One Bossy Proposal

One Bossy Proposal

Nicole Snow

About the Book

Strange men do funny things when you score the last cinnamon roll.

Sometimes he rages about the high crime of jacking his precious pastry.

Sometimes he offers you ludicrous bribes to buy it back.

And sometimes梐fter shattering your faith in humanity梱ou find out he's your new boss.

I'm not laughing.

My sweet tooth betrayed me and Lincoln Burns is one bad sugar rush.

A coldhearted grump. A mile-wide ego. An eligible bachelor who doesn't 揹o?dating.

Did I mention Mr. Congeniality runs a fashion empire with weddings in its sights?

Of course he does.

And, of course, weddings make me gag after my ex made my heart roadkill.

Every instinct I have screams run.

But money talks, and Lincoln's deep pockets roar.

One big fat bonus proposal lures me into his world.

Somehow, our vicious fights become vivid flirting.

His secrets thrill me in the worst ways.

Then he makes a second proposal.

Pretend we're engaged. Smile for pretty photos like we're soulmates. Dress up like we're actually getting married.

Oh, how I wish cinnamon rolls came with warnings.

It's all sticky sweet heaven until you catch feelings for the bossman from hell...


While I Pondered (Dakota)

The spring sun shines down on Seattle like a sword aimed at my own personal gloom.

I抦 sad and hungry梐 dangerous combination.

It抯 been a year to the day since I buried my heart梐nd the utter scumbag who dragged it through the mud, doused it in kerosene, and burned it to a blackened crisp梐nd it feels like an eternity.

Some things, you only sort of get over.

Some things, you don抰 forget.

Hold the pity party, Dakota. You抮e better off without him. You抮e a thousand miles from home, smack in the middle of a whole new life, I tell myself.

Eyeballing the gluttonous offerings in the bakery case helps.

It抯 true. I have rebuilt. Kind of.

I left that small-town dreariness and its regrets behind. I have an interview next week for a job that slaps, and if I don抰 get it, I抣l keep applying until I land something with big-girl pay and a real opportunity to flex my writing muscles.

Without my great escape last summer in a halo of tears, I wouldn抰 be here in Seattle, practically drooling at the sugar-rich delicacies that all seem to have my name on them.

I抎 have less time to focus on my writing, too, and I抎 still be interning in that one-room closet masquerading as a marketing agency.

Yay, heartbreak.

Yay, Jay Foyt.

His stupidity gave me a whole new life.

揧ou hungry or did you just come here to admire the goods? Can I get you something??The barista appears behind the bakery case with a girlish laugh.

揌uh? Oh, sorry棓 Dammit, Dakota, get out of your head. 揅an I get a Regis roll and a small caramel nirvana latte??

揅oming right up!?She smiles and uses tongs to grab a huge cinnamon roll drizzled in icing. It抯 so fat I think it crosses time zones. 揕ucky lady, you got the last one today! We抮e a little short. Cinnamon shortage in the morning shipment梘o figure.?

Lucky me.

If only my luck with pastries would rub off on other things. Like winning lottery tickets or cigar-chomping big shots in publishing ready to snap up my poetry. I抎 even settle for a decent Tinder date who doesn抰 have a fuckboy bone in his body.

Nope. I抦 asking for too much.

Today, Lady Luck grants bargain wishes. She delivers the very last mound of sticky cinnamon sweetness in the case and point-three more pounds on my thighs.

I mean, it抯 a start, right?

I move to the cash register and pay.

揋lad I got mine before you ran out,?I say, swiping my card. 揑抣l be sure to savor the flavor棓

揥hat do you mean you抮e out??a deep voice thunders behind me. 揑抳e been here at exactly this time three times a week since Christmas. You抮e never out.?

Holy crap.

And I thought I was having a bad day...

I look back toward the bakery case to see what kind of ogre crawled out of his swamp to rant and rave over a missing cinnamon roll.

揝orry, sir. The lady in front of you just bought the last roll,?the barista says, wearing a placating frown. 揟here抯 a bit of a weird cinnamon shortage going around棓

揂re you telling me there isn抰 another goddamned Regis roll in the entire shop??The man is tall, built, and entirely pissed off.

揈r, no. Like I said...cinnamon shortage.?Barista girl flashes a pained smile. 揟he early bird got the worm, I抦 afraid. If you抎 like to try again tomorrow, we抣l save one for you.?

Barista girl nods at me matter-of-factly.

The ogre turns, whips his head toward me, and glares like his eyes are death rays.

Red alert.

So, he might be just as bad-tempered as the average ogre, but in the looks department, this guy is the anti-Shrek. If the green guy had abs that could punish and tanned skin instead of rocking his Brussels sprout glow, he might catch up to Hot Shrek in front of me.

My breath catches in my chest.

I don抰 think I抳e ever seen eyes like amber whiskey, flashing in the morning light.

If he weren抰 snarling like a rabid wolverine, he might be hotter than the toasty warm roll in my hand. The coolness of his eyes contrasts deliciously with dark hair, a furrowed brow, a jaw so chiseled it shames mere mortals.

He might be in his early thirties. His face looks young yet experienced.

The angles of that face match the cut of his body. He抯 toned like a former quarterback and dressed like he just walked off the set of Suits.

He is a Gucci-wrapped cocktail handcrafted for sin.

Every woman抯 dark vampire fantasy come to life梠r maybe just mine.

When you抮e a Poe梔istant, distant relation to Edgar Allan梚t comes with the territory.

I definitely wonder if he woke up with a steaming mug of rudeness this morning to plaster that scowl on his face.

I抦 starting to notice a pattern in this city. What is it with Seattle minting grumps who look like sex gods?

Is it something in the rain?

Worse, he towers over me, the picture-perfect strongman with a chip on his shoulder that entitles him to roar at the world when it doesn抰 fall down at his feet.

Although he抯 annoyingly gorgeous, and his suit probably costs half my yearly salary, I wonder. What gets a man this fire-breathing pissed over missing his morning sugar high?

Sure, I抣l be the first to admit that Regis rolls are almost worth losing your mind over. Almost.

While Hades stares, I roll my eyes back at him and follow the curve of the counter to wait for my drink.

Precious distance.

After grumbling for a solid minute, he swipes his card like a dagger at the cash register and follows me around the counter.


Surely, he抯 not going to confront me.

He wouldn抰.

Oh, but he抯 right next to me now.

Still glaring like I murdered his firstborn.

He pulls out his wallet, opens it, and plucks out a crisp bill, shoving it at me like it抯 on fire.

揊ifty dollars,?Hot Shrek growls.

揅ome again??

揊ifty bucks. I抣l pay you five times its value for the trouble.?

揥hat??I blink, hearing the words but not comprehending them.

He points to the white paper bag in my hand holding my little slice of heaven. 揧our Regis roll, lady. I抣l buy it off you.?

揥ait, you want to buy my cinnamon roll that bad??

揑sn抰 that what I just said? And it抯 a Regis roll,?he corrects sharply. 揧ou know, the kind worth dying over? The original recipe cooked up in Heart抯 Edge, Montana, and approved by a scary burned guy who抯 been all over the national media and keeps getting cameos in movies??

I laugh. That抯 exactly what Sweeter Grind抯 ads promise about the otherworldly Regis roll, a creation of Clarissa and Leo Regis, two small-town sweet shop owners made famous by some crazy drama a few years back.

揘ever mind,?he snaps. 揧ou want to make this sale or what??