Chapter 1 #2
I shrank in my seat, grateful for the sunglasses, but wishing I’d packed a floppy hat too. The only thing scarier than overpaying for three judgmental spirits was anyone finding out the severity of my glitch.
And by anyone, I meant Grant. Snowbelt’s rogue prince and next in line to inherit their frosty little empire.
Grant had been born into his role while I’d clawed my way up the magical ranks, case by case. But we’d both become the faces of our divisions. Which meant quarterly run-ins at high-level meetings, holiday parties, and a near-daily barrage of passive-aggressive emails that spanned time zones.
He hated my color-coded spreadsheets and rhinestone-encrusted water bottle. I hated his smug, wing-it charm that never seemed to fail. Reckless with a side of destruction, the man was one improvised stunt away from a canceled Christmas.
I still remember when I’d told him over video conference to think of the children. His gaze had sharpened into icicle daggers so fast, I thought the Wi-Fi froze. If live streams could kill, I’d have been buried under six feet of snow, with a frozen smile on my face.
Except—I swallowed hard, the memory of my frigid smile thawing. It hadn’t always been this way. For one brief, stupid moment, I’d thought—
A snort caught in my throat.
No. Out of all the meet-cutes that had blown up in my face, Grant’s was nothing short of the apocalypse.
Since then, sabotaging each other had become a mystical sport.
I rerouted his case files and “accidentally” sent him to the North Pole.
Though somehow, he’d turned the floating scientific research station into a virtual save-the-polar-bears charity event.
I grudgingly made a sizable donation—for the bears.
Then he retaliated, and I spent New Year’s stranded in the desert.
We hijacked assignments, traded dueling press quotes, and during one regrettable award ceremony speech, he announced me as Sunbelt’s tiny toy soldier. A dig at my five-four-in-heels height.
Which wasn’t fair, because everything about Grant was big. His towering ego. His laugh that carried across a crowded room. Even his shoulders, which fueled intern gossip, and annoyingly, lived up to the hype.
Not that I cared.
I was just… conducting societal research. It was science-esque. With an occasional curse to the universe that my sworn enemy could star in every woman’s meet-cute fantasy.
I popped another cherry into my mouth and twisted in my chair, preparing to glare him into silence.
But he wasn’t there.
And then—
“Hey, Spells.”
Grant Delaney's smooth, deep voice slid over my shoulder as his shadow stretched across the bar.
Spells. I hated that nickname and the way it dripped off his tongue, spiking my blood pressure.
Worse, my magic had to be broken, because lately I’d catch myself replaying it in a different tone, rough and low, living rent-free in my head.
Ugh. I really needed to get back in the dating game.
ASAP. I wrinkled my nose and sucked on my frozen cocktail until the brain freeze hit.
Grant dropped onto the barstool beside me, dark hair perfectly windswept, tropical shirt sleeves showing off tanned forearms that had the lifeguard staring, no blinking arrow needed.
He scooped up the rest of my cherries from the fruit tray, then flashed me a grin that had probably broken more hearts than he’d ever matched.
“You weren’t going to finish these, were you?”
He ate every last one.
My smile was pure corn syrup. “Grant. I thought you had to skip the retreat because you were too busy starring as the villain in a made-for-TV holiday special.”
“And miss catching up in person with my favorite cross-country coworker? I wouldn’t dream of it.” He licked cherry juice from his thumb. “You know, I heard they never recovered your Mustang. Hope you still have your broomstick.”
“Wow,” the bartender said, caught in the polar vortex that swirled around us, no matter the location. “Couples therapy meets on the other side of the island.”
I scoffed. “Couples therapy won’t help. You’d have better luck sitting him down with an exorcist.”
“Enough, you two.” Joan from HR strolled up to the bar and ordered a Mai Tai, then she pulled out an empty barstool. “I’m glad you’re both here. We need to set some ground rules.”
I palmed the cocktail napkin with my poorly drawn map, but not before Grant caught me. One of his dark eyebrows rose. I lifted my chin in defiance.
“We don’t need ground rules,” I said, holding Grant’s gaze. “We need separate islands. I’ll turn in the rest of my vacation days if you strand him on one with nothing but a plastic spoon.”
The bartender delivered Joan’s Mai Tai, then backed away, tapping his chest pocket where he’d placed my card. He mouthed the words I’ll call you.
At least if this island retreat went up in flames, I could still make one couple happy.
Joan shot Grant and me a stern look. “The board won’t tolerate another fiasco like the Christmas-in-July clambake.
Thanks to both of you, fireworks are banned from all future events.
The sparklers aren’t the liability, you are.
” She took a long gulp from her drink, and her gaze went shifty.
“We already tried separating you, and working on opposite coasts hasn’t helped.
So this time, we’re trying a different strategy. ”
My brain flatlined. The tiki hut tilted. “No—”
“Yes.” Joan flicked her wrist, and a file with our names on it appeared, thick as an epic novel.
“For the duration of the retreat, the two of you are required to spend every moment together. You’ll keep individual huts, but they’ll be side by side.
You’ll eat together. You’ll be partners in every team-building exercise. ”
Grant sputtered. “This mandate isn’t in the company handbook.”
Joan’s lips quirked, but her eyes stayed pure HR death glare. She slid a memo printed on company letterhead out of the folder and tapped the page.
“We’ve made an addendum. It’s the Spellman-and-Delaney clause. Non-negotiable.”
She snapped her fingers and conjured two resort keys. “Your belongings have already been moved. The good news is these huts have an ocean view. Consider it an upgrade.”
An upgrade? It was my worst nightmare. The cocktail napkin map and any dreams of fixing my magic with the waterfall would be dead in the actual water if I had Grant Delaney attached to my hip.
This wasn’t over.
I eyed the empty fruit tray with a frown, then pushed off my stool. I was resourceful; some might even say an evil genius when it came to handling Grant.
Plucking my key off the counter, I shoved my sunglasses to the top of my head and gave Grant a friendly wink. It landed with the weight of a wrecking ball. He even jolted as if it had hit him square in the chest.
Good.
I’d play along, score some points with the board, and then ditch Grant long enough to find the waterfall. But first, we had to survive our team-building exercise: tug-of-war.
And who said fate didn’t have a wicked sense of humor?