A Night to Remember: The Complete Series

Violet

T he office is quiet this morning, with the soft purr of phones and shuffle of papers. Mouses click and keyboards tap. Voices murmur over by the water cooler, and my stomach grumbles behind my desk, complaining that half a stale bagel was barely any breakfast at all.

It’s never this freaking quiet at Grapevine. Usually, people are laughing on the phone, charming clients and promising the world; flirting by the photocopier and smacking staplers like they’re banging a drum. Most days I work with earbuds wedged in my ears, listening to the calming throb of LoFi so I don’t snap a pencil and yell at everyone to shut the hell up.

Today is different. Eerily so. But I guess it’s the calm before the storm—the hush before tonight’s big party.

The air changes in the room as a new pair of footsteps enter behind me. Studiously gnawing on my pencil, I pretend not to notice the way the little hairs on my arms stand on end, nor how my stomach squirms for a whole new reason.

He’s here.

Jude Jenkins is here.

It’s fine. Of course he’s here.

He works here, and even though I hate every single thing about this man, even though he is the bane of my life, it shouldn’t shock my system every time he walks into a room.

“,” Jude says, ruffling my hair as he walks past. My rival throws himself down into the chair opposite mine, then scoots closer to his desk, grinning the whole time. He’s in a white shirt with a skinny black tie today, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his dark hair is windswept. He looks like a sexy weatherman. Did he go out for a walk? Where?

I glare back from beneath my messed up bangs. “Judas.”

He was gone for thirty minutes, but it felt like a week.

“It’s just Jude, actually.” He tosses a nut and catches it in his mouth, cracking it between his teeth. Dark blue eyes twinkle at me. Why doesn’t he ever miss his mouth? He’s always so freaking smooth with everything. Does he rehearse that nut trick at home? “But don’t feel bad. The pressure of work can get to anybody. Let me know if I should take a few clients off your plate, okay?”

Ugh.

I hate him so much.

My heart’s thumping harder already, pulsing with loathing, racing the way it always does when Jude is near. But I force my grip to stay loose around my pencil, because there’s no point white-knuckling the stationery where my rival can see, because then he’ll know he’s getting to me.

And Jude Jenkins lives to push my buttons.

Just like I live to push his.

So my smile is slow and smug. I tilt my head, watching him back, like I’m not bothered at all by my ruffled hair or the explosion of chaos that is his desk; like the sight of his toned forearms does nothing to me. All around us, our coworkers bustle between desks and sip from coffee mugs. It smells like carpet cleaner and warm paper in here.

“That’s sweet of you to offer,” I say. “But didn’t you lose the Pretzel Media contract last month?”

Irritation flashes in those indigo eyes, right before Jude smooths it away with another sunny smile. Still, he can’t hide from me.

This is why we’ve fought tooth and nail since our first day on the job together. This is why we can’t leave this thing between us the hell alone: we see each other.

It’s agonizing.

“They went in another direction,” Jude says airily, blunt fingers tapping on the only clear patch of his desk. There could be rodents living in that mound of office supplies for all we know. A whole tiny civilization, with a network of tunnels through the bedrock of printouts and binder files. “A cheaper direction. If Pretzel can’t afford quality, that’s hardly my problem, is it ? Or would you have halved your fee for them?” He winces with pity, shaking his head. “There’s no need to be desperate. Know your worth! Your last video was almost good.”

My last video was fucking awesome , and this jerk knows it. It was a music video for an up-and-coming pop star, one we filmed on location in all these abandoned jungly warehouses, and it went so well that the office held a little screening so the interns could take notes. So nyuh.

Jude’s just being an ass. Like always.

“Your desk is a disaster zone.” Spinning my pencil around, I poke the eraser into a pile of notepads and opened letters, shunting them back across the boundary line between our desks. A paper clip drops to the floor, pinging across the polished floorboards. The whole pile trembles. “I should call pest control. Do you live like this at home? Are you in Hoarders Anonymous?”

Jude leans forward, his voice dropping low—and every word rumbles through me, tingling in the marrow of my bones as he says, “Always so curious about my home life. If you want to see my apartment, , you only need to ask.”

Damn the heat creeping into my cheeks. Damn this urge to fan my face. This always happens: Jude saunters over and pushes all my buttons, one by one, until I don’t know whether I want to strangle him or crawl into his lap.

He’s always teasing me. Mocking me, with one sardonic eyebrow raised, hungry eyes boring into mine. Silently challenging me to bite back.

And I do like sparring. But what would it be like to have Jude’s praise for once? To lay down our weapons? To take his plush bottom lip between my teeth and gently pull?

Someone wrestles a window open on the other side of the room, and a fresh breeze barges inside, ruffling everyone’s papers on their desks.

I raise one eyebrow, determined not to seem flustered, even as a tiny, traitorous part of me wants to call Jude’s bluff. Wants to ask for an invite to Jenkins HQ after all, and see what might come of it.

Because of course I want to see this handsome jerk in his natural habitat, and find out which color he paints his walls. See what art he hangs, if any, and which brand of coffee he drinks, and whether he’d still tease me like this if we were alone.

Would I want him to? I think so.

But maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Judging by the landslide of crap on his desk, Jude must live on a trash heap out by the city limits. He probably collects rainwater in a barrel to shave, and hangs his clothes out to dry on a broken stepladder. Probably gazes into his own beautiful, evil eyes using a scratched old hubcap.

“So tonight’s the night,” he says now, tapping on his keyboard and bringing his monitor to life, logging in with a blur of fingers. It’s so unfair that this man looks good in the electrical glow—healthy and clear-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. No wonder I hate him. Why can’t he look sickly and tired like everyone else? It’s plain rude.

“Hm?” Tonight?

“The rooftop party,” Jude says, enunciating each word as he glances over at me. “The Grapevine ten year anniversary thing. You do work here, right? You didn’t just wander in from the street like a raccoon?”

My phone buzzes and I ignore him, tapping on the screen and frowning at my latest email like it’s super important. Anything to avoid that electric gaze.

“More pizza coupons?”

Falafel, actually. God, I hate this man.

“Excuse me, please.” Scooping up my phone, I stand quickly and tug my dress straight. “I need to make a very urgent call.”

“Get me dough balls!” Jude yells after me, breaking the spell of quiet that settled over the office all morning. Suddenly, phones are ringing and desk drawers are slamming, and someone starts blasting music through their headphones. The calm is over.

I power walk all the way to the elevator, and don’t breathe properly until the doors swoop shut. My cheeks are pink in the mirrored walls, and my dark hair is a mess thanks to someone. My pulse taps visibly in my throat.

But once I’m alone, where no one else can see, I allow myself a reluctant smile.

Dough balls. Such an ass.