he tells me to go to Hotel Indigo.
“Why are we going there?” I ask, genuinely curious.
“Great Lakes Architecture Conference,” he says glumly. “It sounds boring as hell, doesn’t it? I should skip.”
I bite back a smile. “I didn’t say anything. Should I take you to the office instead?”
“Nah, it’s springtime, Halle. The sun’s finally shining in this godforsaken city and birds are chirping. Take us to Navy Pier. I’ll buy you cotton candy again, and this time you have to take a bite. You can’t just save it for your niece unless you truly hate it.”
He’s ridiculous. I want him to hear the frown in my voice.
“Hmm...no,” I tell him. “I’m not interested in getting fired today.”
“We could go to the zoo. You seem like a zoo kind of girl,” he suggests, adjusting his tie.
What the hell does that even mean? It’s times like this when I wish I had an idiot boss translator.
“Did you just compare me to a wild animal?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes and lets out a strangled growl.
“Please. I don’t even want to know how your brain makes these jumps. If you don’t like the zoo or the pier, we could try the River Walk.”
I’ve had enough. I reach up and adjust the mirror so I can see his smirking face. I try not to stare at that chiseled jaw or let my eyes linger on firm lips meant for sin.
“So, bossman. This may surprise you, but...I’m on the clock. My duties begin and end with pickups and drop-offs. I’d really hate to involve Susan and her silly HR complaint form. Much less escalate anything to Bea.”
“Fuck, whatever.” For a moment, he’s silent.
I think I might’ve just saved my butt—until I look back in the mirror and see this slow, twisted expression that tells me something truly devious just entered his brain.
God help me.
“If it’s all work and no play, come to the convention with me. Take notes. That can’t possibly be inappropriate and lunch is usually decent.”
For a second, I’m paralyzed.
Clearing my throat, I say, “I’m not your assistant. Company driver doesn’t cover—”
“I know,” he says, cutting in. “The whole C-level team shares an EA, and we go through them like tissue paper. I don’t think the new girl will last. And since she’s not assigned to me today, I don’t have an assistant.”
His comment surprises me. Ward qualifies as Mr. Uptight any day, but I could see Nick being the one putting the moves on their assistants, making them hate life. I eye him suspiciously through the rearview mirror.
That smirk from hell etched on his face widens.
“Also, I spent some time earlier this week reviewing your job description. The position says 'other duties where needed,' whenever you’re not driving senior staff.” He pauses for deadly effect. “I need notes, Miss Halle. You’re drafted.”
I. Want. To. Scream.
Instead, I put on a neutral face and ask an innocent question. “Do you really need someone to take notes, or are you just being annoying?”
“Notes,” he rumbles, folding his arms. “Pissing you off is a bonus.”
Yikes. It’s easy to forget this man can look like a portrait of scary-hot when he wants to.
“I...I think I’m supposed to pick Ward up and get him to a meeting later,” I say slowly. It’s a half lie.
I vaguely remember having something on my calendar, but I don’t grab my phone to check.
“Send him an Uber,” he snaps.
“Not happening. You can’t send Ward to meet a client in an Uber! Geez, even I know that.” I also know I’d g
et some seriously uncomfortable questions about why I wasn’t available to, y’know, do my job.
“I’ll send him another town car from a service. Relax.”
His eyes are sea-green walls. Impenetrable and totally uncaring that he just said the next worst thing to 'calm down.' My toes scrunch up in my shoes as I choke down that scream aching to fly out.
“If I come to this thing, will you make me regret it?” I ask, accepting my defeat.
“I don’t see how you could. You’re with me. Lucky you.” I almost see a little toothpaste-commercial sparkle in his teeth when he grins.
Yep. He’s definitely pissing me off.
“With you around, I’m not sure Lady Luck called my number,” I say with a muffled groan.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Miss Halle.”
“Always.”
“Look. I’ll be the first to admit these conferences are glorified naptimes. That’s why I don’t want to go alone.” He cracks his knuckles. “Still, it has to be more fun for you than driving my stick-in-the-ass brother around.”
“I’m not sure about that. I like driving. And I really don’t mind Ward that much,” I say, giving a nod for emphasis.
“You’re so full of shit. You’d rather drive the guy the entire office calls Warden around rather than go to a conference with me?”
He looks wounded. Disbelieving. Shaken, not stirred.
I smile. “Are you jealous, Mr. Brandt?”
Danger. I need a leash for my tongue right now.
Get it together. You’re straight-up flirting now. With your hot billionaire dick of a boss who’d chew you up in one bite. Nothing good comes from that. Ever.
“Not jealous,” he snarls. His crankyface expression says otherwise. “I just refuse to believe it.”
Ah-ha. He’s being honest again.
It’s an answer only the famous egomaniac Nick Brandt could ever give.
* * *
At the conference, the bossman blends in with the other businessmen.
Sort of.
He’s still a heartthrob with messy hair and slayer eyes here, but he actually seems professional. Serious.
When he speaks to movers in the construction and engineering worlds, he talks like he cares about more than lavish parties and a devilish reputation. Who knew?