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

One week.

I’ve survived more than one freaking week working for Lincoln effing Burns and I’m ready to live up to my namesake and bury all six-foot something of him under the floorboards.

Except, unlike the crazy in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” if I hear his dead heart beating in my head, I just might relish the thought. Because I’ll know that I was the one who sent him to hell.

Also, that first ‘flawless’ bit of copy must’ve been a fluke.

Ever since our little heart-to-heart in his office, I’m working twelve hours a day and he still marks the hell out of every line of copy I submit.

Some of the things he marks are ridiculous, too.

Honest to God, he actually complained about my margins last time.

The worst part is, some of his suggestions are actually good.

It isn’t fair. No Neanderthal decked out in Gucci should ever give a fair critique that makes me leave teeth marks in my pen.

The bosshole drives me crazy, but he’s improving my writing…which makes it impossible to up and rage-quit this job. I promised myself I’d stick around for ninety days as much as I promised him.

I care too much about raising my game with words in the real world, where it counts.

You can get feedback from any fellow writer on the internet or a well-paid editor, but it doesn’t have the same punch as a single line of text that could cause a seven or eight figure difference in sales.

Still. I’d like to settle for punching him if I can’t go full Poe on his smug ass.

And since I can’t even have that, payback is coming this morning and you’d best believe I’m going to enjoy it.

“What can I get for you?” the barista asks.

“Two Regis rolls, a cinnamon latte, and a large coffee with one cream and six sugars.”

“That’s…a lot of sugar in the last one,” she says, raising a brow.

“I know. Major sweet tooth.”

“Gotcha. Can I get a name for your drinks?”

I smile. “Just go with Nevermore.”

I pay with the asshat’s bills, collect the cinnamon rolls, and move to the counter to wait for the drinks.

A guy sets two hot cups down less than five minutes later.

“Nevermore!” he calls.

“Here. Which one’s the latte?”

He points to the cup on the right.

“Awesome.” I reach over the counter and grab an empty cup. I pour the coffee with cream and sugar into a clean cup. “Can I borrow a marker?”

The guy reaches into a drawer and hands me a spare. I write Nevermore on the cup and draw a raven before I enjoy a nice swift bike ride to the office, delighting in the spring colors and slowly lifting gloom around the city.

He’s already in his office when I get to his floor, a workaholic silhouette that looks almost etched into the frosted glass.

Perfect. Maybe he’ll take his first sip while I’m still in the room.

I fight back a smile as I enter, and not very well. He notices.

“What’s put you in such a sunny mood today?” he asks, wearing his default grumpy frown.

“Am I in a good mood?” I ask like I’m not already dying of laughter inside.

“You are. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile unless you were insulting me.”

“Sorry. Just hungry. I got your breakfast.” I hand him the cup and white paper sack.

He looks at the items I just gave him and back at me slowly.

“Let me guess. You spit in my coffee?”

“No.” Only because I didn’t think about it. That’s not a bad plan for tomorrow.

“Are you sure? Miss Poe, if you’ve contaminated my coffee in any way, rest assured I will chuck your ass out the door. No matter how talented you are.”

He waits like he’s expecting me to fall to my knees with some tearful confession.

“It’s everything you asked for. Nothing less,” I say with a nod.

There isn’t much reason I need to be standing here. I should probably leave, but I keep hoping he’ll take a drink. Plus, the odds that I could get fired after he practically begged me for three months make things interesting, I guess.

He rips his desk drawer open in a huff and drops the paper sack inside.

Hmm. Saving it for later?

Maybe he really does snort cinnamon icing, and he’s waiting to be alone with his precious before he breaks out the credit card.

“Why aren’t you eating the Regis roll while it’s warm?” I ask.

He stares at me for a minute.

“You spat on my roll?” He sounds even angrier about that than he does the coffee.

“Nope—this office has a one psycho limit, and it’s not me. You’re just paranoid,” I say with an exaggerated yawn.

Good thing, too, because he’s hard to look at head-on right now.

There’s something about him when he gets mad. He has that scary-hot thing going with the electric honey-brown eyes and granite shoulders and imposing jaw.

I’d bet my next five Regis rolls that eighty percent of the female population would give up their sanity for a ride on him.

I’m just not part of that eighty percent, even if I’ll admit he rocks the sleek alpha vibe.

Shame that such good looks are wasted on a selfish ogre.

“Then why do you care when I eat my roll?” he demands.

“Isn’t it obvious? You stalked me out of the coffee shop and tried to bribe me over it. The next time you saw me, you bought up every Regis roll in the coffee shop like a middle school punk. But now you finally have a fresh roll and you just…shove it in your desk? What? Come to think of it, I never have seen you eat one.”

“I told you, I have my reasons. They may or may not extend to eating.”

Huh? That’s weird.

For a second, my brain goes horrible places that have nothing to do with my Poe genes. I’m picturing my boss wearing nothing but that tie, the huge roll clenched in his hands, perfectly positioned in front of us—

Dear God. Stop. Surely, he’s above a bad reenactment of American Pie.

“Miss Poe?” he snaps.

I jump.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

I subtly shake my head in disbelief.

“You. You didn’t even want it, I guess. You just had to prove you could get it.”

He shakes his head this time. “I had to prove something, all right. There’s a little redhead in accounting. She wears low-cut dresses made for sin and she likes cinnamon rolls. I’m dating her.”

For a brief moment, I want to slap this redheaded chick, and I don’t know why.

Then I remember what the internet says about my boss and it’s all I can do not to laugh.

“Nice try, but you can cut the crap. Google says you’re undateable.”

Oh, what the hell did I just say? Dammit, Dakota, do you really want this discussion?

His grin could swallow me right up.

“Oh, does it?”

“No—I mean, I wasn’t looking—”

“Of course you weren’t,” he says with an amused snort. “And you called me a stalker…”

“Hey! Standard precautions. I was just trying to find out how crazy you actually are before I quit my job for this one.”

“How psychotic am I, Nevermore?” His eyes sparkle when he smiles and—damn, they’re on my lips again, aren’t they?

When he looks at me like that, this cool Seattle office turns into the Sahara.

Shrugging, I continue. “You’re a workaholic and extremely undateable, they say. But since that was clear from your mantrum, I don’t care. I’m not dating you. And I don’t really care if you’re a workaholic either as long as you pay me that bonus.”

“You’re refreshingly honest. I told you what I need the roll for. Now what selfish asshole burned a hole in your heart?”

I freeze, hating that we’re back here again.

Hating more that I’m still sensitive to the only man on the planet who’s worse than Lincoln Burns.

“You didn’t tell me crap. There’s no chance you’re dating a girl in accounting. You’re too proud of your ‘work culture’ to mess it up by pouncing on a redhead with her boobs hanging out. Also, you’re Captain Undateable, and even if you weren’t…there’s no chance in hell she’d have you.”

A smile twists his lips that almost scares me.

“Hot damn. Maybe I don’t like your honesty as much as I thought,” he muses. “For the record, I thought you named me Captain Dipshit. It’s hard keeping your insults together, isn’t it?”

I’m about to fire back, but the moment of truth arrives.

He picks up the coffee and brings it to his lips.

Oh, yessiree. Here we go.

One second.

One sip.

That’s all it takes before his face blanks out like he’s just eaten a spoonful of fire ants.

He winces. He sputters. He swallows after the world’s longest gurgle, hilariously forced.

Then his eyes flay me open with a slow, sharp look and he says, “Wonderful. I’ve never had coffee this good, Miss Poe. You’re an absolute treasure for correcting my order. I’ll be sure to remember it when it’s time for bonuses.”

Without flinching, I grin.

“Thrilled you enjoyed it. Sometimes you can teach an old hound new tricks. Bye, boss.”

“Nevermore?”

I stop, hating that it feels like that stupid name is growing on me like a messed up part of my identity here. A couple of others in marketing have started using it with laughs.

Still, there’s a special ragey edge when it’s coming from Burns.

“Not my name,” I say coldly.

“Poe?”

“Better.”

“Why shouldn’t I fire you right now for that stunt?” he growls.

“Because HR will tell you coffee isn’t in my job description?” I try, hoping like hell he isn’t serious.

“You’re a workout in patience.”

“Crazy coincidence—I could say the same about you.” I practically skip out of his office, more exhilarated than I should be.

Yes, I’m being childish, but I’m hardly the only one. I know if I talked to any boss like I talk to him, they should fire me on the spot, regardless of what’s in my job description.

But I just can’t help it.

He makes it so easy to loathe him with the fullness of my soul.

And he clearly hasn’t fired me yet.

What does that mean? Is he a glutton for punishment or am I truly the butt of his bad jokes around here?

As soon as I sit down at my desk, Anna emails a few images for print ads she wants me to align with the copy in today’s projects.

The first picture shows a groom running from the altar at full speed. The bride holds her skirts with both hands and chases after him. They’re both smiling like they’re high on helium.

Bad reminder of what I’m doing here, of what this job really is…

I want to crawl under my desk and die.

I lived this scene.

Trust me, there was nothing cute about it.

Writing wedding copy—even for ridiculously good pay—must be punishment or vicious karma for some cardinal sin from a past life.

Maybe I really do have more in common with Edgar Allan than I realized.

Whatever. I’ll support the wedding industry because it’s my job, but I’ll never buy into it.

I feel sorry for all the poor, blissfully ignorant souls who do.

The worst part is, I’m blanking.

I have no clue how to write snappy copy for this image set.

Honestly, I wish I could forget images like these. The first thing that comes to mind is: Run, don’t walk, away from the altar. RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

I scroll to the next image. The same model groom holds his bride against him. Her hands rest on his. Both of their rings are in the shot. A picture I never got to experience.

So lovely. So heartfelt. So vomit-worthy.

Why did I take this job again? Eliza did warn me.

I let out a slow, hissing breath.

Sure, I can blame Lincoln Burns for the long hours, late nights, and stupid coffee runs—even if I didn’t have to agree to that last one—but he’s not to blame for this.

It’s not his fault that I have to hide hot, rebellious tears just looking at these stupid photos of an imaginary wedding I never had.

He’s also not responsible for my new evening plans to cope with a pound of M&Ms after work.

I’d say Jay is to blame—and he is—but the hard, grisly truth is there’s one person responsible for the pain.

Me.

Because once I was naive. Once, I looked at ads like these, bursting with happy couples and happily ever afters, and I bought it hook, line, and sinker.

I swallowed a lie.

Never again.

For once, I have to live up to my new namesake.

Nevermore.

The whole team gets an email from Anna, telling us to report to the conference room for an evening meeting.

“Do you know what this meeting is about?” I ask.

Cheryl, a friendly middle-aged woman, picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “No, but we’re about to find out.”

I grab my notepad and follow her into the meeting room, where Anna and a few other people are already waiting.

“Red alert, people,” Anna says, leveling a stare at everyone. The bright crimson blouse she’s sporting today adds emphasis to her words. “Our competition just dropped an ad today that’s pretty close to what we created last week. We need a fresh concept like now.”

“There are only so many ways to promote a wedding. Run it anyway,” Cheryl says with an annoyed click of her nails on the table.

“This line is worth a fortune. We’re not just phoning the pre-sale in. We need to stand out,” Anna says.

“What if we present the anti-bridezilla dress?” I say, tapping my pen.

“Anti-bridezilla?” Anna asks.

“My hometown was known for weddings before it was known for big oil and weird murder mysteries.”

Everyone stares at me.

“Sorry. Ignore that last part. My point is, the wedding industry definitely keeps us going. This big movie star, Ridge Barnet, even tied the knot of the century and had it all over the press a few years ago. There are several huge weddings in Dallas, North Dakota, every year. They range from hometown heroes to celebrities jetting in for a destination wedding. They all have one thing in common. The number one thing that makes any normal woman a bridezilla. The alterations aren’t right or her form feels off. Something, something, disaster! But whatever the catastrophe, it’s always the dress at the heart of it, right?”

Anna rests her hand on her chin, a half smile slowly moving across her face.

“Y’know, that’s brilliant. Freaking out over little details never happens with a Haughty But Nice dress. Not when it’s crafted by the best designers in the industry using only the finest materials.”

I nod.

“Exactly. Use a Haughty But Nice dress to soothe a fire-spitting bridezilla and caption it with something like, ‘be a bride, not a dragon.’ Or maybe ‘Keep calm. Wear Haughty But Nice and carry on.’”

“I love it!” Anna says, scrunching up her nose.

The murmur around the table grows, buzzing with ideas and laughs.

Thank God.

I’d much rather write copy about calming bridezillas than try to come up with a clever way to convince some poor girl she can keep a man around.

After all, the whole bridezilla thing acknowledges the fact that getting married isn’t all sunshine and roses. It’s one of the most stressful events a person goes through until the big—hopefully happy—day arrives.

“We’ll need a fire-breathing groom too,” someone says from the back of the room. “Don’t forget we sell to brides and grooms alike.”

I know that voice.

It annoys me and never has anything pleasant to say.

When did he even come in? And why is he hellbent on making my life harder for the tenth time today?

I turn around and glare. I look right at him, but somehow he manages to see past me with this diplomatic smile for the team. Of course, they look at him like they’re in the presence of a freaking rock star.

Asshat.

The royal purple vest under his jacket today draws attention to the broad cut of his chest and the color offsets his eyes.

Illegal. It should be against the law for a man to be this hot and also so heartless.

Also, I’d much rather write bridezilla than some jerkwad who can’t figure out he’s afraid of commitment until his bride is waiting at the church. There’s nothing cute about it.

It’s sexist as hell, mean-spirited, and the fact that it’s tolerated is ridiculous. I remember the last time I saw a wedding line advertising with a runaway bride…

Actually, I don’t.

I try very hard not to remember.

But it’s Lincoln Burns’ company. I’m hardly in the mood to argue with him in front of his staff.

If I do, I’ll probably be called into his office for another lecture about work culture and how we need a truce and how I’m being the bad gal for defending myself and blah, blah, blah.

I know.

I know I should just listen and keep my inner bitch in check.

“Uh, I don’t know about that, Mr. Burns,” a voice says nervously. “The bridezilla concept is cute and all because it takes a known idea to the next level. But groomzilla isn’t a thing. It just doesn’t work.”

“Point taken. If the concept can’t sell both lines, it’s not a working concept,” Burns says, snapping his fingers.

I’m a little surprised he actually took the feedback to heart.

“With all due respect, sir, why?” Cheryl asks. I can tell they’re not used to arguing with him, but I’m glad they are. He keeps glancing my way like he’s just waiting for me to come charging in.

No, bossman. Not this time.

“It’s normal for men’s lines and women’s to be marketed differently, isn’t it?” I say very neutrally.

For a second, his face sinks like he’s disappointed.

“I like a cohesive strategy. Something that’s fun but immediately lets you know it’s us. My mother always looks forward to the Match dot com commercials where the year 2020 and the devil meet up. Our content needs that zing, a relatable story people will look forward to,” he says through the laughter in the room.

“Deal! If you pose as groomzilla, I’ll write the content,” I belt out.

Oh, crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Lincoln’s eyes whip to me. I fight the urge to shrink into my chair.

“I’m perfectly willing, Miss Poe, but Shane rightly says groomzillas aren’t a thing.”

“It’s just not in the public mind,” I say. “Even if they do exist.”

“Then the concept doesn’t work.” His gaze drops from my eyes to my lips and then travels down.

God, what is he looking at? I hate to imagine he’s thinking with his teeth, his tongue.

Heat throbs under my cheeks.

Does anyone else notice him ogling or is it just me?

Well, screw it.

He’ll pay for these lingering looks and that damn vest that keeps catching my eye like a kid who’s been dared to look at the sun.

I lick my lips.

“I’d love to hear about your idea of a perfect wedding, boss,” I say.

“The perfect—” He stops talking as his brow comes down. “What?”

Surprise. He didn’t see that coming.

“It might help the team to hear your vision,” I say, reminding him of the spiel I walked out on. “Can you describe your idea of the perfect wedding?”

“Why would I do that?” he says, glowering, his body tight like an armed bow.

I give the world’s quickest shrug. “If we’re going to take a stab at a groomzilla or something else that works, the least he can do is give us something to work with.”

His smirk makes me shudder.

“Simple. The perfect big day means a smooth day. Not having to worry about details. That’s what people pay a fortune for in this industry, from wedding planners to photo booths to where we come in with fashion. If it were my wedding, all I’d care about is a well-fitted suit and the perfect dress for my bride with every last detail signed, sealed, and delivered. With the logistics solved, we can get lost in each other instead of obsessing over what we’re wearing or who’s doing what.”

Wow.

That’s actually sweet.

Not the kind of answer you’d expect from a capital douchebag.

If I’d thought to ask Jay the same question and gotten an answer less spectacular, maybe I wouldn’t have been abandoned in a church full of people to announce there’d be no show today. But hey, we might as well not waste the open bar and cake.

My parents already paid for the damn thing anyway.

I wouldn’t have wound up in a prepaid honeymoon suite bawling my eyes out while my mother took care of getting everything cleaned up. I wish I could forget that day, and now I’ve put myself in the one place where forgetting feels impossible.

“Not that the clothes would stay on long anyhow,” Burns adds with a wink, not directed at anyone in particular.

Nice save, Captain. That’s closer to the answer I expect from a man who’s part moose and just as graceful, too.

Why did I have to ask?

I’m positive people are starting to notice the hellfire Burns puts under my cheeks—and yes, I’ll own that terrible pun.

The men at the end of the table laugh.

“I think I might faint,” Cheryl whispers, prolonging my torture. “Men with a butt like his shouldn’t be allowed to say things like that in public.”

Oh, lovely. So I’m not the only one who’s noticed he’s part sculpted steel where it counts. In hindsight, that should be a dead giveaway he isn’t living off Regis rolls.

A pang of jealousy shoots through me. Right at the precise second when every woman in the room starts fanning themselves.

I give Burns my best I’m-about-to-stab-you look, gathering my words.

“If you need a well-fitted suit and the perfect dress for your bride, you’re not exactly oblivious to what you’re wearing,” I point out.

He starts to roll his eyes but catches himself at the last second. “The average man doesn’t care about beading, lace, or ruffles, I’ll grant you. Your typical groom rarely thinks beyond a straight tie.”

“Women do.”

“Some do. Some don’t. Our product line spans the spectrum from simple to more extravagant dresses—something for every flavor, but not for every price point. Our upcoming dresses will always be remarkable and bleed high-end confidence.”

Oh, I’d enjoy making him bleed, all right, violent little creature that I am.

He cocks his head and continues. “Luxury means status to people who milk their money out of curated social media posts and reality TV. The rest of our luxury buyers put craft and quality first. You can market a luxury wedding line as simple if you focus on the design quality and the clothing itself, made with the finest materials available.”

“Craft and quality are features. Not benefits,” I say sweetly. “A wedding dress only gets worn once. You don’t need it to last forever.”

He goes quiet for a moment.

I’m expecting another scowl, a harsh comment, but he actually looks like he’s thinking it over.

“The benefit is the original design and its unmatched quality, Miss Poe. All our customer needs to do is put it on,” he says slowly.

“Not usually true of a wedding dress. You put it on after a corset. It’s not a pleasant experience.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, unless you’re wearing a very simple A-line or a short dress, and even then you might still need a corset holding you together.”

“I know what a corset involves, even if I’ve never worn one myself. Obviously,” he admits, a slight redness blooming under his trimmed beard.

Holy crap.

He blushes.

I made Lincoln damn Burns blush in a company meeting. That’s my kind of payback.

“Wedding dresses need so much structure,” Cheryl says with the weariness of a woman who knows from personal experience.

The other ladies in the room nod enthusiastically, including me.

For a second, Lincoln goes stock-still. Then he crosses the room on measured strides, stroking his bearded chin, and sits down beside me.

“You make an interesting point. There’s more to this structure aspect than I thought…”

His foot brushes mine under the table, probably from an absentminded sweep of his leg.

My breath catches at the whisper of a touch. I tuck my legs under my chair, pressing my thighs together.

“Sorry, Nevermore,” he mutters, though his eyes are anything but apologetic.

His low words and warm breath are only more frustrating.

I ignore him because I can’t form words right now, much less a guarded reaction.

“Keep the ideas coming,” Anna says, her brown cheeks reddening.

Eyes like dark, worn wood peer into me. “I can’t agree more, Miss Patel. No man wants to deal with undoing a corset after his wedding any more than his newly minted wife cares to wear one.”

I so wish he’d quit talking about getting naked.

“Join me on the call with Italy this week,” he says, looking at me again. “Before we change our marketing, we’re going to alter a few designs. I want options that don’t require anything more than the dress.”

Umm—what? I’m influencing design now? And how am I going to get through this call on something I know jack about?

“I’m not a fashion designer, Mr. Burns. Sorry to disappoint you.”

I’m not sorry.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “A more comfortable product falls under marketing research.”

Right. But I’ve been running options through my head—mostly to keep my mind off Lincoln in that vest, talking about removing corsets—and I think I have something now.

A sudden burst of inspiration.

“You know, I think I’ve got a tagline for the new line. Haughty But Nice: Perfect so you don’t have to be.”

“Ohhh, I love it!” Anna beams, doing a little dance in her chair.

“So, are we revisiting groomzilla after all?” Burns asks.

“Maybe.”

He smiles at me deliciously.

Right. If only he weren’t a deranged, cinnamon-roll-obsessed lunatic, and also, you know, my boss.

His gaze falls to my hands. “With no ring on your finger, I have to ask. How do you know so much about the wedding industry?”

There it is.

My biggest shame, tossed into the spotlight for a roomful of people.

Taking a deep breath as the room blurs around me, I glance around, wishing I could disappear. But I manage to swallow the cotton ball in my throat, gather my wits, and glare at him. “The same way you handle this company without direct experience in everything. Google is a miracle worker.”

Cheryl’s eyes flick from me to the boss and back. She visibly stiffens.

“Are you okay, Dakota?”

I don’t answer.

“Excuse me.”

I just grab my notepad in a rush and flee the room, but not before I hear Cheryl behind me. “Poor dear. No woman her age likes to be reminded she’s still single.”

That’s not true.

Plenty of women thrive on being unmarried. I’m just not one of them.

Maybe once I was meant to be a wife, but those days ended in a million tears on a small-town day baking under the sun, along with my desiccated heart.

She’s trying to stick up for me, I get it, to paper over what a weirdo I am for fleeing, but it just makes this worse.

Oh, and of course I feel the bosshole’s searing gaze trailing me as I close the door on my way out.

I need to be alone.

I need to shut myself somewhere dark and lonely and ugly cry. I’d rather not do it in a crowded conference room full of people who’ll have a harder time respecting me now even without an open meltdown.

I fling my stuff down on my desk and make a mad dash to the bathroom.

After splashing cold water over my face and fixing my hair, I text Eliza. Maybe you were right. I’m not sure I can handle this.

Eliza: What happened?

I’m blotting at my eyes and tapping at my phone with one hand. The bosshole. He asked me how I know so much about weddings when I don’t have a ring.

Eliza: Oh, God. Ouch. How do you even work for that guy? Did you kick him in the balls yet?

I smile and shake my head at that last part.

He may have it coming, but for once, this isn’t totally his fault.

I don’t know and no, I send back.

Why not? You’re a Poe and last I checked, Poes don’t take any crap. They lure people into dingy wine dungeons and brick them up. She adds a devil emoji at the end.

Leave it to Eliza to make me laugh.

A Poe writes about horrible things, but it’s fiction, I send. Also, workplace assault probably won’t help me get another job.

Eliza: True. You can always work with me at the coffee shop.

No, I really can’t.

People annoy me like nobody’s business.

I think I’d rather paint my place with a toothpick over working retail with customers, with complaints, with an awful need to smile.

Ugh.

Sighing, I send her what’s really a wish. Don’t worry. If I blow this, I’ll figure something out.

Eliza: When do you get home? I’ll brew up a Madagascar vanilla coffee just for you.

Dakota: A steaming hot cup of vanilla bliss sounds perfect right now.

Eliza: Come home early. Don’t drag yourself through the rest of the day.

I wince, wishing I could before I add, I have to power through it, Eliza. I don’t have a choice when it’s still my job. For now. Catch you later.

I open the door to the restroom and scan the hall to make sure there’s no one around.

The coast looks clear, so I go to the break room and make a quick cup of tea, trying to clear my head.

The pain may be new, but this situation isn’t.

Lincoln Burns is a nosy, rude, bad-tempered grumphead. I won’t dignify that by adding dangerously handsome.

But I knew that before I took this job, didn’t I?

Certainly before I agreed to his ninety-day proposal from hell. And I’m not ready to fly the white flag when I still have over eighty days to go.

I’ll get through this.

I have to, if only for my own pride.

If I made it out of a church with a hundred and forty-two people inside before I broke down over the biggest humiliation of my life, I can smile about this, too.

I can put in a few months earning big-girl pay and segue to another position.

Then I can forget all about this cinnamon-snorting psycho and the apocalyptic feelings he’s too good at stirring up.