Seducing Mr. Grumpy

10. One step forward, two steps back. [Part 2]

"Oh my God, that looks so good," the girl says, noticing me—or more accurately, my tartlet—for the first time.

I smile at her. "Want some?"

"Don’t even think about it," Nic growls. "It’s mine."

"Dom," she stretches out his name with a pout.

"It’s mine, Dakota," he ends the matter, refusing to budge.

God, he’s so grumpy.

She pulls a face at him, one he doesn’t see, since he’s already back to staring at his laptop.

"I’m Dakota," she introduces herself.

"Summer," I reply, standing briefly to shake her hand.

"You look familiar," she squints at me like she’s trying to place me. "What’s your last name?"

"Cooper."

"Oh!" She lights up. "You’re Summer Cooper, Bess Cooper’s daughter!"

I suppress a laugh—of course she knows me through my mom.

"That’s right."

"I love her," she says enthusiastically. "She’s a model, businesswoman, vet, and she runs her own dog shelter—she does everything… and she’s a mom!"

My mother was the lead model for this company for years, until she created her own brand to support the more than twenty shelters she now runs across the country. It’s normal that people recognize her, especially those who are part of this industry, this world.

She’s the one who taught me about financial independence. I practically owe my whole outlook on life to her—she’s my role model in almost every way.

Seeing the admiration in Dakota’s eyes only makes me prouder to be her daughter.

"Dakota, come here," Dom calls, his brows furrowed as he looks at something on his screen.

"Let me talk to Summer."

"I didn’t hire you to make friends."

"You don’t pay me enough to put up with you," she mutters before giving me a quick smile and going back to him.

I refocus on my phone, but I can’t help hearing bits of their conversation—their ideas and proposals to fix the recent problem.

I decide to text Elma:

Summer: What are you doing?

She replies a few minutes later.

Elma: Just finishing editing a video.

Summer: Do you have any exclusivity deals with brands right now?

Elma: Nope, why? What do you need?

I smile as a plan starts to form in my head.

"Hey, Nic," I call.

"Not now, Summer."

"But it’s important."

He lifts his head, looking at me with impatience, like listening to me is the last thing he wants.

"Do you know who Elma Bell is?"

Dakota’s eyes widen.

"Oh my God, Summer, she’s the most famous fashion influencer right now!"

Nic stares at us, clueless.

"She’s also one of my best friends."

Dakota gets it instantly, her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree. Nic, on the other hand, is as slow as a turtle—still doesn’t get it.

"Congratulations?" he says, deadpan.

I roll my eyes.

"She’s willing to do a review for you guys. You just have to send the product to her place. Her opinion will outshine the other girl’s—guaranteed."

"No contracts involved?" Nic questions.

"It’s a favor—for me," I say. "Haven’t you ever had a friend do you a favor?"

"Dominic doesn’t have friends," Dakota chimes in.

"True," I flash him a toothy smile, and he rolls his eyes at me.

I wait patiently for him to give me an answer, and eventually, he relents with a curt, "Fine."

|…|

I hum softly while Nic finally eats his tartlet. He almost got into a fistfight with Archie when he tried to steal a piece, which made me laugh out loud.

Can this man be any more possessive?

Poor woman who ends up marrying him.

"Have you been taking care of Morita?" I ask, stroking the leaves of the little plant I brought a few days ago and left by the window.

"Only you would name a worthless plant."

"She’s not worthless," I protest. "And you didn’t answer—are you taking care of her?"

"Maybe."

That maybe sounds sketchy. I’ll have to tell Laney to look after it. Nic will probably let it die. But this place needs life… it’s so dull.

"I’m bringing another plant tomorrow to keep her company."

"What is this? A garden?"

"The environment affects the energy in a space—and your mood too… everything here is so gray."

"If it bothers you, don’t come. No one’s asking you to."

I swallow hard before replying in a sing-song voice, "You’d miss me."

"Doubt it."

I ignore him and return to watching him eat.

He’s so into it when he enjoys something—it’s a whole show. Even has a bit of pastry cream on the tip of his nose.

I laugh and grab a napkin to clean him, but then I remember he doesn’t like my physical contact, so I stop and just hand him the napkin so he can do it himself.

"You got some right here," I say, pointing to the spot on my own nose.

"Thanks," he murmurs quietly, wiping it off himself.

Is that a blush on his cheeks?

I lower my gaze, hiding a smile.

"I wanted to thank you for the portable mattress you got me," I say. "It was very thoughtful of you."

"Are you still sleeping on the floor?"

I shrug.

"Don’t worry about it."

His eyes darken with anger, and I know my answer pissed him off. But in the end, he just presses his lips together and swallows his words like he doesn’t want another fight.

"So…" I whisper, "you’ve been ignoring me."

"Hard to ignore you when we live in the same house."

"You know what I mean. You don’t talk to me anymore."

"I’ve never talked to you."

I nod, looking away.

He makes it so… so hard not to give up.

"Good night, Nic," I say, grabbing my bag and getting ready to leave, but he shoots up and grabs my hand to stop me.

I look at him, waiting.

"Want to go for a walk?"

What?

"Mm?" I ask, too stunned to form real words.

"Come on. It’s still early. I can take you to Primrose Hill so you can talk to the fireflies."

"You remember?"

"How could I forget?"

Back when my parents and I would spend seasons in London, going to Primrose Hill was practically a tradition. We also went many times with Nic’s parents. I remember Heaven and I would run around the meadow, laughing nonstop—and sometimes even Nic would join us. The place was beautiful, and if we were lucky, we’d find glowing fireflies. It’s my favorite spot in the whole city.

It touches me that Nic remembers.

He picks up the rest of the tartlet, takes my bag to tuck the tupperware container inside, and slings it over his shoulder. He checks his pockets for keys, phone, and wallet, leaving behind his backpack with his laptop and the ever-present stack of papers he usually takes home.

"Shall we?" he asks, pausing at the door.

I beam at him and nod, happy that, for the first time, he seems to be taking a moment just for himself.

"Let’s go."

[2/2]