One bossy date an enemie.., p.1
One Bossy Date: An Enemies to Lovers Romance, page 1
One Bossy Date
An Enemies to Lovers Romance
Nicole Snow
Content copyright © Nicole Snow. All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America.
First published in December, 2022.
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 Chris Davis.
Contents
About the Book
1. Do Not Disturb (Piper)
2. Be My Guest (Brock)
3. Pig Hospitality (Piper)
4. The Anti-Date (Brock)
5. Reservation For Disaster (Piper)
6. Everyone’s A Critic (Brock)
7. Good Help Is So Hard To Find (Piper)
8. Because I’m The Boss (Brock)
9. Nothing Good After Midnight (Piper)
10. Out Of Service (Brock)
11. Mind Your Beeswax (Piper)
12. Prince Of Hotel Darkness (Brock)
13. Going Caveman (Piper)
14. Luxury Package (Brock)
15. Big Promises (Piper)
16. Emergency Exit (Brock)
17. Plus One (Piper)
18. The Paradise Package (Brock)
19. Staycation Blues (Piper)
20. Let Bygones Be (Brock)
21. Company Ink (Piper)
22. Square One (Brock)
23. Rocky Road (Piper)
24. Ghost Of Yesterday (Brock)
25. Penguin Suit (Piper)
26. Damage Control (Brock)
27. Loose Ends (Piper)
28. All The Arrows (Brock)
29. Hold Your Applause (Piper)
30. Photo Finish (Brock)
31. Cobblestone Road (Piper)
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About Nicole Snow
More Books by Nicole
About the Book
Never sweat the small stuff, they say.
How about when you wake up with a giant stranger showering in your hotel room?
There's nothing tiny about Brock Winthrope.
He even roars like a lion when he sees me. I scream back. And after narrowly avoiding a murder scene, we've got trouble.
He says he'll fix our reservation blunder since he's the manager (he's not).
He thinks I'll smack his resort with the rotten egg review from hell (I might).
I've never seen a man so grumpy groveling his heart out to wow me (it's working).
Oh, but it gets better.
Brock whisks me away on an amazing “date” and things get heated.
I'm still dreaming about obnoxiously hot kisses under the stars months later when fate strikes.
I wasn't supposed to see him again.
Not at this dumpster fire marketing job I desperately need.
Not when I crash into him—literally.
Definitely not when I find out he's the crankyface billionaire CEO signing my checks.
Cue the freaking out.
The stormy glares.
The tension thicker than quicksand.
The hopeless promises to “just do my job” without choking on Mr. Grumpmuffin's attitude.
What's worse than one messy date with your radioactive boss?
One more.
1
Do Not Disturb (Piper)
So, this is heaven.
The salt-scented air is toasty, but there’s just enough ocean breeze to keep it cool. I set my glass down on the table with a clink and pick up my phone.
It’s hard to tear my eyes away from the palm trees swaying in the trade winds and the picturesque ocean view beyond them.
Lanai is something, all right.
Like pure magic scooped out of a dream and left to melt in the hot sun of mundane life.
Even with the usual worries, it’s hard not to bask in Hawaiian wonder.
How’s Dad? I text Maisy.
Maisy: Dude. You’re in Hawaii and you’re texting about Dad? How’s paradise? Send photos! She adds a nervous emoji at the end.
That’s so Maisy. I roll my eyes as I type a reply.
Piper: Dreamy. I didn’t want to make you jealous, okay?
Maisy: Send more photos!
I frown because she hasn’t answered my question.
But Dad’s okay? I send.
The phone buzzes against my palm before I can put it down for another sip of this godlike mai tai.
Maisy: Same old grumpy-grump he always is. He basically pushed me out the door this evening for the weekly chowder run. Y’know, the yoozh.
I smile and settle back in my chair.
Piper: You’re still making sure he takes all his pills and eats vegetables? The potatoes in the salmon chowder don’t count.
Maisy: Yes, Mother. She throws me an emoji with its tongue hanging out.
Piper: Is he at least trying to exercise? They say that slows his condition down...
Maisy: Pippa, stop. Go have fun. Let me worry about Papa Bear.
I nod at my screen, despite knowing she can’t see me.
Such a sweet kid.
And she’s right about being perfectly capable and mature for her age. I’m insanely lucky to have a seventeen-year-old like her caring for Dad while I jet off to bathe in luxury for the next few days.
I know you’ll manage. I just feel bad leaving you there to handle everything alone, I admit.
And I do it too often, every time I take one of these trips.
Maisy: Pippy, I’m proud of you. It’s so cool to live your dreams. This is just the start.
Her text catches me off guard and I take a shaky sip of mai tai.
Geez. She really is the best little sister a girl could ask for.
We’ll see, I send back. I only got this gig because Jenn works her butt off in marketing. Winthrope Lanai is so exclusive it wouldn’t have been an option without her hooking me up.
That part is true. They don’t call it billionaire island for nothing.
Maisy: Ugh. Remind me to get a best friend in marketing!
I laugh, knowing I need to bring her along on my next review excursion. We’ll find someone to check in on Dad, cost be damned.
A loud yawn rattles out of me as I type a reply.
I’m still shaking off some jet lag so I’ll check in later.
I finish my drink and slowly amble up to the unbelievable presidential suite Winthrope comped me with, hoping for a glowing review.
The room—the whole freaking penthouse-sized suite, really—is beautiful. The air smells like sandalwood and fresh orchids.
A four-poster king-sized bed dominates the center, but there’s a huge sitting area and kitchenette just outside. And past the bed, my favorite part—double glass doors that open up to a massive patio soaring above the ocean.
For the second time since I’ve laid eyes on it, my mouth drops.
God, how did I get so lucky?
I owe Jenn big-time for the view alone.
The least I can do for now is snap a few pics and send them over. I’ve barely kicked off my shoes and sat on the plush outdoor chaise before my phone chimes.
Jenn: How’s Lanai treating you? World’s sexiest room aside, I mean.
Piper: It’s magical. Thank you so much again!
Jenn: LOL. If my overworked ass had the PTO, I’d be there with you. But at least I can live through your photos...
Piper: You’re definitely coming on the next trip.
Jenn: Like I’ll be able to leave the office for a week anytime this century. But go have a drink on the balcony and Instagram the proof so I can pretend I’m there in spirit.
Piper: Yes, ma’am.
Oh, I do plan to enjoy this balcony, but the jet lag from the seven-hour connecting flights makes my legs feel like lead.
After another twenty minutes pass by watching the glowing sun slip toward the ocean, I head inside and collapse on that cloud of a bed, hugging a puffy white body pillow as I drift off to sleep.
I’m out cold for a few hours.
I vaguely remember waking up from snuggling into the thick, lush white duvet and noticing I’m still completely dressed.
It’s night now. The brightest stars ever replace the sun through the glass, suspended over the ocean and pristine beach like glinting diamonds.
I throw my pants off and change into a t-shirt before rearranging myself in my nest.
As soon as I close my eyes, I’m out again.
* * *
I’m floating on a small boat.
It’s just like the kind of weathered fishing workhorses Dad used to bring us on years ago when he was in his prime. His laugh was so infectious every time he’d haul a new batch of fish up on the deck, their silvery scales reflecting like tinsel.
Except it’s not the cool, grey Washington coast that’s so familiar.
No laughing Dad or squealing little sister or floppy fish about to be someone’s supper.
I smile.
It’s sunny and warm here. I want to soak up every bit of tropical sun beaming down from above. I just hope I’ve brought enough sunscreen and start looking for my purse when—
Th
Heart, meet throat.
What the heck was that?
It sounded like something big hitting the bottom of my boat. My eyes dart around frantically, checking to see if I’ve sprung a leak, but—
Thud!
Again, I’m clutching my chest.
It’s coming from the tiny bathroom in the cabin, I think. Maybe there’s a problem with the plumbing. I start closing in for a better look.
Just as I step inside, it happens.
Thud, thud, thud!
The noise hurts my ears and the whole world spins with a hiss like rushing water.
Yep, we’re sinking, and all I can do is scream but I never get the chance.
Instead, I bolt upright, my brow drenched in sweat.
It’s dark as hell when my eyes open.
Where am I again?
Oh, right.
No sinking ship, but this giant marshmallow of a bed.
I reach for my phone, tapping the screen for light. Using the glow, I scan the room slowly, letting my brain catch up to my surroundings.
“Just a dream. Jesus.” I sigh, wiping my brow. That jet lag slammed me harder than I thought.
I’m still in this beautiful hotel room and I probably have a few more precious hours before my alarm goes off to start the day.
I grin at my own stupidity.
No one ever said I lacked imagination.
My throat feels dry, though. I swing my legs over the bed to grab a drink of water and—
Thud!
Again?
What the actual hell?
Am I still dreaming? I pinch my thigh to find out and wince.
Ouch. Okay, it’s real.
Thud!
Definitely real.
And I’m wide awake now with the awful realization that banging isn’t just in my head.
There’s someone moving around in my suite.
Who? Why? What the hell?
I hold my breath and wait.
The banging stops, but there are smaller noises. They’re muffled, like someone moving heavy stuff around and trying to be very quiet.
Not good.
Who’d be intruding in the middle of the night in a premier room? And how?
I always lock the door and I’m sure I didn’t miss it this time...right?
I swallow the nervous lump in my throat.
If you’re traveling, you always make sure your door is locked. Dad drilled that into me from the time I was twelve and going on my first skiing trip.
It must be someone who works here with a messed up maintenance schedule—or a deranged serial killer.
No other options.
With my breath shaking, I imagine a ring of bright funeral flowers in a halo around my Instagram profile picture and three pink bubble words. Rest In Peace.
Good God.
It’s just my luck that I’d snag the best room in Lanai, only to wind up hacked into stew meat.
My eyes flit through the darkness, better adjusted now.
Well, if this guy wants a piece of me, I’m not going down easy. Mr. Psycho Intruder will at least have to look me in the eye before he paints the room with my blood.
Still as a statue, I stand up and stop, focusing on where the noise is coming from.
The bathroom?
Maybe it’s housekeeping after all?
But why in all that’s holy would housekeeping be cleaning my flipping bathroom at—I glance at my phone to check the time—2:37 a.m.?
I feel the blood drain from my face.
We’re back at the serial killer theory because it’s the only thing that makes sense.
If I’m quiet, maybe I can get the jump on him before he notices I’m here. I need to take my best shot while I can—or at least make some racket so maybe someone on another floor calls the front desk.
Yeah, no, my dad didn’t raise a total chicken.
I’m getting him the hell out of my room, or I’ll die trying.
Let’s go, Mr. Psychoface. You chose the wrong girl to mess with today.
My thoughts are braver than the rest of me, though.
My heart strains like an angry dog on a leash with every step toward the bathroom, the source of that scuffing sound.
In front of the half-closed door, I freeze—it’s definitely not the way I left it.
Welp.
Since I’m probably doomed, I might as well surprise my would-be killer.
But I shouldn’t do it empty-handed, I realize at the last second.
I’ve binge-watched too many bad ’90s slasher flicks with Maisy to be the dumb throwaway chick who winds up as someone’s dinner.
I survey the room, looking for something—anything—I can use as a weapon.
It’s a hotel room, though, even if it’s a fabulous one.
There’s not much here besides a couple lamps and a few pieces of decorative art.
The ceramic green fish statue on the table could totally split some skulls—but it’s probably way too hefty to maneuver well.
I could grab a bottle of wine from the mini fridge—except they’re so small I can’t imagine it’d make a dent in anyone.
Then there’s the kitchenette. I guess I could grab a chair, but they’re solid wood, too bulky and hard to carry, let alone swing at someone.
Ugh.
If I live through this, I’m packing something sharp for next time.
My eyes search desperately and finally fall on the bedside table.
“There,” I mouth.
A crystal lamp stands tall and proud.
I grab it and march toward the bathroom.
Only, I didn’t think of unplugging it first. My movement stretches the brown cord and yanks me backward.
“Shit!”
Pulling makes it worse. I just manage to tangle it around a leg of the monkeywood table.
Smooth, Pippa, I think, watching the table wobble.
I try to rush over to free it, but it’s wound around that leg tighter than I realize and—the whole table goes crashing to the ground with a deafening rattle.
Big yikes.
I am dead.
Gasping, I pinch my eyes shut, praying my intruder isn’t about to come barreling toward me.
There’s no way he could’ve missed that elephant stampede. My serial killer knows I’m coming.
Whatever.
Steeling my nerves, I clasp the lamp with both hands, ready to club him in the head. When nobody comes rushing over, though, I slow down and finish freeing the lamp from the wall.
Then I creep toward the bathroom again, each step absolute torture.
This is a bad idea, but it’s my only move.
And is the bathroom door fully closed now? It’s down to a small sliver of light, just enough to peek inside.
But why bother?
It’s past time to fling this door open and pray, but I can’t.
Not when I imagine what’s on the other side.
Don’t go in swinging. What if it’s housekeeping or maintenance after all? Maybe a pipe sprang a leak...
I wish so badly that made any sense at all.
I push my face to that crack of light, trembling.
There’s definitely a low hissing sound like water. The shower, I think, thousands of little rainfall droplets splashing against a hard surface.
Could it really be a maintenance guy who skipped on giving notice?
Could it be that easy?
But at three o’clock in the flipping morning without any notice?
It could be a burst pipe or a malfunction, though.
My toes scrunch. I place my hand on the door, ready to throw it open and accept my fate.
I wind up cracking it another couple inches.
The shower roars louder.
At first, I can’t see through the glassy part of the stall.
But when the silhouette moves in the steaming fog—
Holy shit.
