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

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—

Thud!

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.

Okay. Deep breath.

So, the staff wouldn’t be showering in my bathroom. We can rule out innocent mistakes.

A minute ago, I was determined to be Miss Danger incarnate, but all the adrenaline that moved me this close to certain death evaporates.

The lamp in my clammy hand feels like it weighs a ton.

I really, really don’t want to do this.

But what’s the other option?

Just up and wait for Mr. Shower Psycho to come slaughter me in bed? Or run for the front door screaming and pray he doesn’t catch up while I wait for the private elevator to this floor?

Yeah, no.

I’m out of time and options. It’s go time.

So I throw the door open, clasping the lamp like a bat.

I played softball years ago. I’ve got this.

If only anything on Earth could prepare me for what I find.

…are hot serial killers a thing?

Because this guy is a certified GQ model.

A six-foot-plus wall of muscle surrounded by steam. He must like his showers scorching hot.

It takes a few seconds to peer through the haze, and I can’t make out much more until he moves.

Believe me, I see enough.

His whole body is toned and tight and chiseled by a mad sculptor dead set on crafting the perfect man.

His large hands lather foam over biceps bigger than my head.

I have to unglue my eyes as he stands beneath the spraying water with his eyes closed, smiling like he enjoys his own touch a little too much.

With a body like that, I’m sure the narcissism comes naturally.

My gaze slides down his broad chest, diamond-cut abs, and sculpted pelvic bone to—

Oh, no.

Heat throbs under my cheeks. I hate that I bite my lip, but I’ve never seen a man who’s part stallion before.

Moby Dick has nothing on this well-endowed freak.

For a second, my brain rabbits, wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands around something that enormous—if I could even close them.

Let alone do anything else.

Every part of this man is made to punish.

All rough strength and hard edges and a literal battering ram jutting out between his legs, half-hard from the steam, I guess.

But back to that whole serial killer thing…is he a convict?

Did Hawaii have a supermax jailbreak recently I didn’t hear about?

My body squirms at the thought, still hideously stuck on Goliath and his stupid scary, stupid hot good looks that are making me—what else?—stupid.

There’s no other word for it when my arm turns to mush and the crystal lamp slips out of my sweaty hands.

It shatters against the floor a second later like someone throwing a box of ornaments.

“Oh, crap,” I whisper, totally paralyzed.

Everything happens in slow motion.

Goliath’s eyes pop open and his head whips around. He glares at me like a tiger rudely awakened from a nap.

Uh-oh.

With my one and only weapon in pieces on the floor, there’s no hoping he doesn’t see me now.

Raw instinct takes over.

I scream before I even realize I’m doing it.

I scream so loud my throat hurts, but my voice has no off switch.

I scream for dear life for ten solid seconds until my own ears ring and I’m winded.

Then I stumble backward, doubled over and breathless.

Maybe screaming bloody murder was good.

Maybe, by some miracle, someone will hear me up here and send help.

Except the presidential suite is the only room on this floor, and you have to use a card in the elevator to get up here.

So unless there’s an employee diligently working graveyard shift one floor down…

I’m so screwed.

Amazingly, Goliath isn’t out of the shower yet.

That means I still have time.

I need to run like hell for the elevator while I have a head start.

Sucking in a deep breath, I straighten up, willing my legs to move.

I’m about to turn and run but the shower door swings open so fast it’s dizzying.

My lethal Adonis steps out, snapping a towel from the shower rack. He whips it around his waist faster than I can blink.

My gaze follows his movement.

Again, I hate that he’s so hot.

I hate that I’m losing time as I spin around for the door, practically leaping for it.

“Stay or it’s going to be much worse!” he bellows, his voice rolling thunder.

Oh, God.

I know for a fact he doesn’t have a weapon while he’s almost naked. Should I run for it while I can? But he’s so much taller, so much stronger, I doubt I can outrun him.

Is it time to settle for just not being tortured?

I sigh and freeze in place.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you here to steal my shit?”

What the holy hell is he talking about?

I’m already doubting the serial killer thing. Two other theories come my mind.

He’s either smoked or snorted something way too strong or he’s in the middle of a mental breakdown.

“How did you get in here? Tell me now,” he demands.

His scowl threatens to burn me through the floor, but he’s not exactly moving on me in a hostile way. Yet.

Maybe the mess of broken glass between us has something to do with that.

The way he hesitates gives me just enough of my wits back to glare at him.

“Um, what? Shouldn’t I be asking you that? I used my keycard.”

“Keycard?” he spits back. His brow tightens, a look of utter disgust on his face.

Any empathy I had just disappeared.

Whatevs.

If I’m dead meat, I might as well go out giving him a piece of my mind. I step closer, but my foot slides over a crystal shard.

“Ow!”

“Fuck,” he rumbles, moving forward carefully. “Lady, are you okay?”

I blink bitterly at him, wincing through the pain. “I just— I think I stepped on a piece of lamp. Not that it’s any of your business…”

“You’re replacing that.” His eyes fall to the floor with a huff.

Is he serious?

“Like hell! Winthrope’s whole company can take me to court first. I’d love to see that go down. If they hadn’t let some lunatic in my room in the middle of the night, I wouldn’t have grabbed the lamp in the first place! I was scared. Ever heard of self-defense, asshat?”

He meets my eyes and snorts, raking a frustrated hand through his wet sandy-dark hair.

“Sweetheart, you’re redder than a barn. You might be a lot of things, but ‘scared’ isn’t one of them.”

Damn.

He noticed, huh?

My face heats at the realization.

Double damn.

“Still waiting to hear how you got into my room,” he snarls. “What do you want, anyway?”

My mouth drops.

“Your room? Wow. So you’re really going to play it that way? Just how stupid do you think I am?”

He cocks his head.

“You managed to slip past security and made it into the presidential suite somehow. I doubt you’re dumb, but if you don’t ask, you don’t get. First rule of business. So, let’s just make this easy on both of us. Why the fuck are you here, watching me shower? What do you want?”

“Right now, I want you out of my room.” My temper flares so hot that cut on my foot throbs, and I wince again before saying, “And FYI, I wasn’t watching you shower. I just had to know who the hell was in my room making noise—”

“Your room?” He laughs, this low sound like a highly amused predator. “You stood there for a solid minute after you saw me, enjoying the show.”

The brightest blue eyes I’ve ever seen drill through me. He’s older, maybe in his early thirties.

Then he clasps his hands over his head and flexes.

My jaw drops.

That just makes his cocky smile wider as he raises a brow. “I saw you checking me out in the mirror. Waited for you to make the first move so I could see if you had a weapon—a real one, I mean.”

Prick.

Frowning, I purse my lips and glare harder.

“Considering you’re too underdressed to be a foreign agent coming to ransom me, though…” He gestures.

And that’s when I realize I’m standing in front of this near-naked jerkface in nothing but a skimpy old sleeping shirt and panties.

My heart plummets from shame to pure rage in two seconds flat.

“You, sir, are in my hotel room in the middle of the night. If I stood around after catching you in my bathroom, it’s because I was shocked. I have a right to be freaked out after finding a naked giant in my hotel room,” I bite off. “Also, I don’t believe for one second that you thought this was your room. It has a whole floor to itself. You had to try to come up here.” My voice cracks at the end.

But at least he isn’t staring me down like tomorrow’s breakfast anymore.

He clears his throat, frustration and confusion lining his face. “You’re damn right. This room is supposed to be mine for the weekend. My key is on the counter next to the sink if that makes you feel better.”

I glance toward the bathroom sink. Sure enough, a sleek silver card with the word Winthrope engraved across it in black letters lays beside it.

So he has proof.

Annoying.

“I thought you were a serial killer,” I whisper.

“I feel like one now. I just got off an international flight and didn’t expect this shit. All I wanted was a shower and some sleep before I was rudely accosted by a crazy chick in a t-shirt with string beans for arms while I tried to wash Australia away.”

“String beans?” I repeat. “Are you calling me weak?”

He shrugs.

“You dropped the lamp.” He shakes his head, glancing at the mess on the floor. “That was a beauty, too.”

Wait.

He just said international flight and talks like this is his room. For real, I mean.

Has he been here? How does he know what the lamp looked like before I blew it to smithereens?

Before I can ask, he interrupts.

“Nobody just waltzes into the presidential suite. Who the hell are you?” His glance almost cuts me in two.

“My name is Piper.” I swallow. “I’m supposed to have a reservation here for the next few days. I checked in at the front desk. They gave me a keycard and what I thought was an amazing upgrade. I had a drink at the poolside bar and came upstairs to crash. You know, everything normal people do when they start a nice trip. It was all going swell until a naked crazy barged in and started threatening me.”

“Threatening? Give me a break,” he says slowly, his eyes falling to my feet. “How are you still standing and running that mouth?”

Oof.

When an underwear model stares at your feet rather than your face, it’s not a compliment. Then I look down and notice the streak of red I’ve left on the tile.

“You should sit,” he growls. “Can you still walk or do I need to carry you?”

“W-what?” I stammer out.

“Your foot. It’s bleeding pretty bad. You’ll want to get your weight off it and check for glass.”

For a second, my breath stalls and I’m just staring.

Don’t tell me this weirdo is a doctor too? Because that would be the final blow.

“No, no, I’m okay,” I whisper, pinching my eyes shut. “Way to change the subject, though. I still don’t understand. What, you’re saying we both have reservations for this room? That makes no sense.”

He glowers.

I hope he knows I’m still not sure if I believe his story.

But it could be true.

This is a hard place to get into without the right keycard, after all.

“Some dumbass downstairs obviously made a mistake and overbooked the room. Give me a minute to yell at them.” He strides toward me, this walking mountain.

I take a deep breath, unsure what to do.

“You’re between me and the door. I already asked, are you okay to walk or should I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs loudly. “Fuck it, hold still.”

Next thing I know, I’m airborne.

Slung over his shoulder.

My injured foot curls against his leg as we glide into the room.

“What are you doing?” I hiss, trying not to sound panicked.

“I’m not having you hurting yourself more,” he rumbles. “Besides, you’ll get blood on the carpet, and that’s expensive shit. I’m not waiting for another French decorator to replace it.”

“I don’t know you!” I screech in his ear, slapping at his shoulder. “Look, just put me down. I can make it a few feet.”

If he hears me, he totally ignores it.

He doesn’t stop moving until we’re next to the bed and he’s still holding on.

“Seriously, this isn’t funny. Who are you?” I spit.

“I’m—” He pauses, his blue eyes cold and assessing. “What does it look like? I’m the resort manager. They let me have this room when there are no reservations, which happens more than you think when it’s normally eight thousand dollars per night. I’m just doing my job and saving us both some grief. There’s a heap of red tape whenever it needs a repair.”

Why do I get the impression he’s lying?

Still, resort manager is the only way to explain any of this.

I try not to breathe. I’m instantly aware of his smell wafting over me, somehow fresh and evergreen and manly when he’s just stepped out of the shower.

I don’t speak until he drops me into a plush chair next to the balcony door. I lift my foot, feeling cautiously for any glass shards.

“Well?” he demands. “How’s it look? Do I need to get you a doctor?”

I look up and—

Dear God.

His hands are on his hips.

Of course that towel slid down a few more inches.

I’ve never seen a real man who has an actual V of hard muscle. I try not to think about how I’ve never seen a man who’s packing an entire howitzer, either.

“Lady, are you—”

“I’m f-fine!” I force out. I’m so not fine. “Sorry about the lamp,” I add.

He moves to the table beside me and flicks the light switch on. “You must be mighty important to get this suite. Who are you?” Before I can answer, he yanks the phone on the table off its cradle. “I’ll have them send something up to take care of that foot.”

I shrug. “Not as important as you think. I’m just a social media influencer. My friend helped me get a room here. They gave me the best for my review. I thought it was pretty cool until…until this.”

His stiffens then, gazing down at me like I’m holding a loaded gun.

“You hungry? Do you want something to eat or drink? Room service? I’m sorry as hell about the mix-up and it’s only fair we try to make this right.”

Huh? Why is he not scowling anymore? I’m pretty sure that scary-hot look is like his only expression.

“Nope. I just want to get back to sleep.”

He pushes a button on the phone anyway.

And I burst into a laughing fit as it slowly dawns on me.

“What?” His eyes flick to me and linger. “What’s so damn funny?”

“Now, I get it. I see why you’re bending over backwards offering me room service. Dude, you’re so obvious.”

“What do you mean?” It’s not quite a bark this time, but that too-stern tone is back.

I choke off a laugh just long enough to regain some composure.

“You’re worried about the review. You think I’m going to take you to the woodshed and trash this place. And that would suck when Winthrope Lanai is already down to a four-star average on every site that matters.”

His eyes narrow.

Will you, witch? He doesn’t actually ask, but his eyes are beaming that question.

“Don’t worry. I’m nothing but honest,” I say, holding a hand up like I’m being sworn in.

“Honest? Shit,” he mutters. “Just sit tight and we’ll figure this out.”

I raise a brow as he waits impatiently, trying to keep my eyes on his face.

Ugh.

Maybe someday I’ll appreciate the irony of my would-be axe murderer suddenly being afraid of me.

I don’t have my review written yet, but I meant every word.

Some would say I’m brutally honest.

And yeah, you can bet every penny that being scared out of my skin by a walking sex statue is going in my feedback no matter what he does.

This place is so beautiful. When I arrived, I couldn’t fathom why it had such mediocre reviews.

Now, I’m starting to understand.

Staffing issues.

His people can’t handle basic procedures like booking.

Not a good sign.

No glorious ocean views and drinks so smooth you can’t taste the liquor make up for a heart attack in the middle of the night.

“You’re sure about the food? We have these coconut-macadamia nut muffins on our breakfast menu everybody raves about. If I call the kitchen, I bet I can score you a couple out of the first batch this morning.”

Muffins? He’s trying to buy me off with sweets?

“No thanks.” I try to keep my voice neutral.

As he drums his thick fingers impatiently against the desk, waiting too long for someone to pick up, I snicker.

“You’re still laughing?” he whispers, his eyes dark and glassy. “Never mind. I’m glad you find this so funny.”

Oh, Mr. Grumpmuffin, you have no idea.