Sincerely, Up Yours: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy, page 1
SINCERELY, UP YOURS
PENELOPE BLOOM
CONTENTS
1. Darcy
2. Darcy
3. Darcy
4. Dominic
5. Darcy
6. Dominic
7. Darcy
8. Dominic
9. Darcy
10. Dominic
11. Darcy
12. Dominic
13. Darcy
14. Dominic
15. Darcy
16. Darcy
17. Dominic
18. Darcy
19. Dominic
20. Darcy
21. Dominic
22. Darcy
23. Dominic
24. Darcy
25. Dominic
26. Darcy
27. Dominic
28. Darcy
29. Dominic
30. Darcy
31. Dominic
32. Darcy
33. Dominic
34. Darcy
35. Darcy
36. Dominic
37. Dominic
38. Darcy
39. Dominic
40. Darcy
41. Dominic
42. Darcy
43. Epilogue - Darcy
44. Sneak Peak: The Big Fake
45. Suggested Reading Order
Keep in touch!
1
DARCY
There was a bounce in my step, a smile on my face, and I’d even worn my favorite pair of neon pink panties. Today, the city of Manhattan was my oyster. Actually, oysters were disgusting, so Manhattan was my slice of pineapple and ham pizza with crumbly bacon sprinkled on top. I felt like shooting finger guns and winking at random people I passed on the street. Hell, I would’ve even moonwalked into my favorite coffee shop on the way to work if I knew how.
I settled for smiling and pulling open the door to the sound of happy, jingling bells.
My phone buzzed and I read the text that came through.
Charleston: Today is your big day, girl! Keep me posted!
For some reason he followed that with eggplant emojis, birthday hats, and firecrackers. Today wasn’t my birthday, there was definitely no eggplant in my recent past or near future, and I didn’t think there’d be fireworks. But I smiled and texted back a long row of thumbs up emojis and stuffed my phone back in my purse.
If my life was a movie, this would be the part where all those sad, depressing scenes from earlier finally paid off. It was the part where the downtrodden heroine got her shit together and something good finally happened to her. It had to be that part, actually. Because if all the crap I’d trudged through to get to this point was for nothing, I was going to kick someone in the balls. Then I was going to scream. And then I was going to find a giant jar of peanut butter to drown my sorrows in–extra crunchy, of course.
But I didn’t need to worry about any of that, because today was my day.
I took a nice, long breath and smiled to myself as I waited in line. I barely even noticed or cared when a huge man in a suit cut in front of me. I titled my head back a little to look up at him. The bastard was big–like curse your luck when you realize he’s in front of you at the movie theater big.
Normally, I might have cracked a sarcastic comment. Oh sure, cut ahead. Nope, I’m definitely not in as big a rush as you are. Not today, though. I wasn’t going to let anything sabotage my good vibes.
I studied the back of his head and decided you could definitely tell if a guy was hot from behind. The hair was clean cut and well maintained. Brown. No, it was coffee with a touch of creamer. That was also a sign of hotness. If something was pretty enough, you couldn’t just call it what it was. Red sunsets were shortcake stained by strawberry, and the ocean was a spread of blueberry jam, and I was apparently very hungry. Maybe I just wanted to take a bite out of the man in front of me. Nothing but a little nibble.
I continued roaming his large body with my eyes. His neck was thick and smooth and I could even see just a smidge of his jaw from the back. I could picture him storming into fancy boardrooms, slamming down a stack of papers, and doing some sort of bossy type stuff. Maybe he’d demand everybody produce their quarterly reports, now.
I grinned at myself, then shook my head and tried to stop being a weirdo.
Except all I managed to do was lower my gaze to his long legs as he stepped forward, bringing us a little closer to the counter. He was wearing a French blue suit that was probably tailored, or maybe everything just fit the rude bastard perfectly off the shelf. He was like a mannequin that you could throw the cheapest t-shirt on and make it look like a thing of envy.
My phone buzzed a few more times and I saw more texts from co-workers congratulating me and wishing me luck. I smiled, fired off some replies, and put the phone away again. When I finished, the guy who cut in front of me was ordering, and wow.
The idea that you could sniff out hotness from the back of someone’s head may be up for debate, but no warm blooded woman could hear that voice and not be certain the man was pure fire in a skillet–and not the kind you could easily snuff out. This was the kind of skillet fire that burned down kitchens, apartment buildings, and a girl’s favorite pair of neon pink panties. If his hair was coffee with cream then his voice was like hot caramel drizzling all over my naked body–and yeah, that voice brought me straight to naked bodies and erect nipples. But then I tuned into what he was actually saying.
“...Quickly, and don’t fuck it up.”
Wow, I thought. Why did all the pretty ones have to be so miserable and rude? Normally, I was the poster-child for non confrontationalism. But today was my freaking day, right? I felt offended on behalf of every man on the planet who hadn’t been blessed with such perfect genetics, because this douche nozzle had everything and still found a reason to be a prick. I bet nobody ever called him on it either because they were scared, or they wanted to get in his pants.
I was reaching up to tap the guy on the shoulder before I knew what I was doing.
“Hey,” I said as firmly as I could manage.
The guy turned and my brain shut down. He wasn’t just hot. He was what you’d get if you rubbed a genie lamp and asked for your own personal sex god. Narrow, slitted eyes that were a mesmerizing emerald color. Full lips, a blade of a nose, and a perfect jaw dusted with stubble. If he asked me to jump off a bridge at that moment I would’ve muttered something about how I always keep a condom in my purse because you just never know.
“What?” he asked. He looked down at me while somehow giving me the impression he wasn’t seeing me at all.
“You, uh–” I stammered. “She’s–” I lifted a limp finger toward the barista, who was watching me with clear concern. She probably thought I was having a stroke.
The man shook his head and stormed off, leaving me standing with my finger raised. I sighed and let my arm flop to my side. “I was going to tell him to be nice to you,” I said once I’d remembered how to speak.
The girl shrugged. “It’s alright. He’s not the first asshole to order a coffee from here. He might be the prettiest though,” she added with a twinkling look in his direction.
I followed her gaze to where he was brooding in the corner of the coffee shop with his phone in one hand and his other jammed into his suit pocket. “Pretty like one of those dish detergent pods. Looks sweet as candy but deadly if you put it in your mouth.”
The girl was giving me a weird look. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Did you want your usual, or?”
“The usual is good,” I said, paying and then taking a seat as far away from him as I could. My perfect day was already starting to feel just slightly spoiled, so I tried to salvage my mood by imagining all the things I should’ve said to him. I should’ve told him they spit in everybody’s coffee who is rude. Or maybe I should’ve just said he needed to apologize to her.
I’d run through about a dozen scenarios by the time he got his coffee. I watched him stride up to the counter, lift the lid, sniff it, and take a cautious sip. Instead of thanking them or saying it was good, he just took those long legs of his straight out of the shop without a word.
I watched him go and felt a surge of annoyance with myself. Something about the guy had been weirdly familiar, almost like I recognized him from somewhere. But how the hell would I forget a face like that?
I was still thinking about it when I thanked the girl who gave me my coffee and headed back out into the street toward the office. Within a minute or so, I’d put the asshole in the suit completely from my mind. Okay, almost completely. It was possible I’d shoved just a little memory of him in my “dirty dreams for later” mental closet, but that was beside the point.
I had a delicious pile of sugar with a pinch of coffee in my hand, a dream in my head, and the day I’d been anxiously awaiting ahead of me. My phone buzzed again and I was surprised to see a text from my dad this time.
Dad: Have you heard back from The Union Coast yet about your application?
I cringed. The Union Coast was the end-all-be-all of prestigious publications. It was news, opinion pieces, politics, and just about every intellectual on the planet read it. A full-time job for The Union Coast had always been my dad’s dream–a dream he never quite reached.
I hadn’t actually sent that application in. But I fibbed and told him I was still waiting, then felt my mood drop several octaves. I’d finally texted him last night to explain how important to day was. After months of working for The Squawker and working on various articles, my boss told me to come up with my own idea for a weekly article written exclusively by me. It was everything I’d been hoping for and working toward for the last two years. So ever since she told me, I’d been up late busting my ass to come up with the perfect pitch after I got home from work. All I had to do was explain my idea today and she’d virtually promised the opportunity was mine.
I’d told my dad as much in several carefully crafted sentences that were supposed to convey just how much this meant to me. And his response? He was asking whether I was any closer to getting a “real” job.
I felt my face contorting into a scowl and I made myself breathe as I walked. I tried to manufacture something more like a smile, but it felt forced.
By the time I made it to The Squawker building my perfect morning mood was thoroughly tainted. I was still brooding about my dad’s text, and stupid Mr. Blue Suit was practically ramming down the door of that “dirty dreams for later” closet I’d tried to shove him into. He was in real danger of busting straight into “dirty daydreams for now” territory, and I couldn’t have that on a day like today.
I pretended I knew how to meditate, closed my eyes, and focused on clearing my mind. It sort of worked.
Our magazine was located in a historic section of downtown Manhattan and sat on top of a two story apartment complex. A few decades ago, someone had renovated the second floor apartments and knocked down most of the walls to make room for a huge printing press. Now we still used the old press with some modern touches and had our offices in the same space. The whole building oozed with charm from the exposed brick walls to the faint smell of old socks. Okay, maybe the smell wasn’t exactly charming, but it was part of the building’s history and something about that spoke to me.
I stepped in the old rickety elevator at the back of the lobby and my eyes went wide when I saw what had to be a hallucination. Mr. French Blue was rushing toward the elevator with one hand on his coffee and the other reaching toward me.
“Hold that door.”
Something clicked in my brain. I smiled sweetly, twinkled my fingers in a girly wave, and then jammed the “close door” button. I lifted my middle finger at him and watched his perfect forehead crease in confusion and frustration as the doors shut just before he reached me.
Suck on that, asshole. I smiled as the elevator jolted and started groaning its way up to the second floor. I may not have handled the situation in the coffee shop like I wanted, but even the minor annoyance of making him wait for the elevator felt like a touch of justice. Maybe my day wasn’t doomed to be so bad afterall.
For some reason, I felt like if my life came with a narrator, he would’ve been cackling with laughter at that very moment.
2
DARCY
The bounce in my step was back. It was my freaking day, and how often could I say that? Normally, I’d start work off at my desk. Today was a Monday, so my inbox would be fresh and full of my weekly assignments. Usually, that meant a feature piece for the magazine that would take the bulk of my time. We also got other smaller assignments like writing advertising copy or helping brainstorm headlines and things of that sort. Honestly, it wasn’t as prestigious as something like The Union Coast and I wasn’t interviewing the important people of the world or tackling big issues. But I’d learned to be okay with that. I had fun writing for The Squawker, and I was good at it.
I flipped my hair, smiling and waving with a little exaggerated wink at Farhad, one of my co-workers. He rolled his eyes, then broke into a smile and shot me two thumbs up. Elizabeth rushed from her desk to come behind me and mocked rubbing my shoulders like I was a prize fighter about to enter the ring. I humored her, throwing a few unathletic shadow punches.
I headed straight past my station and went for the corner office. Jasmine Marshall was the one in charge of making sure our stories were clean and fit the overall direction of the magazine. She reported to some higher ups, but as far as we were concerned, she was the boss on the floor. She was also the one who was going to approve or deny my pitch for a new weekly feature.
I opened the door, smiling wide and ready to crush it. My face fell when I saw she had a plastic bin on top of her desk and had already stuffed most of her things inside.
“Woah,” I said. “You look like you’re moving out!” I laughed lightly, but my stomach was already flipping on itself. I went as far as making an emergency “if I puke” plan and decided where to aim it. Definitely the trash bin beside her desk.
Jasmine was beautiful with deeply tan skin and upturned eyes. She was in her forties, and just about embodied everything I wished I could be when I was older. She was calm, collected, didn’t take shit from anybody, and she was a kick ass writer. Of course, none of those qualities would’ve impressed my dad.
“Yeah, well, this is what it looks like, then,” Jasmine said. She gave me a sympathetic smile as she tried to shove a fake potted plant between some paperweights and a row of manilla folders. It didn’t fit, so she made an annoyed sound and thumped it into the trash bin.
“But you’re amazing at your job. They wouldn’t fire you. I-” I stammered, hands lifting uselessly as I looked around the small office, as if there might be some clue in neon letters on the wall. “I don’t understand.”
“We’ve been acquired, Darcy. The Squawker is owned by three investors who bought it from the original founder forty years ago. They’re all getting older, and a wealthy businessman made them a generous offer to sell. It’s that simple. I just found out this morning. My options were to report to this new asshole who calls himself our boss, or resign.” She slammed a jar of pens into her box with a shrug. “And I’m not about to lick somebody’s boots. So it’s greener pastures for me.”
She hoisted the box of things and then paused when she saw what must’ve been the dejected, wounded puppy look on my face.
“Hey, I know,” she said. “This sucks. It really sucks. You were coming in here to pitch your feature to me and I’m sure I was going to approve it. But that’s careers for you. They don’t ever seem to go the way we expect. If you want a recommendation, just let me know. I’m sure I’ll land on my feet somewhere, and I’d love to have you come join me.”
With one last pinched smile, she headed out and left me alone in her office, head spinning.
It felt like a ghost was using me as a punching bag. Everything inside hurt and I couldn’t seem to catch my breath. The Squawker was acquired? How was that even possible? Except she’d explained exactly how it was possible, I just…
I took a deep, shaky breath and shook my head. Did I want to follow after her? I could resign too and maybe land somewhere more prestigious next time around. I knew my dad would approve, but what did I want?
I flopped down in the chair beside her desk, running through my thoughts.
What the hell did I want?
The answer came straight away. I admired the hell out of Jasmine, but I didn’t want to do what she was doing. She was giving up and running. I had my fair share of setbacks, even at my young age. I didn’t want to run from this one. I put two years of my life into this magazine, and I believed in the weekly feature I was going to pitch to Jasmine. So, no, I wasn’t going to quit.
I was going to thrive, dammit. Besides, my new boss was probably going to be a reasonable person. All I needed to do was convince the new boss my weekly feature was worth pursuing, and things wouldn’t really change that much, right?
