Page 3 of The Grump’s Assistant

VINCENT

I should fire her.

I should call her back and tell her not to bother with the dry cleaning. This whole situation is already messed up with HR, whatever the fuck happened there, and now she’s late. And sassy.

And I hate it. Or, I should hate it. No one talks back to me. Admittedly, not many people talk to me in general, but when they do, it’s with the respect I’ve earned over the years.

Not Ms. Leigh, however. She accused me of having high standards, as if that were a bad thing. Of course, I expect perfection from my employees. I expect it from myself, too. Juniper better get used to that if she wants to keep this job.

No, not Juniper. Ms. Leigh. No use getting too familiar with the woman who will likely be out of a job by the end of the day. A twinge of something pierces my chest, but I clear my throat and ignore it. Why does the thought of sending her away make it hard to breathe?

It’s just stress. I usually thrive off of the frantic energy in the investment world.

Everyone is out to make a buck, and I happen to be very good at turning other people’s money into more money, while taking a percentage for myself.

Lately, though, I’ve been feeling… Well, that’s just it. I’ve been feeling.

And I don’t like it.

Drumming my fingers on my desk, I clear my throat and look around my office.

Navy blue walls, solid oak furniture, and not a trace of art or personal touches, just the way I like it.

This is a room with no distractions. It does little good for me now though as I try to focus on the mountain of work in front of me.

Numbers, I understand. Algorithms, patterns, probability formulas, I can easily figure out. Once you have one piece of the puzzle, the rest fall into place. I happen to make a lot of money off of being the first person to find all the pieces of the puzzle.

People, on the other hand, are infuriating and not worth my time.

I talk to clients only when I absolutely have to, usually in a quarterly meeting to report how fat their bank accounts are.

Everything else is handled by the cogs in the great machine I’ve built, including hiring decisions.

I’ve never met Juni— Ms. Leigh, and I’ll likely never meet her.

Even if she stays on, I don’t interact with my employees face to face on a regular basis. Phone and email only. That’s my policy.

There it is again. That tightness in my chest. I grind the heel of my hand down on the sore spot, hoping to somehow wipe it away. This… feeling has been lodged in my throat for weeks now, but it gets worse when I think about sending the sassy woman with no respect for my time away.

Like I said, I don’t care much for other people. My circle of trusted individuals is very small. In fact, there’s really just one person, Cutter Morgan, and we only talk a few times a year. He’s the only person I take advice from, and that’s probably because he doesn’t offer it very often.

Cutter and I met almost fifteen years ago when we were freshmen at NYU.

We shared a dorm room, and though we’re opposites in a lot of ways, Cutter and I actually got along.

The two of us differ on almost everything, from what motivates us to how we dress.

I’ve always been clean-cut and focused on climbing the corporate ladder, so to speak. Cutter, on the other hand…

I can picture his ripped jeans, messy hair, and perma-scowl now.

He moved to New York City from his small mountain town on the other side of the country, and regretted the decision almost instantly.

I convinced him to stick it out for the rest of the year and really give this city a chance, but ultimately I knew the mountain man would return home when classes let out.

Cutter went on his own journey while I built an empire. I don’t care about the money, as long as it keeps flowing. What I’m really interested in is figuring out the systems in place and using them to my advantage. Nothing illegal, of course. I’m just playing the game, and I’m very good at it.

But lately, I’ve been restless. No, that’s not the right word. I’m agitated and on edge, but there’s something else. Something deeper. Something I don’t want to name, but can’t ignore forever.

I’m lonely.

There. I said it. “Weak fucking piece of shit,” I snarl at myself before slamming my laptop shut.

I don’t need anyone. My old man would laugh at me if he knew the thoughts flying through my head.

He’s told me throughout the years that the only thing holding him back from reaching greatness was being saddled with a family.

When I first told Cutter that sentiment when we were in college, he said it was the most tragic thing he’s ever heard.

To me, however, it always made sense. You only have so many hours in each day, and a limited number of days in this life.

Ergo, if you want to be great at something, you must sacrifice everything else.

I’ve never had a problem with that before. All of my time and energy has gone into building up Sloan Investments, and I don’t regret it one bit. Sometimes, though, I want… more.

Not more money. Not notoriety. Certainly not another photoshoot for most blah blah blah bachelor of the year. That was a nightmare. I only recently stopped receiving calls and emails from women who want me to put a ring on their finger and end the bachelor life. I never responded to a single one.

No, I want something meaningful. Something real. Something… some one who sees the man behind the numbers. Whoever he is. I sure as hell don’t know, but maybe the right person could bring him out.

My cell phone rings, making me spit out another curse. “What?” I snap. I’ve already wasted enough time between talking with Ms. Leigh and spiraling this morning.

“Mr. Sloan, it’s Juniper.”

That voice. Christ, I thought I was just imagining how sweet and rich it sounded earlier, but no.

Hearing my name tumble from her lips has a certain part of me hardening to the point of pain.

The throbbing fucker in my pants hasn’t risen to the occasion in years.

One word from Juniper’s honeyed voice, however, and I fear I may never go soft again.

“Yes,” I bite out, grinding my teeth together to push back the wave of lust threatening to drown me.

“How’s your morning going?”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it. How’s my morning going?

“Why?” I ask before I can think better of it. No one asks me questions, let alone trivial ones. Who cares how my morning is as long as I’m making money?

Juniper sighs and I wonder what her breath would feel like against my skin. Jesus, I need to get it together. This isn’t like me. Maybe I need a vacation.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot earlier and I wanted to break the ice a bit,” she says easily.

I hear cars buzzing by in the background, along with the usual chorus of honking that comes with traffic in New York City.

“I acknowledge my part in you having a rough start, but I hope I didn’t ruin your day. ”

“You don’t have the power to ruin my day,” I inform her in an icy tone.

She answers my gruffness with the softest, sweetest little giggle. It sounds like fucking tinkling bells or some shit. I hate how it eases the tension in my shoulders and makes my heart clang against my ribcage.

“I beg to differ, Mr. Sloan.”

Fuck me, every time she calls me that I want to jump through the phone and strip her naked. I have no clue what she looks like, but that doesn’t seem to matter to my unruly dick.

“I happen to have three very expensive and pristinely clean suits that could easily find their way to a Goodwill.”

I growl and open my mouth to yell at her, but she continues.

“Kidding!” Juniper says with another little laugh. “I wouldn’t give your suits away. Especially after talking to that sweet old man and getting you a discount.”

She’s teasing me. I can’t say that’s ever happened before. The rest of her sentence catches up to me. “Mr. Santori? Sweet? Did you go to the wrong address?”

Juniper sighs, though I think she’s more amused than upset. I shouldn’t know that about her, but I feel connected to her somehow. She’s intriguing, that’s for sure. It’s been a long damn time since anything or anyone has interested me.

“I went to the correct address, thankyouverymuch ,” she says with all the attitude she can muster.

Why doesn’t that piss me off? I told her I expected her to do her job without sassing me. Then again, she told me I have ridiculously high expectations.

“And I had a chat with Mr. Santori. Honestly, he’s not that scary. Grumpy, for sure, but you just have to know how to get him to open up. Find some common ground, you know?”

“And what do you and a seventy-year-old man who owns a dry cleaning business have in common?” I didn’t mean to ask the question. It just slipped out. Clicking and unclicking the pen in my free hand, I wait for her response. It irks me, how much I want to hear her voice.

“Italy!” Juniper exclaims. I can hear her smile.

It’s absurd, I know, but true. “Did you know Mr. Santori immigrated to America when he was just sixteen? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy, and he was eager to tell me about his home country.

Plus, now I have the inside scoop on the best hidden gems in Milan. ”

I grunt, not sure what to do with her words.

Mr. Santori is notorious for two things.

First, owning the best and fastest dry cleaners in the city.

And second, for not speaking to his customers.

Most people think he either doesn’t know English and never cared to learn.

Others think his store is a front for the mob and he’s sworn to silence.

Now I know the truth. The old man likes people as much as I do.

He also seems to have a soft spot for snarky, nosey women.