Mr. Grumpy Boss (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss Book 1) Read online

  Mr. Grumpy Boss

  Alphalicious Billionaires Boss

  Lindsey Hart

  CONTENTS

  CONTENTS

  COPYRIGHT

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  EPILOGUE

  HOT JERK

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  COPYRIGHT

  All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or electronic, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, or transmitted by email without permission in writing from the publisher. While all attempts and efforts have been made to verify the information held within this publication, neither the author nor the publisher assumes any responsibility for errors, omissions, or opposing interpretations of the content herein. The book is for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed are those of the author alone and should not be taken as expert instruction or commands.

  Copyright © Passion House Publishing Ltd 2020

  All rights reserved.

  Edits by Charmaine Tan. Cover by Cosmic Letterz.

  You can contact Lindsey Hart at:

  [email protected]

  BOOK DESCRIPTION

  My boss saw it...

  The diary where I wrote all the hot shit about him.

  By shit, I really mean SHIT.

  Like the highest degree of criticism you will ever find.

  I couldn't help it, okay.

  It's pretty stressful working for the jerk,

  And I needed a place to vent.

  I just never thought I'll be stupid enough to accidentally hand over the notebook from heaven hell to him.

  Guess I might as well start writing my resignation letter.

  Because there will definitely be no mercy from the Devil.

  Or so, I thought.

  Instead, Mr. Grumps comes back with more orders.

  And no, they were not orders about reformatting his documents for the nth time.

  If I wanted to keep my job, I had to pretend.

  Pretend not to hate him.

  Pretend to be head over heels in love with him.

  Pretend to be his girlfriend.

  Hell, the devil really knows how to strike his bargain.

  Now, I had to choose.

  Which one would be worst?

  Losing my hard-earned job or inviting the Devil into my life as my "boyfriend"?

  CHAPTER 1

  Sutton

  Dear Electronic Diary Thingy,

  My boss, as usual, is a giant, epic, total, gargantuan, MASSIVE, pain in the ass.

  Okay, that’s nothing new. I have enough evidence stored away in all your saved files by now that this point is just a given. I’m not going to delete it because it gives me satisfaction to vent, which I guess is what this whole project is about. Granny told me to write. So, I’m writing. Yes, I’m pointedly ignoring the fact that Granny also said Philippe Wilson isn’t just an ass—he also has a nice ass. And that if she was fifty years younger, she might have considered getting remarried again. Or at least entertain naughty thoughts. *Shiver*. Thinking about Granny having naughty thoughts about my boss is just about the grossest, most unnatural thing in the universe. I’d rather think naughty thoughts of my own. Like how to get back at said boss for giving me two different cost report sheets to complete by Monday at five minutes to five on a Friday. When I fetch him his sandwiches every single day, I already get the full-fat mayo instead of light mayo. He’s never complained. That’s about the extent my evil goes. I know. #SadAF. That’s me. So yes, come Monday, I had those reports done. I also never complain when Philippe—who by the way isn’t even French but likes to say his name like he is even though his last name is Wilson, which is also clearly NOT French—gives me his credit card statements with like a thousand charges and two receipts to try and reconcile. Nope. I never say a thing.

  I leave my cursor blinking on the next line and stare at the white screen until my eyes threaten to drop out of my head and roll onto the carpet. Yes. They’re that dry.

  I finally tear my eyes away to glance down at the keyboard. I hover my finger over the delete button, but leave it there, like a gentle caress. Yup. My keyboard is about the only thing I’ve gently caressed lately. And no, my lack of a love life doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that I live with my eighty-four-year-old grandmother. The house is Granny’s, but that’s not the issue. I have my own basement. I pay her rent. I do have my own life. So, no, it’s not like that. Really. I’m twenty-seven. Independent. I have a good, well-paying job, even if I don’t like it very much. I have a Business Degree. I have a life. I just don’t have a love life.

  Maybe it’s Granny’s example that did me in. She was always my favorite person in the world. My parents both worked, and they were always really busy, so I spent a lot of time with Granny growing up. This included my entire summer vacation every single year, but I’m not complaining. I had the time of my life. Granny and I golfed. She taught me how to play the guitar and the organ. She gave me my love of garage sales and thrift stores, and she honed me into a lean, mean, card-playing machine. She also taught me how to shoot whiskey. Okay, that one was later.

  Most of all, she taught me that I could be a woman in this world and make it on my own. My grandpa died when I was four, so Granny’s been on her own for twenty-three years. She never wanted to remarry. She never even went on another date. She loved my grandpa, but she also tells me that after he died, she had to start living life on her own, doing everything for herself, and after she got used to it, she never wanted to go back.

  I have my own little office here, even if it is the size of a tiny little broom closet, but it does give me the advantage of four walls and privacy. When footsteps sound in the hall, I quickly click save on the vent piece I was working on and clear it off my screen. A second later, Cherry, our receptionist, pops her head in the door. She’s blonde, in her early twenties, and gets really worked up when Philippe turns into an office tyrant. P.S. He acts this way most of the day.

  When Philippe isn’t yelling, he likes to pretend that he can’t actually talk. He goes all silent and broody, and it’s creepy. Basically, it fits his personality. He has a broody name. He has long, jet black hair. Like, shoulder-length. His chiseled features—and what I like to call pretty nose and lips—are totally at odds with the rest of his body. Not that he’s not chiseled there, because heck yes he is, but he’s tall and broad and jacked in a way that makes women salivate all over before they realize what an ass he can be.

  I mean, it’s simple to me, really. Hot guys are always assholes. No exception.

  I wouldn’t have taken the job if I had known Philippe Wilson was going to be my boss. I used to work for a nice older gentleman who was soft-spoken, thoughtful, and a great all-around human being. Jack went by the wayside after the company’s owner, Nathanial Wilson, died in a car accident, and his son decided he was going to take over and that bei
ng a tyrant around the office all day was obviously the best way to help people invest their money.

  “It’s—oh—my—it’s…” Cherry is out of breath, panting all over the place, and her face is flushed scarlet.

  Before she continues, I shove my chair back. “I’m coming,” I sigh. We don’t need words for this. I already know what’s going on.

  Cherry decides to fill me in anyway. “It was the board meeting. It went—bad—I think—I mean, I heard…shouting. Lots—of—shouting.”

  I set a hand on her shoulder. “It’s alright. Hide out here. Take a breath. I have candy hidden in my desk. Second drawer from the top.”

  “It’s bad,” she pants. “Seriously. Bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “He’s in his office with his head between his legs.”

  Shitlicker. Don’t ask me what that is. For some reason, it’s Granny’s favorite curse. When I was four, she once referred to some teenage kid who was driving a jacked-up truck and happened to jump the curb and do a half doughnut rollover on the front lawn as a ‘shitlicker,’ and since then, the term has been embedded in my brain.

  It’s not directed at Philippe. I think I’m the only person in the whole office who knows he has full-blown panic attacks. I might wish I was heartless when it comes to him, but I’m not. I’m too nice. So while the rest of the office thinks he’s raging and leaves him alone, I know that head between the legs means something else. It means he can’t breathe. Panic attacks are scary. They’re not funny, and they’re not something I’d wish on anyone.

  I leave Cherry in my office and run, yes, full-on sprint, across the office to the more luxurious side of the building where all the bigwigs have their even more luxurious offices. I mean, seriously. Philippe’s office opens to a solarium garden thing with a pond, trees and plants, and actual freaking butterflies. No, I’m not kidding. Yes, the other execs get to enjoy it too, but Philippe actually had it built when he acquired ownership of the company.

  Philippe’s door is open, and I rush in, shutting it and locking it behind me. I’ve been his assistant for three years. I know he doesn’t want the rest of the world to see this. I blame him for a lot of things, but not for this.

  “Philippe…” I rush over to his desk. He’s not sitting in his chair anymore. He’s on the floor with his back against the wall, knees tucked up, arms wrapped around them.

  Seeing your boss, who is six foot three and two hundred and some pounds, huddled into the world’s smallest human ball, gasping for air with his face burning red and tears streaming down his cheeks—because it takes some serious effort to get air into the lungs when this is going down, but also because not being able to breathe is scary as hell—kinda pulls a little on my heartstrings.

  I’m sorry sometimes that I’m a natural caregiver. Granny says I have a heart of gold. She also says I’m way too nice and it’s going to get me in trouble. She also says I should befriend the mice that move under the stairs outside whenever it gets too cold out.

  “It’s going to be okay.” I set my hand on Philippe’s shoulder and rub it in little circles.

  He’s soaked right through the blue dress shirt he’s wearing. The fabric is damp but warm. I can feel the ridges of his shoulder and neck muscles. They’re bunched up tightly, and no, this is not an intimate oh my god I’m touching my boss’ muscles kind of a moment.

  Now that I’m here, his head jerks up, and he looks me in the eye. His eyes are this strange steel grey color, but because he’s wearing a blue shirt, they look a little more blue than grey at the moment. They’re also very wide and fringed with thick and dark black lashes. My boss has really nice eyes. Even now. Even though they’re red-rimmed, and his nostrils are flaring, his lips are parted and gaping, and he’s trying to suck at the air. Fish out of water comes to mind. It’s not pretty.

  “Hey.” I fill my lungs and let it out. I do it again. “You know what this is. You are in control. It doesn’t feel like it, but you are. You’re in control of your body. Your breath. You can breathe. Don’t panic. It’s okay. You are going to be okay. Just watch me. Slow, deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. It feels like you can’t, but you can. I promise.”

  I inhale deeply and let my breath out. In again. Out again. “I know this isn’t about being calm, but there’s nothing to worry about. Just focus on your breath.” I keep rubbing slow circles on his shoulder. When he leans away from the wall, I smooth my hand down his back. His shirt is soft. Damp, but still soft. Good quality. Of course, it is. The guy’s a freaking billionaire. He drives to work every day in a three hundred thousand dollar import. I know. I looked it up.

  Philippe draws in an unsteady breath, but then he drags in another. Another deeper one. He lets it out. Rasps in another. His face is less red now, so I grab the box of tissues on the desk, grab a couple, and without even thinking about it because I’ve done this before, I swipe at the moisture on his cheeks and press the tissues into his palm.

  I know his water bottle is on the desk—some fancy reusable thing—so I snatch it and thrust it at him. “Water?”

  Now that he’s breathing better, he takes it from me, unscrews the cap, and chugs it back like he’s been walking in the desert for the past ten years, and this is the first real water he’s had in ages.

  I know this isn’t the time, but I’ve known the guy for years. I book just about everything for him, including dentist appointments and suit fittings. I can’t help it. “Do you need me to book an appointment somewhere? This is happening more often. Twice this week. That’s not—that’s not healthy as far as I know. There are medications for anxiety, and whatever else is going on. I think you should talk to someone.”

  Philippe doesn’t look at me. He stares at his super-expensive water bottle that probably promised the planting of new trees and fairy farts or something when he overpaid for it. “I’m fine.” He somehow manages to muster up some dignity to say that while he loosens his blue silk tie at the same time. “There was an issue with the report you sent me, and it was pointed out to me in our board meeting. Line fourteen. Could you fix it and resend it so that I don’t look like a moron?”

  “A moron?” I want to laugh. He does a good job of that all on his own, tyrant-ing his very fine ass around the office all week. “If I made a mistake, you could point out that it was my fault.”

  “Just fix it. Please,” he grinds, surprising me.

  I sigh. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Just stressed.”

  As far as I know, people don’t have weekly panic attacks from stress, but then again, what do I know? Maybe they do. I know a few things about anxiety, but not much. I’m not at a level where a run or a talk with Granny or just a hot bath and a good book can’t help calm me down. People would say that’s not anxiety, so yeah. Maybe I know nothing.

  “I’m worried.” I didn’t mean to let it out, but the words are there. In the air. Between us.

  Philippe’s eyes widened. They’re intense today. So blue they could pierce right through me. My eyes stray to the tie that he just worked open a little. Silk. Soft. Expensive. I imagine that tie around my wrists. My eyes flutter to Philippe’s lips. He has nice lips. He’d probably be a good kisser.

  Whoa. What the heck is that? Where did all that come from?

  My ovaries must be going on a serious malfunction all of a sudden. Maybe this is what everyone means when they talk about the biological clock. All of a sudden, my body is having crazy thoughts involving my boss—a boss who might be hot as sin but is seriously not nice. I’ve never had one sexual thought about him before. I might have noticed he’s gorgeous, but then, I have eyes. Right now, it’s like a switch has been flipped on all of a sudden, leaving me hot and shivery all over.

  I swallow hard. Philippe’s throat bobs too. “I’m fine,” he says evenly, but he looks unguarded. This might be the most human moment I’ve ever shared with him.

  “Okay.” I shove myself up to my feet, suddenly crazy eager to be out of there. I think my
hormones are going through their own panic attack, and distance is the best thing to get it straightened out. Well, at least I hope so. Because thoughts about my boss and his lips have no bearing in my life unless he wants to kiss my butt, and no, I’m not serious about that either. It just sounds nice.

  Not that kind of nice.

  Jesus. I’m crazy.

  “I’ll have the reports to you in an hour.”

  I run out of the office as fast as I ran in. I shut the door behind me for extra privacy, and when I get back to my office, it’s empty. The drawer I told Cherry about is missing a cherry sucker. It was the last one left. Damn it. I slam the drawer shut.

  Pulling up the report that I did over the weekend, I look it over. Everything seems fine to me. After an hour of research, I finally realize I forgot a zero on line fourteen. Jeez. Nothing like not allowing a person to be human here. I save the report and exit out of it.

  Opening up my email, I blindly attach it, fumble in my desk for an orange sucker because it’s the next best thing, and fire it off.

  I lean back in my chair and try to tell myself I’m not rattled, both about the panic attack that just went down and about my strange reaction back there in Philippe’s office.

  “Shit!” My eyes fly open, and I nearly leap out of my chair.

  I’m in such a hurry that I nearly fall out of the dang office chair. I scramble to bring up my sent emails. My orange sucker falls out of my mouth and lands in my lap. It sticks to the leg of my best pair of dress pants, but that’s the least of my worries.

  Because I just realized I didn’t attach the report I fixed. Nope. There is no Data for Monthly Report attached.

  But there is a Diary Therapy Thingy.

  I attached the freaking diary I’ve been working on for the past two months. My diary.

  My. Life. Is. Officially. Over.

  CHAPTER 2