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:
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,
