Grumpy Romance : A Romantic Comedy (Billionaire Dads)

HOLLAND

“Does Miss Jones seem… alright to you?”

Ezekiel stops in his tracks and stares at me as if my head has been replaced with a giant lizard.

I stare calmly at my laptop, my glasses perched on the edge of my nose and my fingers clacking away at the keyboard.

Multi-tasking is not in my skillset. I’m typing studiously, but the words appearing on-screen are not of the English language. Perhaps to aliens in some far-off galaxy, I’m penning the most riveting prose but…

“Excuse me?”

“She fetched my coffee without a retort.”

“And?”

“Without a word, Ezekiel.”

“Wouldn’t you call that… progress, sir?”

“Progress?”

“Miss Jones is acclimating to her position as your second assistant. Why are we discussing the matter like it’s a problem?”

“You’re right.” I shake my head. “Forget I said anything.”

Ezekiel gives me a long look. “Anything else, sir?”

I wave him out.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, I yank my hands away from my laptop and pick up the mug of coffee Kenya delivered to my office.

Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but I’m quite certain her temperament was off today. She didn’t snap at me. Didn’t glare. Didn’t scowl.

Despite adding more to her workload thanks to a potential partnership with a famous subscription company, she hasn’t made a peep.

Her emails in reply to my task list were succinct. No superlatives in sight. No hint of underlying sarcasm.

It’s unlike her.

I rub the back of my neck, trying to figure out what the problem might be. Her ex-boyfriend, perhaps? Or is it something else?

What are you thinking, Holland? Why do you care about her private affairs?

I rip my glasses from my face and throw it on the desk. I’ve got back-to-back meetings. I’m juggling two extremely demanding companies. My head feels like it’s about to snap in half. I don’t have time to worry about my second assistant and her sudden mood swing.

Ezekiel knocks on the door. “Mr. Alistair, you have a visitor.”

“No need to announce me so vaguely, Ezekiel.” Darrel’s voice barrels through the door that’s open a crack. “He’ll see me whether he’s busy or not.”

I sigh heavily as my brother-in-law appears. “You made good on your threat.”

“Only because you were rude enough to not return my calls.” Darrel strides into my office and takes a seat in the chair across from my desk. He’s tall and broad with thick black hair and green eyes, so much like Claire’s.

Darrel is four years older than me. Though he’s never been in the military, he comes from a long line of servicemen. Hints of his upbringing are everywhere. Shoulders ramrod straight. Back more rigid than a metal pipe.

His eyes flash with annoyance. “You can’t keep avoiding your sessions.”

“If I knew you’d harass me for years to come, I wouldn’t have agreed to see you in the first place.”

“Free therapy is one of the many benefits of joining our family.”

“Is it a benefit?” I run a hand down my face. “It feels more like a prison sentence.”

“That sarcasm. Is it new? I don’t remember you being that witty.”

I glare at him.

He glares right back.

I give up first. “Aren’t you supposed to ask how I’m feeling?”

“Sometimes. And sometimes, I take the liberty of giving you a swift kick up the backside.”

“I’ll have your license revoked.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

We stop for another glaring session.

A knock on the door cuts it short.

Kenya steps in. Her eyes are downcast and her fingers are folded in front of her. She’s wearing a simple white button-down and a short pencil skirt. Her hair is pulled back in a bun and her lips are set in a thin line.

“Oh.” She stops short when she sees Darrel. It’s the first spark of life I’ve seen in her eyes since she came to work. “I didn’t know you had a guest.”

Darrel gives her a gruff nod, but there’s something beneath it too. A hint of interest.

I don’t like it.

“Where’s Ezekiel?” I bark.

“I’m not sure.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s not at his desk.”

He must be getting tea for Darrel. The traitor. He knows I won’t be able to kick my brother-in-law out and he’s preparing for us to have a long conversation.

“Miss Jones,” Darrel swings his arm over the back of the chair and twists his body so he’s facing her, “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“And you have no reason to,” I growl.

Darrel ignores me. “Are you new here?”

“Yes.” Her eyes dart to me. “I’m Mr. Alistair’s second assistant.”

Darrel swings his head around. “You need a second assistant?”

“She’s only assisting with Belle’s Beauty.”

“I see.”

I hate when he says that.

“What do you need, Miss Jones?”

“Your approval for the Belle’s Beauty in-store promotion. The PR team is waiting for your signature.”

“I haven’t had a chance to look over the proposal yet.”

Her lips tighten. A sure sign of her displeasure. “Fine. I’ll wait until you have the time.”

Is that a hint of annoyance I hear? I’m relieved to see the steel back in her eyes, but I’m equally frustrated to have it aimed at me.

This woman drives me insane.

“You may go, Miss Jones.”

With a sober nod, she backs out of the room and slams the door shut.

I frown.

Darrel gives me another probing look. “Who is she?”

“No one.”

“Why did you hire another assistant?”

“Because I needed assistance.”

“Obviously.”

“She has a good track record. I made the call.”

“Then why do you look so guilty?”

“You’re seeing things.”

“Am I?”

“Why are we discussing this right now?”

“There’s more. I can feel it.” He squints at me. “You trust her with Claire’s business.”

I stop and let out a deep breath. “You’re psychoanalyzing me.”

“We’re having a conversation.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“You want to.”

“I don’t ask questions I already know the answer to.”

“This isn’t your practice, Darrel.”

“I hate meeting patients there anyway. Meeting you on your own turf is better. It forces you to confront things you wouldn’t have.”

“Screw you.”

He sinks into his chair, unconcerned. “The human mind is complex, which is why I never tire of studying it. I don’t know your mind, Holland. But I know two things for sure. You’re not fine. And you don’t look at Miss Jones as if she’s only your assistant.”

I want to punch the smugness right off his face.

“Are you still having nightmares?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

I frown at him. “Therapists are supposed to be soft and gentle.”

“I didn’t know you had a Masters degree in psychotherapy, Alistair.”

“I’m busy.”

“And avoiding my question.” He rises and brushes his shirt down. “If you won’t talk, I’ll have to seek out Miss Jones and ask her a few questions on my own. Make sure you’re not bullying her from a position of authority.”

“I’m not a bully.”

“Have you read the online articles?”

“How about you pay less attention to the tabloids and more to patients who need your actual help?”

“The people who need the most help are typically the ones who won’t ask for it.” He gestures to me. “If you can’t sleep, you can drop by for a prescription. It won’t stop the nightmares though. It’s only a temporary solution.”

“Darrel.”

He stops in the doorway.

I glance aside. “Come over for dinner this weekend. Belle misses you.”

“I will.” A flash of emotion passes through his stoic face. And then it’s gone. Without another word, Darrel leaves my office.

Ezekiel walks in with a tray and two mugs on top of it. “You chased him off so quickly?”

I scowl. “Tell Miss Jones I need to see her.”

“Alright.” He turns around.

“Leave the coffee.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes.”

Ezekiel gives me a quizzical look, sets the tray on the coffee table and shuffles away.

I fold my hands beneath my chin and wait. Darrel doesn’t know how to crack a smile, much less a joke. The moment he hinted about talking to Kenya, I knew it was a warning.

I’m going to do all I can to prevent that. I don’t need my brother-in-law of all people, sniffing out the conflicted feelings Miss Jones brings out in me.

“Mr. Alistair.” Kenya steps into the room.

I point to a chair.

She folds herself into it and stares at me with sorrowful brown eyes. It bothers me. The lack of warmth. The lack of sunshine. She was a walking flame. Anyone could see it. Feel it. But now, it seems like someone smothered it out.

I nudge the coffee toward her. “The Yazmite project is doing well.”

“It’s only a three-day burst in sales. I wouldn’t get excited yet.”

I tilt my head. Why so dour, Miss Jones?

“Is that all?”

“No.” I point my pen at her. “I’d like you to accompany me to the Baby Box meeting.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I lift my coffee mug and inhale. The fragrance is rich. Decadent. Ezekiel always gives Darrel the good stuff.

“This is our first cooperation with a company outside our demographic. Have you heard of Baby Box?”

“No.”

“They’re akin to high-level curators for the wealthy. A monthly subscription box with the best products. Their focus is on safe and environmentally-friendly brands. They target customers who don’t care about price. And Belle’s Beauty fits that bill.”

She nods.

“It’s a multi-million dollar contract.”

Her eyes bug.

“But the money is just a bonus. A partnership with Baby Box would be a huge boost to our brand. We’ll be able to establish a presence in a growing market. It’s a demographic we haven’t had much luck breaking into. We need to stick the landing here.”

“They haven’t yet decided to go with our brand?” She leans forward.

I note the way she says ‘our’ brand. It makes my chest tighten in a strange way. “No, we’re still in the negotiation phase. The PR team will be meeting with them next week. We’re preparing a presentation that must guarantee a deal.”

“What do you need from me?” Her nose scrunches.

I study her. “What do you think?”

“Am I the errand girl? Do I get coffee for everyone? Buy your food? Go back to dating the printer?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

“First, I need you to drink that.”

Her brown eyes drop to the coffee. “Why?”

I arch both eyebrows.

She sighs, picks up the coffee and drinks. “Happy?”

“I’ll need you to liaison with the PR team while they’re working on the presentation. You’ll attend all the meetings and send me a summary of the pitch. I have the final say, but their input is invaluable. For you personally,” I tent my fingers, “I’d like information on the Baby Box brand. I want to know what makes them tick.”

Her fingers tighten around the coffee cup. “I can do that.” She takes another sip. Her eyes flutter closed and her mouth eases into a soft smile. “That’s good.”

Her smile is a little ray of sunshine poking through the clouds. It’s not quite the beam of light that I’ve seen her use when she’s leaving the office, but it’s better than before.

Her eyes open and her gaze catches mine. “I think it’s a really good move to partner with Baby Box.” She squints into her cup. “And this is good coffee.”

“Is it?”

“It’s amazing.” She takes a more exuberant sip. “My goodness. What is in this?”

“Ezekiel won’t tell me. He says it’s better if I don’t know.”

“My eyes are watering right now.” She drinks again and moans.

The sound of her low groan immediately fills my head with dirty images. Miss Jones in my bed. Her curls spilling over my white pillowcases. Her heels pressing into the back of my neck as I—

No. That wildly inappropriate fantasy is unacceptable.

And out of place.

She’s enjoying her coffee. And I’m not a perverted boss.

Shifting my thoughts to tamer territory, I watch her enjoy the drink. Something that simple can shift her mood. It’s disarming to see her expression brighten and feel my world brighten a bit too.

“That’s it.” I clear my throat when I’m caught staring. “You can return to work.”

She bounces out of her chair. “I’ll prioritize the Baby Box reports.”

I nod, watching her leave.

Miss Jones stops at the door. Suddenly, she whirls around and snatches the coffee off the desk. “I’ll take this.”

I will not laugh.

Dammit.

She won’t make me laugh.

The chuckle bursts out anyway. I sip the rest of my coffee with a smile on my face.

The meeting with Baby Box is held at their building. I’m impressed by the mother-and-child sculptures in the lobby. It’s obvious that they take their branding seriously.

We enter the conference room early. I’m quick to tug my laptop out of the bag. Kenya bustles behind me, hooking up the presentation to the projector and setting out marketing materials at each spot around the table.

I have to say, she’s very efficient.

Before Kenya Jones, I couldn’t imagine finding an assistant as capable as Ezekiel. The last time I tried to hire someone, she sent a confidential document to the wrong address and caused a frenzy. After raising a stink, she quit without bothering to clean up her mess.

Kenya Jones is surprising me with her tenacity. I haven’t been easy on her, but she’s flown past all the challenges.

It should have been a stretch to completely organize all the company files in a week. Somehow, she managed to get it done in one day. For the first time in… I don’t know… maybe since Claire was alive, Belle’s Beauty is fully organized. Every scrap of information is tagged and digitized in a search-friendly database.

It’s like standing in a well-maintained library. And Kenya Jones is the smoking hot librarian every guy secretly wants a piece of.

As beautiful as she is, confining her to her looks would be a mistake. She’s proven to be capable at her job. And she’s been a huge relief from carrying Belle’s Beauty on my own.

“Mr. Alistair.” Kenya hands me a bottle of water. “Do you want to drink this before it starts?”

“Thank you.” I accept the bottle from her.

She gives me a fist pump. “You got this.”

I dip my chin, grateful for the encouragement. One of the reasons I handed Belle’s Beauty off to management companies is because making pitches and groveling for partnership deals is not my thing.

I hate begging. And I hate relying on other people to get me where I need to go. However, in an industry as cutthroat as this one, going it alone is just not an option.

The door opens and the Baby Box reps walk in. There are three in total, but the man I need to impress is in the middle. Stephen Sutherburg.

He’s a short man with a balding head, a red nose, and thick sideburns that must have been in style several decades ago.

Kenya withdraws and joins the other team members in the chairs against the wall. My eyes follow her. The dress she’s wearing today is more her style. It’s bright red and hugs her body a little too tightly for the office. The jacket is the only thing keeping her outfit appropriate.

Damn. Her curves are a distraction.

I so badly want to find out if she’s as soft as she looks.

Her head swivels to me and she catches me staring. Her face gives her thoughts away, revealing amusement and confusion all in one eyebrow quirk.

Setting my lips into a thin line, I focus on Sutherburg instead of my assistant. The man is much older than I’d expected. His team is comprised of older men too. I’m surprised there isn’t a single woman in his entourage. For a company that sells mother and baby products, I’d expected to see someone representing the target group.

But then, it’s not like I can judge. Belle’s Beauty targets middle aged, health-conscious women and I might be conscious of my health, but I’m definitely not a woman.

Sutherburg glances across the table. His eyes find mine and he dips his chin.

I return the gesture. “Mr. Sutherburg. It’s good to see you.”

“Mr. Alistair, I’m looking forward to this pitch. Belle’s Beauty has a reputation for purity in both its product formulation and manufacturing. We’ve heard great things.”

“I look forward to proving why we earned that reputation.”

He smiles and motions to his team. “Let’s begin.”

Kenya trots to the laptop and presses a button. The presentation blasts onto the pull-down screen.

“First, I’d like to share my appreciation for this opportunity. We’d be honored to work with a brand as customer-oriented as Baby Box.” The words slip off my tongue like the cod liver oil my mother forced me to take as a child.

See it through, Alistair.

“I’m a data man. As you know, Fine Industries was built on the belief that data is just as reliable as human intuition. Maybe even more so because there’s less room for error.” Chuckles break out. I hadn’t intended that line to be funny. “Let’s begin with data, and then I’ll explain why Belle’s Beauty and Baby Box are the perfect combination.”

Sutherburg’s team scribbles notes while I talk, but it feels more like a method of distraction than a sign of interest. Sutherburg doesn’t move an inch from his chair. His expression remains the same throughout my presentation, not giving anything away.

“In conclusion,” I point to the last slide, “Baby Box and Belle’s Beauty is a match made in heaven.”

The lights flip on.

No one moves.

“It sounds… interesting,” Sutherburg says.

I study his wizened features. It’s hard to interpret that. Is ‘interesting’ a good sign or have I just tanked this pitch?

He rubs his eyes like Belle does when I wake her up too early.

Not a good sign then.

I’ve been around computers for most of my life. Input a code, it’s either going to spit out the results or it won’t. There’s no in-between. No shades of grey.

Humans aren’t so easily computable. I can’t tell if Sutherburg is just processing or if he’s truly disengaged.

Another beat passes.

Alarm bells ring in my head.

I scramble to save what feels like waning interest. “Thanks to the data, we’re seeing more and more shifts in cultural norms and expectations. Each generation brings its own unique mark on parenting. Data shows that this generation is having kids later in life.”

Sutherburg looks down and paws at something on his shirt.

“Gone are the days when mothers collectively pushed self care aside in favor of raising a family. Culturally, women are determined to have it all. They want to look beautiful while running behind their toddlers. Why should they give up on themselves when they’ve done the work of bringing a human being into the world?”

Sutherburg yawns.

Dammit. Is it my delivery? Is it the data?

Why is there silence? Why aren’t there questions?

I need bodies leaning forward. I need eyes sparkling with intrigue.

I glance at my PR team. They’re squirming in their chairs. Someone is going to have to write a hell of a report explaining where we went wrong.

“What do you think?” I try to jar an opinion loose. “This is a flexible concept. We’re willing to work with you to focus on the angle that serves Baby Box best.”

Sutherburg stands and buttons his jacket. The smile on his face reminds me of when Belle has constipation.

His team rises as well.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Alistair.” The person who speaks is one of the assistants at the end of the table. “We appreciate you coming down here and we’ll be in touch if we have any further questions.”

Damn it.

I don’t need an algorithm to tell me I have a snowball’s chance in hell of landing this deal. But throwing my hands up at the first road block is not how I roll. If I’d stopped every time someone slammed a door in my face, Fine Industries would never exist.

Hell, Belle would never exist. Claire wouldn’t give me the time of day the first few times I tried to talk to her.

I know I can shift the tide if they tell me where we’ve gone wrong in the pitch.

My PR team starts murmuring among themselves.

Kenya looks frantic.

I swerve to face Sutherburg who’s moving toward the door. “Mr. Sutherburg.”

He stops.

“Baby Box has been an established brand for over ten years, but Belle’s Beauty has only been established for six. We’d love to hear your thoughts before you go.”

“My thoughts?” He returns to his seat.

I hear my PR team breathe a collective sigh of relief. Sutherburg might be humoring me, but at least he’s not on the move anymore.

He leans back in his chair and squints at the projections. “Mr. Alistair, I’m aware of your background in tech and I can see that you’ve applied it to your presentation. Your pitch was very… technical. Filled with data. And I felt bored to death.”

It’s a dagger to the chest.

“Bored to death?” I mumble.

The PR team is deathly quiet. If we miss this opportunity because of a lackluster pitch, I’m going to take responsibility. As I should. But I’m also going to expect the PR team to take responsibility as well.

“Unfortunately, and I’m being as kind as I can here,” Sutherburg sighs, “it’s heartless. There’s no life here. No sense of connection with the audience. I know it’s all about money and data, Mr. Alistair, but the client won’t know that. We have to approach it from an angle that puts them first.”

My expression remains flat, but I’m cringing hard inside. The data inputs were my addition to the presentation. I thought it was a sure-fire way to convince Baby Box of a collaboration. People can deny feelings, but they can’t deny facts. Hard numbers are the only truth that stand.

Sutherburg studies me like he’s waiting for me to get on my knees and plead for another chance. I’m not going to do that.

My pitch was trash.

Fine.

I’ll take the criticism like a man, but I draw the line at groveling. There has to be another solution. I just need a bit more time to come up with one.

Inhaling a deep breath, I tap my fingers against my pants. Desperation makes people stupid. Panicking would be like throwing gas on a dumpster fire. I need a Plan B and I need it now.

My brain is whirring, fighting to prevent an almost certain rejection from Baby Box, when I hear a chair scraping against the tiles. A soft voice that shouldn’t be anywhere near this pitch filters through the room.

“I think you’re wrong,” Kenya says.

A collective gasp emerges from the PR team.

Sutherburg tilts his head, his eyes glittering with intrigue.

“Belle’s Beauty, as a concept and a company, is the very opposite of heartless.”

My gaze drills into Kenya. I subtly shake my head to knock her off this path that leads straight off a cliff. Unfortunately, my assistant is not even looking at me. She stands tall and confident. As if she has a right to speak up.

Has she gone insane? Even the PR team knows it’s best to shut their mouth when the ship is going down. Why is a second assistant committing mutiny and interfering in a pitch this important?

Sutherburg’s eyes drill a hole into Kenya. His lips arch up. “Go ahead, young lady.” He presses his elbows on the table and leans forward.

He’s going to eat her up and spit out her bones. But at least he’s interested. It’s the distraction I needed, even if it isn’t the one I want.

“Mr. Sutherburg,” I smoothly make the introductions as if we’d planned it, “this is Kenya Jones, the newest addition to the Belle’s Beauty team.”

I give Kenya a hard look. This meeting is already heading south fast. If she speeds up our descent into disaster…

Kenya folds her hands in front of her. “Belle’s beauty was founded by a woman who believed in family over everything.”

The world turns blurry.

My eyes widen and I whip my head around.

She’s not going there.

Hell no.

She’s not talking about Claire.

“What if we included her story in the promo material? What if we, at Belle’s Beauty, opened our hearts just like all the beautiful, deserving mothers open those boxes?”

I grit my teeth so hard I hear something crack.

“We can print the Belle’s Beauty origin story on the flap. Not only will it boost awareness of the people behind the company, but it’ll also touch the hearts of all the Baby Box customers. Bring the company from a nameless corporation to a woman they’d meet on the street. A friend. A mother.”

“Mother?” Sutherburg rubs his bristly chin. His eyes swerve to me, dancing with excitement. “Didn’t you and Claire have a daughter, Alistair?”

My heart slams against my ribs.

Anger burns a path straight up my spine and to the back of my neck.

“Daughter?” Kenya whispers, her eyes widening. She slants me a look of surprise.

Oh? So she didn’t know? She threw my family into a damn business deal without thinking this through?

Sutherburg bobs his head slowly. Excitement. Approval. Interest burns behind eyes that were otherwise indifferent for most of the presentation.

I put a stop to it before the train can run off the tracks any faster. “My daughter,” I growl, “is not a commercial. Her details are not public knowledge and that is by choice. I don’t want anything about her broadcasted.”

Sutherburg jabs his finger at me. “Are you sure about that?”

“Dead sure,” I snarl. And I dare anyone—even the outspoken Miss Jones—to try me on that.

The light dims from Sutherburg’s eyes. “I see.”

He and his PR team gather their things and rise, slowly marching toward the door without further comment.

“We don’t have to use real pictures,” Kenya blurts.

I slant her a blistering look. Shut up.

She either doesn’t see or doesn’t want to. What the hell is she trying to prove here?

“We can hire a model. Someone who’ll be the face of the collaboration. But we can still use real stories. Not only about Belle’s Beauty’s origin but about the many brave mothers who slowly learned to choose themselves again after a kid consumed their world. It’ll be more unique. Every box will have a picture of the same model, but with a different story. We can run a contest. Drive more awareness to the campaign that way. We can even invite people to vote on the stories they’d like to see featured. The winner could get a year’s worth of supplies.”

By now, I’m seeing red and I’m sure steam is roaring out of my ears. Maybe I’ve been too soft on Miss Jones. Or maybe I don’t speak English. When I hired her, I was sure I stipulated that her job had nothing to do with making presentations.

In meetings like this, she’s to be silent as a rock. She’s to arrive before everyone, provide the refreshments and the print-outs, and leave after everyone is gone. She is not to open her mouth and intervene in things above her pay grade.

Sutherburg remains standing in the doorway for a long beat. While I wrestle with my anger at Kenya, I’m also battling a rising hope that he’ll turn around.

But he doesn’t.

Lifting a hand in goodbye, he and his posse leave without another word.

When the door slams shut, no one on my team moves. It’s almost like they’ve turned into statues. I can feel the PR team eyeing me, waiting to see what I’ll do. How I’ll react.

With a deep breath, I turn and face my crew. “We’ll discuss this back at the office. For now, get back to Belle’s Beauty and continue with your work.” My eyes fall on the PR team leader. “I’ll need an explanation for this.”

“Yes, sir.” His voice quivers.

The team leaves amidst frightened murmurs. They’re logging what just happened so they can repeat it to the rest of Belle’s Beauty. The news will be carried over to Fine Industries by noon. I’d bet money on it.

Kenya plugs out my laptop and slips it into the bag. She moves with slow, lethargic movements. Her eyes are on the ground. Her steps are dragging.

Is she upset because Sutherburg didn’t jump on her proposal or does she know what she’s in for?

She moves toward the door.

My voice whips through the air, dragging her back. “Miss Jones, I need to speak to you.”

She does a sharp turn and returns to the table.

“Sit down.”

Her jaw clenches. The fight inside her wants to rebel against the order. At last, she sinks into one of the chairs.

Silence falls in the room, thick and suffocating. The words flying through my head can’t be let loose here, inside Baby Box’s headquarters. It would be safer to keep my thoughts to myself until we can get back to Belle’s Beauty.

But I don’t think I’m capable of keeping my temper in check for that long.

Kenya Jones pulls her lips into her mouth. The way she’s avoiding my gaze says she’s aware of the amount of trouble she’s in.

“Mr. Alistair, I—”

I flatten my fists against the table and hiss, “What the hell is wrong with you?”