Page 452 of Manhattan Bossholes

The Grumpy One

1

JAMES

Iconsidered myself a patient man. Truly.

But even patient men had limits—especially when that patience was tested by an after-hours banshee.

“Excuse me? Hello?”

Arms folded over my chest, I looked at the screeching creature who had taken over my store. She twirled around the floor, the mop in her hands doubling as a microphone stand, and completely ignored me. But then again, how could she hear me given how damn loud she had the music? I wasn’t exactly up to date on pop trends, but there was no doubt that this American Idol reject was doing her best Beyonce impersonation. Which was, in fact, really bad.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to suppress the growing headache that had settled between my eyes.

“Hey, listen up! I need you to turn⁠—”

She threw her head back dramatically. “WHO RUNS THE WORLD?”

Well, me. I do, but she clearly didn’t know that yet.

As annoyed as I was with the stranger, I couldn’t stop staring at her, waiting to get a full view of her face. Her shoulder-length brown hair actually gleamed as she whipped it around, like she was a model in a shampoo ad. And her body? Let’s just say that my mind wandered as she shimmied up and down the mop pole. She couldn’t sing, but the girl had some impressive moves. Stripper-adjacent, body rolling, ass-displaying raunch that I actually found myself enjoying, despite the accompanying vocals—and the mountain of work that should have my focus instead of…whatever this was.

I finally glanced at my watch.

It was after ten, which meant she was one of the cleaning ladies, a tardy store assistant, or the worst robber in history. Whatever way, I didn’t really care. The only thing that mattered to me was getting back to my fucking spreadsheets, and this stranger was making it impossible.

When I was able to tear my eyes off of her, everything else in the retail showroom was a reminder of how much was at stake and why I was still working late into the evening. This business, this legacy, was mine to sink or swim. The company was heading in the wrong direction—with dwindling sales, negative reviews of our newest lines, and diminished cachet for our public brand—and if I didn’t find a way to turn things around, we could end up in serious trouble. Every employee’s fate was in my hands, including the shockingly bad singer shaking her ass when she should’ve been working.

“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, crossing the length of the store with wide strides. I closed up on the woman—a store assistant, judging by the charcoal button-up shirt—and tapped her on the shoulder. Or tried to, anyway.

I caught up to her mid-chorus, and the lunatic was halfway through a twirl when I reached out. The handle of her mop caught my arm, whacking it down. Not how I had planned to draw her attention, but it did the trick. She jumped backwards and screamed in shock.

“I want that music off,” I said simply, trying to hide my shock at how fucking intense her eyes were. Deep blue and ringed in dark lashes, she had a fairy-tale princess vibe despite the look of horror on her face.

“Back away,” she snapped, blue eyes widening with fear. She pointed the wet end of her make-believe microphone at my chest. “I don’t know who you are or what you want, but I’ll let you know that I can handle myself.”

“Oh?” I pushed the mop away from my chest, but she flicked it right back, the water puddling between us on the floor. “Better than you can sing, I hope.”

“I… Well, you…” She finally lowered the mop and fished her phone out from her jeans. One tap of her finger and the sweetest of silences—at last—filled the store. She pursed her lips and looked back at me. “I thought I was alone.”

“Clearly.”

“But that’s not the real issue here!” she shot back, trying to take command of the conversation again. “Who are you and what are you doing here? The store is closed, and everyone’s gone home.” She shifted her grip on the mop handle, and I had to stifle a laugh. Even though I had no intention of attacking her, did she seriously think that she could take me on?

“Maybe I should be the one asking you that,” I threw back.

“Not that I owe you an explanation, but I have loads to do here, all right?” she snapped, now using the mophead to point an imaginary arrow across the store. “The samples for the new line got here after-hours and we had to get everything prepped before morning, and Lucy needed to get home, so I said, ‘no problem’ because I need the hours, and then—” She cleared her throat as if to stop her mouth from outpacing her brain. “Well, never mind that. I’m here because I have to be here. What are you doing here?”

“I was going through the books,” I explained, hoping that would be the end of it. “And, if you don’t mind, now that I’ve gotten you to stop howling, I’m done here.”

I turned, ready to get back to those damned spreadsheets, hoping my headache would magically disappear on the walk back to my office. Looking over diminishing profits was never fun, but it was certainly better than⁠—

SPLAT.

A mophead—a drenched mophead—landed on my shoulder. Tendrils of freezing, dirty water spread across my back and chest. I’d paid six hundred dollars for my shirt, and this banshee was treating it like a rag. I’d been patient, I’d been polite, and this was what I got for it? My headache spiked, and I could barely keep from growling in frustration.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I muttered, doing everything to keep my fury in check.