Grumpaholic: A Grumpy Boss Romance

by Cole, Jagger

  Grumpaholic

  A Grumpy Boss Romance

  Jagger Cole

  Contents

  Grumpaholic

  A Special Present

  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

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by Jagger Cole

  About the Author

  Grumpaholic

  Jagger Cole © 2021

  All rights reserved.

  Cover by Plan 9 Book Design | Editing by MJ Edits

  Proofing by Jessie Stafford, Teshia Elborne

  This is a literary work of fiction. Any names, places, or incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Similarities or resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events or establishments, are solely coincidental.

  * * *

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  * * *

  The unauthorized reproduction, transmission, or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal and a violation of US copyright law.

  Created with Vellum

  Grumpaholic

  I should have destroyed her.

  Instead, I hired her.

  First, she put me on the evening news with a dick in my mouth. No, not a real one; a mural she spray-painted on the wall of one of my buildings. Shaft, balls…the whole veiny thing.

  People call me a grump. A prick. “The most hated man in New York City”, which is really saying something, even if I don’t care. As the most powerful real estate developer in this city, my world is black and white.

  But Ella Veers is the smear of color I never asked for, and never saw coming.

  I’m a classical concerto, she’s a punk-rock anthem. Blue hair, ripped tights, and a sassy brat attitude that gets under my skin and stays there.

  When I hire the tempting little vandal to paint my conference room, I tell myself it’s to sideline her vendetta against my new development. But the truth is, it’s because I crave her.

  She was supposed to be my enemy.

  Instead, she just might be my undoing.

  A Special Present

  The Jagger Cole fans-only newsletter is the first place to hear about new releases, giveaways, and more! Sign up today to grab a free copy of Mr Big - an extra hot billionaire romance not available anywhere else!

  1

  Cormac

  The likeness is uncanny. The face is me alright, only far larger than life and in spray paint across the side of the building. Same eyes. Same jaw. Same hair. The fuckers even got my ears right. They got every detail down like little vandal Michelangelos.

  Every detail except for one small alteration: in real life, I don’t actually have a dick the size of a sports sedan halfway down my fucking throat.

  “I did tell you that you wouldn’t like it.”

  My jaw clenches. My real one, not the larger-than-life one being stretched open by King Kong’s dong on the brick in front of us. Categorically, empirically, no, I don’t like it. No fucking shit I don’t like the six-times-normal-size image of me swallowing a schlong on the side of one of my properties.

  That said, subject matter aside, the painting is very well done.

  Alan clears his throat next to me. “I mean, they really got the details down.”

  “Yeah,” I snarl. “They sure fucking did.”

  Every fucking vein. Every fucking pubic hair.

  “I mean Jesus, the way they got the shading on your jaw, with your mouth like—”

  “If we could stop with the artistic critique, Alan…” I growl deeply.

  My assistant clamps his mouth shut and nods. “Right. Sorry, boss.” He clears his throat. “I’ve already called the building manager. He’s on his way with a technician from the security company.”

  We’re both silent as we look up at the X-rated portrait.

  “I mean, they really nailed your eyes, too—”

  “Alan.”

  “Sorry, yeah, I’m done.”

  A car pulls up behind us. I turn and see Kevan, the building manager, step out of his car.

  “Mr. Heath,” he says breathlessly. His face is pale as he jogs over. “I am so sorry, sir. I’ve already called maintenance. They’re on the way with a paint crew.”

  “Good,” I grunt. “I’d like this gone, immediately.”

  Kevan whistles. He shakes his head. “Jesus, can you imagine someone with a smart phone spotting this and making it viral?”

  My eyes narrow. My jaw clenches even tighter. “Yes, Kevan,” I hiss. “I can. Which is exactly why I’d like it off my fucking building.”

  My building manager pales and nods quickly. “Of course, Mr. Heath.”

  Behind us, a van from Shield Securities pulls up. A guy in uniform steps out, looks up at the wall, and immediately starts to snicker. He’s full-on laughing, still staring at the wall as he walks over.

  “Holy fuck!” The tech laughs. “So who’s the size queen?”

  I grind my teeth. Alan clears his throat nervously. “Um, this is Mr. Heath. He owns the—”

  “Oh shit, that’s who this is!” The technician cracks up. “Heath! That rich developer asshole that everyone hates.”

  Yep, that’s me. Rich developer asshole that everyone hates. Specifically, the richest developer asshole in all of New York that every hates.

  Alan titters nervously. I say nothing, my jaw firmly grinding my molars to powder.

  “Yes, as I was saying, this is Mr. Heath.”

  “Wow, same name as this douche—”

  The technician finally looks down from the wall. His eyes widen with horrified recognition when he sees me.

  “Oh fuck…” he chokes. “Mr. Heath, sir…”

  “The surveillance videos,” I snarl. My eyes narrow down at him. “Now,” I snap.

  “Right, yes, of course Mr. Heath.” He withers under my scowl. “Sir, let me just apologize for—”

  “How about you do your fucking job in the next four seconds, or I’ll make sure you don’t do it ever again,” I grunt. “That work?”

  “Y—yes.” He nods eagerly. “Yes, Mr. Heath, sir.”

  He almost drops the tablet when he pulls it out of his work bag. His hands shake as he taps in the code and brings up an app. “Okay, let me just sync with the cloud… one second.”

  “Quickly,” I snarl. I glance around. Christ, any second now, some cab driver or delivery guy is going to spot this and start taking pictures for the New York Post.

  “Okay, I got it,” he blurts. He’s shaking when he steps closer to me. He turns the screen so that I can see it. He uses a finger to scroll through a video feed before he stops. “Okay, here. They started about four hours ago and ended…” he scrolls some more. “About two hours later.”

  I frown. “These assholes painted all of this in two fucking hours?”

  The technician snorts. “Right? I mean, that’s a lotta…” he catches himself. His face pales. “Uh, paint. That’s a lot of paint.”

  “Kevan,” I snarl under my breath.

  “Yep, let me go call maintenance and see how close they are.�
�

  I turn back to the tech. He’s scrutinizing the screen in his hands closely, frowning.

  “Can you identify them?”

  “Not them.”

  I snarl. “Masks?”

  “Oh, no sir, I mean it’s not ‘them’ plural. I think it’s just one.”

  I stare at him. “One goddamn person painted all of this in two fucking hours?!”

  “Yes. Oh yes,” he adds quickly. “He’s wearing a mask.”

  I swear viciously. Alan and the tech both quaver.

  “Wait, wait, actually…hang on. Let me zoom in.” The tech frowns and pinches the screen. “Yeah, hang on. He screwed up right… oh, shit, I was wrong.”

  I snarl. I bring a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose. My tension headaches are pretty much constant these days. But the current situation is making the pressure surge.

  “So there’s no identifying him.”

  “No, there is, right here. But it’s not a he, sir.” The tech looks up. “It’s a her.”

  “What?”

  I grab the tablet out of his hands. The screen is on a still frame from the surveillance video. I use my fingers to zoom even more, until I suddenly suck in a breath of air.

  Holy shit.

  The little punk is indeed a woman. The mask is covering most of her face, along with a baseball hat pulled low. But in this one shot, she fucked up. She’s looking up, and light from a streetlamp hits her face. I can’t see much. But what I do see is the most piercing, gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen.

  Full, dark lashes. A sassy glint. And a sultry green color. She also has one tendril of hair slipping from under the hat which might be red or auburn. That’s it.

  I growl deeply. My hand tightens on the tablet to the point of almost snapping it. My eyes narrow on those of the alluring little vandal on the screen.

  “Hey! Hey, you!”

  I whirl at Alan’s voice. Shit. Across the street, a woman walking her dog is laughing hysterically with her phone out. She’s staring right at the enormous mural homage to my oral skills. Worse, she’s clearly taking pictures, or filming it.

  A bike messenger suddenly cycles past and slows. He stops the bike next to the woman with the phone and looks up. Predictably, he starts laughing too.

  “Is that…?”

  “It’s that developer guy!” The woman laughs. “The guy everyone hates!”

  “Holy shit, that’s fucking hilarious!” The bike messenger snorts. He whips out his phone. “Heath or something?”

  “Meesh, I think,” the woman chuckles.

  “Um, it’s Heath!” Alan yells tersely.

  I groan and pinch my nose. “Alan,” I snarl through my migraine. “They’re not introducing me at a fucking gala.”

  He winces. “Shit, sorry boss. I got carried…”

  “And where the fuck is that goddamn paint crew, Kevan!” I snap at the building manager. On cue, a van pulls up, and the guys start to pile out. Instantly, they all start to laugh when they see the wall. But Kevan rushes over. Instantly, they all clam up and shoot me quick, frightened looks.

  “I need you on damage control, Alan,” I mutter. “Call Jonas at the Post. Fiona at the Times in case they go there.” I glance at him. “And Buzzfeed.”

  “Um, Breanna and I broke up…”

  “Does it look like I give a shit, Alan?” I growl. “Suck it up and call her. We need to get ahead of this.”

  “On it, boss.”

  I turn back to Kevan as he hustles over with the paint crew. “I need this gone an hour ago,” I snarl at them. “Understand?”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Heath,” the paint foreman nods quickly. He and his guys immediately start unpacking ladders and gallons of paint. I turn and fold my arms across my chest. I look up at the wall and growl to myself.

  “Hey! Hey Heath!” I frown. I glance back across the street and hiss. The dog walker and the biker have been joined by two drunk girls in party dresses and a cab driver, all laughing with their phones out. The cab driver is leaning out his window grinning right at me.

  “Hey Heath!” He cackles again. “Suck a dick!”

  The whole group of them starts to crack up. My mouth thins. I turn back to a pale looking Alan.

  “Uh, boss…”

  “The press, Alan,” I snarl. The sound is like nails being ground into powder. “And then find her.”

  “Who?”

  “Her,” I snap. I jab a finger at the still image on the tablet.

  I want the girl who just put a mural of me without a gag reflex all over tomorrow’s six o-clock news. I want her, and then I’m going to destroy her.

  2

  Ella

  “You look like shit, Ella.”

  I frown at my boss. “Excuse me?”

  Tania sighs. “I said you look like shit, hon.”

  I’d tell her she can’t really say that to people. But she won’t care. It’s like how she adds shit like “hon” or “sweetie” after she rudely insults you. It’s so annoying. But Tania is also untouchable here. She’s been working at Brewing Grounds coffee house longer than I’ve probably even been alive.

  “Um, sorry?” I grumble. I slip my apron on. But before I can walk out of the back room into the cafe, she puts a hand on my arm.

  “Could you maybe put some more concealer on? You’ve got bags down to your shoulders, sweetie.”

  I’m tempted to give my manager an earful of my troubles—that I have to work overtime hours at this stupid café to basically break even financially. I mean I knew I wasn’t going to be rich being a painter in life. But it’s getting a little ridiculous.

  I don’t say anything though. To be fair, I’m not tired because I worked last night. Well, not because I worked here. I look like a raccoon because of my little excursion last night. I actually grin a little when I think about it. It might not be Monet, but the mural last night was definitely some of my best work.

  Too bad it’s probably already painted over. I’m hoping it’ll play out on the news at some point today though.

  “Sorry, Tania. I was just working on a project late last night.”

  “Ahh, right, right. The drawings.”

  “Paintings.”

  “Huh?” She frowns.

  “They’re paintings… never mind. Sorry I’m tired-looking. It won’t happen again.”

  “Coffee is supposed to perk people up, Ella. And you represent coffee when you work here. When you look tired, it’s like you’re selling Chanel while wearing H&M. Get me?”

  “Perfectly,” I smile thinly.

  “Okay, great talk, hon.”

  “Yeah, awesome,” I grumble as I duck behind the counter. I tap Jen to relieve her at the espresso machine. At least I’m on the schedule making drinks today, not taking orders. Tania might be obnoxious, but I know I look exhausted. Because I am.

  “Double macchiato!” Petra calls from the register.

  “Double macchiato,” I mumble back. I get to work tamping out an espresso shot and foaming some milk. My mind wanders back to my activities last night, and I smirk. Even if it’s probably already painted over, that visual is definitely hitting the news today. Good, I grumble to myself. It’s the least that smug piece of shit deserves.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I glance down and slide it halfway out. We’re not supposed to be on phones behind the counter. But Tania’s busy doing payroll in the backroom. It’s a text from my Grandpa Jules.

  YOU NEED TO SEE THIS! IT IS VERY FUNNY.

  It’s followed by a link to the New York Post’s website. I grin. My grandpa hasn’t really grasped that writing in all-caps is like the typing equivalent of yelling in someone’s face. So he’s decided it’s what you use when you’re excited.

  I click the link. The screen switches over to my browser, then the article comes up. Instantly, I start to laugh loudly. My whole face glows. There it is. My art, on the front fucking page of the New York Post.

  They’ve censored it obviously. But it’s pretty clear what it depic
ts. There he is, the king douchebag himself with his lips wrapped around a comically gargantuan dick. I laugh to myself until Petra calls out another order.

  “Vanilla latte!” I giggle back. I might be tired, but it was all worth it. While the milk is foaming, I slip my phone out and text my gramps back.

  Too funny!! :P I hope he brought his appetite!

  LAUGHING OUT LOUD! My grandpa sends back. Yeah, he hasn’t really gotten a handle on LOL yet, either.

  Grampa Jules is the reason I did what I did last night. It was a little risky, but worth it. Plus, there’s no way I’ll be caught. For one, I wore a mask over my mouth and nose, and a hat pulled low. I even dressed like a guy to throw anyone off in case I got spotted by a camera. Plus, if they’ve got a suspect list, it’s going to be a mile long.

  The whole freaking city hates Cormac Heath. I mean, it’s not like he makes it hard. No one but the rich really ever likes developers. Especially the kind that goes into low-income neighborhoods and “gentrifies” them. Which everyone knows is code for “kick the poor people out and make room for obnoxiously expensive condos and snobby coffee shops.” Like this one, actually.

  Five years ago, this neighborhood had a vibrant street art scene. There were two venues that only hosted underground indie and hip-hop bands. Rent was affordable.

  Then, Cormac Heath planted his flag. He bought up half the storefronts and most of the apartment buildings. Two Starbucks, an Apple Store, and a Prada store later, it’s yuppie central.