Grumpy Romance : A Romantic Comedy (Billionaire Dads)
Grumpy Romance: Chapter 7

KENYA

I wave my hand to dispel the dust cloud that rises when I set the last of the documents away.

The file room looks like it was ransacked. Boxes are stacked on top of each other. Documents pile up in towers. Papers are held down by clips, staplers and anything heavy enough to get the job done.

A yawn threatens to crack my jaw. I cover my mouth with the crook of my elbow, looking over the room that was my office for the day.

It’s a drab, grey space with splashes of cream and white to break up the monotony. Too bad those colors are still shades off the old ‘boring’ block.

Honestly, this place is sad. If Alistair the Grump banishes me to the file room more often, I’m going to have to do something about those walls. Maybe paint them a candy color. Cherry red. Sunburst orange. Maybe a light brown like his eyes…

Not thinking about that.

My phone rings.

I smile tiredly when I see Sunny’s number.

“Hey, babe.”

“Why aren’t you home yet?” Her words are muffled by a yawn. “I fell asleep on the couch waiting for you and you’re still not back.”

“I’m heading out now,” I say, stomping my legs to increase the blood flow.

“How are you going to get back? Do you need me to drive over?”

“No. Stay there. I’ll catch a taxi.”

“Are you sure? I don’t mind picking you up.”

“It’s okay. Besides, you have a meeting early tomorrow morning.”

“So? You’re more important than a meeting.”

I smile. She’s talking like that because she’s delirious with sleep. Being a freelancer means every paycheck—big or small—is the difference between eating out or begging on the streets. Sunny doesn’t have the wiggle room to turn down a job.

“Thanks, but I’m good.”

“Fine. Text me the license plate of your taxi. I’ll wait up for you.”

I blow kissy noises into the phone.

“Yeah, yeah.” She hangs up.

I limp to my purse and haul it away from a paper stack that so badly wants to be The Leaning Tower of Pisa. If I had an ounce of energy left, I’d put these back in their boxes.

But I don’t have the strength.

My hands are cramping. My eyes are bleary.

Everything kind of sucks right now, but in a good, I did the impossible kind of way. Seeing Holland Alistair looking mildly impressed was worth giving up my beauty sleep.

Take that, you gorgeous prick.

The ants crawling up my legs slowly disappear. I’m starting to feel the adrenaline rush of a job well done, but it’s not like I can run a marathon right now. I’ll definitely crash into bed the moment I get to Sunny’s apartment.

I poke my head out of the file room, glancing left and right. The hallway is empty and dark. The entire office feels like a ghost town.

Creepy.

One step on the tiles sounds like a gunshot. Click. Click. Click. My heels are too noisy. I slip them off so I can tiptoe through the corridor.

It’s not hard to channel my inner Scooby Doo. As long as I don’t encounter the monster in the dark.

Alistair offered me a ride home, but I don’t want to be in the same car with the boss. My brain-mouth filter gets disconnected whenever I’m tired, and I can’t risk saying what I really think about him.

My first time mouthing off to Alistair got me a job.

The second time, I might lose my position. No way am I letting that happen. I just organized three years worth of Belle’s Beauty files. I want to stick around to get paid properly for my efforts.

Taking a left, I check that the coast is clear before ninja-walking to the lobby.

So far so good.

Ezekiel’s desk is empty. Poor thing. Alistair must have held him hostage way longer than is decent. I feel sorry for him. What did he do to deserve a boss-hole like this?

I notice Alistair’s office lights are off and breathe a little easier. He’s gone. Maybe he forgot about his offer to take me home. Or maybe he’s playing another one of his dirty tricks.

I ball my fingers into fists and pretend to throw a punch at his door. “You think you’re all that just because you’re rich?” My words are a harsh whisper. “I don’t care how loaded you are. Don’t talk to me like you own me, you giant flying cockroach. And next time, get your own coffee.”

“Giant flying cockroach?”

“Ah!” I jump so high I’m surprised my head doesn’t crack the ceiling.

Holland Alistair unfolds himself from the shadows. His suit jacket is neatly slung over his left arm. His white shirt is wrinkled, one button undone and the tie loose.

He looks scrumptiously disheveled.

I want to run my hands through his messy hair. And then grab on and slam his head into a concrete block.

My mouth goes dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I would let it slide if it were a regular cockroach.” He straightens to his full height and strides toward me.

I step back instinctively. It’s like my body knows that, in this situation, Alistair’s the hunter and I am most definitely the prey.

Back away slowly, Kenya.

“To compare me to the despicable flying strain…” He shakes his head. “I’m very offended.”

I cough slightly. “I wasn’t talking about you.” My eyes dart to the side. “I was talking about someone else.”

“Someone like who?” He tilts his head. Moonlight falls against his perfect jaw and gets shredded to bits, exploding in silver fractures all over the ground.

“No one you know.” My gaze hits the ceiling. My back hits the wall.

Holland Alistair bends down so his face is near to mine. “The car is waiting downstairs. I was just coming to get you.”

“Oh. I was just coming to find you.”

“I see.” His eyes drop to the shoes that I’m clutching to my chest like a religious amulet.

“Uh…” I chuckle nervously and drop the heels on the ground. They clomp to the tiles, rolling a bit before stopping against his fancy shoes.

Alistair studies my pumps for a moment. Then he drops into a crouch and tucks his fingers into the back of them.

I swallow hard. “Mr. Alistair—”

“Here.” He sets my shoes neatly in front of me.

I blink rapidly, not sure if this is another one of his tricks. Why is he being so nice tonight? He was an absolute jerkwad about my report (which was awesome by the way) and he threw dirt on my management strategy. Not to mention he locked me in the file room to manage the impossible.

Which I did.

But that’s beside the point.

I lift one leg and awkwardly shove it into my heels. The task requires more physical agility than I have. Arms wobbling, I do a little twist-inspired, one-legged dance to remain upright.

Alistair’s warm fingers snap around my wrist. He confidently drives my hand down on his shoulder. “Hold on to me.”

I put on my shoes in stunned silence. When I’m finished, I yank my hand back. “Thanks.”

He nods, rises and strides away without another word.

I follow him, wondering what his deal is. The Alistair I know would just as soon push me to the ground than help me.

My eyes slide to his face as we ride the elevator. He’s staring straight ahead as if trying to forget I’m there.

Weird.

We step out of the building and I’m hit with a strong breeze. The pavement is wet and I wonder if it was raining while I was locked in the file room.

“Mr. Alistair.” A man with warm brown eyes and a greying beard scrambles to open the back door of a shiny SUV.

Alistair nods at him and gets in.

I stop.

The driver smiles at me. “Ma’am?”

“I’m good.”

Alistair peers at me with his icy, hazel eyes. “Get in, Kenya.”

The words, the tone—everything about it annoys me. I hiss through my teeth. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“Get in the car,” Alistair says dryly, “or don’t bother coming to work tomorrow.”

Unreasonable flophead.

“You’re threatening me with my job?”

The driver covers his laughter by pretending to cough.

Alistair picks up his phone and scrolls casually. “Your choice.”

He is a flying cockroach. The ones with the wings—they act invincible. Like no one can touch them just because they can take flight.

Little does Alistair know, I never let a cockroach live once I find out it can fly. The moment they’re airborne, it’s a war. And only one person is allowed to walk out alive. Guess who’s never lost a battle?

The driver gets ahold of himself and gives me a reassuring nod. “Ma’am?”

Pursing my lips, I dive into the car.

The driver slams the door shut.

I inch as far away from Alistair as possible.

The car is cold. I stare out the window at the city, rubbing my hands briskly over my arms. A jacket gets tossed into my lap. I glance up in surprise and see that Alistair is still staring at his phone.

My eyes narrow.

He sets the phone down and meets my glare with a calm expression. “Where do you live?”

I rattle the address.

“Bernard,” Alistair says without acknowledging me, “take Miss Jones home first.”

“Yes, sir.”

I tremble as the car’s temperature turns to Artic-levels. What is wrong with this guy? Is he a cold-blooded reptile? There’s no need to travel in an ice box.

My eyes drop to his jacket. Even sworn enemies cuddle together to preserve warmth in a time of crisis. Besides, this expensive piece of cloth didn’t do me any harm. I can’t reject it just because it serves an arrogant master.

Pulling the jacket close, I dip my hands into the sleeves and shroud it around myself. The fabric swallows me up. It smells like Alistair. Spicy and expensive.

While the car settles into silence, my phone rings.

I pick up. “Hey, babe.”

Sunny’s voice charges into my ear. “Have you left the office yet?”

If Alistair hears my conversation, he gives no visual clues. He’s sitting with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes closed.

“I’m on my way,” I reply quietly.

“Why didn’t you text me the license plate number?”

“I got a ride with someone else.”

“Someone like who?”

“My boss,” I whisper. “I’ll be home soon.”

“But—”

I hang up on Sunny before she can say anything incriminating. The language I use to describe Alistair at home is… colorful. With the car as quiet as it is and Sunny’s voice as loud as it is, anything she says will be broadcasted in high definition.

Alistair shifts in his seat. “Someone must be worried about you.”

“Uh, yeah.” I tap my phone against my palm, surprised that he’s making conversation.

He shifts again. “Boyfriend, right?”

Boyfriend? More like backstabbing scum of the earth.

Which reminds me. All my things are still at Drake’s place. Sunny offered to get them for me, but I’m afraid she’ll go full Leatherface with a chainsaw. Sure, I would love to see her shred Drake’s couch, take a bat to his TV and set fire to his clothes, but we can’t afford to buy those things back. And I definitely can’t afford to bail her out of jail right now.

There’s no way I’m letting her loose in there.

I shake my head. “No, no boyfriend.”

“Oh.” Alistair tilts his head back.

It might be a trick of the light but I think I see his lips flicker up in a smile. The expression disappears quickly.

Grey clouds release a gentle rain. The windows fog up and I smile. Pressing my finger to the surface, I draw a circle and poke two eyes. When it’s time to draw the smile, I glance over at Alistair.

He’s watching me intently.

Turning back, I abandon my usual smiley face for two horns and fangs. There. That’s more suitable for the car Alistair drives.

His mouth does that quick flicker again. “Nice drawing.”

“It’s inspired by someone I know.”

“No one in this car, I assume.”

“Oh definitely not.”

He turns his head away, but I can see him smiling in the reflection of the glass.

When the car slows in front of Sunny’s apartment, it’s still raining. Alistair rummages for something underneath the driver’s seat and hands it to me.

It’s an umbrella.

“Don’t get sick,” he says. I’m almost touched… until he growls, “It was your decision to stay late tonight. I expect you to show up at work on time tomorrow even if you have to carry a tissue box.”

My pulse soaring, I roughly haul his jacket off and slam it back into the chair. “Keep your stupid umbrella,” I mumble.

When I start to launch out, Alistair stops me. Taking my hand, he forces the umbrella into my palm. His eyes are dark and intense.

With a huff, I grab the umbrella, open it and stomp into Sunny’s apartment. The rain falls in torrents, matching the storm in my own heart.

Holland Alistair is an insufferable, inhumane, raving lunatic.

And I’m sure now that he only hired me so he could make my life a living hell.

I stay far away from Alistair at work the next day and, thankfully, he’s off doing something for Fine Industries. I’m spared the sight of his gorgeous, scowling face for a few hours.

But just because the cat’s away, doesn’t mean little mice—like me—can play. Alistair left a long list of tasks for me to complete by day’s end.

All of which I have to cram in between my meeting with the Belle’s Beauty store managers. And I have to keep pestering the marketing team about approvals for an in-store promotion.

Lunch is a tuna sandwich shoved into my mouth while I pore over sales reports and make summaries of skin-care market trends per the instructions bursting out of my inbox.

I’m in a horrible mood when my phone rings.

It gets even worse when Drake’s voice echoes over the line. “Kenya.”

My mouth tightens.

He hesitates. Calls my name again. “Kenya?”

Oh. So this is what betrayal sounds like. Deep and velvety.

His breath shudders over the line. “I know you’re there.”

“I am.” My voice wavers. I can’t help it.

Heartbreak feels like a thousand sharp arrows digging into the skin. It smells like mustard and soggy bread. It sounds like a voice that used to whisper promises of forever.

I’m assaulted by sweet memories. Drake wrapping me in his arms at our first concert together. Drake clutching my chin as we kiss on the library stairs. Drake inviting me to move in with him.

“What do you want?” I snarl.

“I have your things,” he says. “I packed it up for you.”

“I didn’t ask you to touch my things, Drake. I asked you what time you’d be gone so I could take my stuff.”

“Kenya.”

“What time will you be gone? I don’t want to see you.”

The silence stretches like a yawning chasm.

Is there guilt buried in that darkness? Regret? I don’t know what I did to deserve this. What signs did I miss? How could I have been such a bad judge of character?

I thought I had high standards. I thought I’d chosen a man who’d love me. Only me. I didn’t know I was falling for a rat who couldn’t wait to get inside my little sister.

“Kenya, I—”

“Make sure you’re not there when I pick up my stuff today, Drake. Or I swear, I won’t be responsible for what I do to you.” I hang up before he can say a word.

Turns out, Drake chose death.

Because he’s there when I stop by the apartment. I smell him the moment I step inside the place I once called home.

The living room is a bright space with vivid swaths of color—blues and pinks—along with swirling abstract art we picked up at bargain stores.

The furniture is earth-toned. Plain. Simple. To balance the zaniness of the color scheme and the little knickknacks I placed on every surface. They’re tiny mementos. Photographs. Snapshots of our happiest moments.

Now a mockery of our love.

I made this place into my refuge because Drake was my refuge. Now, it feels like an empty shell. Still vibrant. Still youthful. And yet… so hollow.

Drake says nothing when I walk in. He looks at me with sad brown eyes and I don’t bother trying to interpret his expression. Coward. He doesn’t speak to me. Not that I would listen to a word from his lying mouth anyway.

I drag moving boxes from the bedroom to the hallway outside the apartment. They’re the hardest steps of my life. Pain. Anger. Regret. They churn through me. Take turns ripping my heart out.

I know these wounds will need time to heal.

And I know that it’s not only fury that I feel. I’m disappointed in myself. Disappointed I made the mistake of believing someone would love me forever.

Sorrow.

Pity.

Not for me. For my sister. She chose someone who’s so, obviously, good at lies.

I bend down to pick up the last box. It’s heavier than the rest. They’re my favorite books. I have a thousand more on my e-reader, but there’s just something about turning those pages…

My knees buckle and Drake is there.

“Let me help you.”

“I’ve got it.”

He slides his arms under the box. Our fingers touch briefly and it annoys me that there’s still a spark. My body still remembers curling into him on a cold night. Pressing my lips to his in the rain. Wrapping my legs around his waist as he pushes me deeper into the mattress.

Tears prick the back of my eyes. It feels like a part of me is dying. My youth. My naïveté. The part of me that still believed in fairytales.

I yank the box away from him. “I said I’ve got it!”

Drake holds on anyway.

A loud rip echoes through the room. Books cascade out of the bottom of the box, thudding to the ground. The covers open, crushing the pages and forming irreversible creases.

Horror balloons in my chest. I treasure these tomes. I’ve never even bookmarked a page by bending the ear. The scattered books are worse than shattered glass. Crushed pages are a death sentence. These books won’t ever close properly.

“Kenya, I’m sorry.”

“Get back!” I snap at him. Dropping to my knees, I gather the books to me like precious children. Smoothing out as many of the pages as I can, I huddle them close and storm to the living room.

Thankfully, I have another empty box left. I deposit the books into it and drag it through the open door.

Drake follows me wordlessly, looking on like someone cut his tongue. I’m glad for his silence. I think I might go crazy if he dares to open his mouth.

I drag the box down the hallway and to the stairs. They thump down every step, but none of them fall out again.

I’m almost to the truck I borrowed from Sunny when I hear someone calling my name.

It’s not Drake’s voice.

My fingers tighten on the box.

It’s Sasha.

“Kenya.” Sasha jogs toward me. She’s wearing a pair of shorts and a flowery blouse. Her hair flows around her shoulders in dark brown waves. Sunshine follows her like a spotlight as she darts toward me.

My chaotic emotions swing back and forth. In one breath, I’m worried about her overexerting herself and, in the next, I wish she’d trip over a rock and crack her skull open.

Running away isn’t going to work this time.

Fine.

We’ll talk.

I abandon my box of books and turn to face her. She crashes to a halt, spitting stones and dried twigs. The run caused a flush to spread across her face. It adds a rosy dew to her glossy, tan skin.

“Kenya.” Her voice is subdued. “You’re here.”

Yes, I’m here.

But she obviously knew that already.

Did Drake tell her I would be picking up my things? Did he text her right after I arrived? Was he hovering around me, not because he felt sorry and actually wanted to help me, but because he was waiting until she got here?

“What do you want?” I ask coldly.

Sasha’s bulging eyes remind me of when we were younger, and she’d run to me after doing something wrong.

“Kenny! Kenny! I need your help.”

I would always be there to take the rap with her. To defend her. To be whatever she needed me to be. Because she’s my little sister. One of my people. Under my protection. I go to bat for anyone I consider mine.

It’s sad that she didn’t consider me at all.

“Please,” she steps forward, “can we talk?”

I jerk my chin at the park across the street.

She follows me, walking in silence.

The neighborhood is alive and filled with young families. I used to lie in Drake’s lap and envision the family we would have. Two boys and one girl. Overprotective older brothers with his beautiful chocolate skin and impressive height. Basketball players. Both of them. Or only one. Just to carry on their father’s legacy.

Why can’t the girl be the basketball player? I used to say. And Drake would kiss my forehead and tell me that would be awesome. That he’d love if our daughter was the one who could shoot hoops.

My heart gets so heavy I have to drag it behind me as we walk. Every step pushes me deeper and deeper into the hurt.

I know I can get over Drake.

It won’t be easy. It probably won’t be fun. But I can.

The part that gouges me is Sasha’s involvement.

Why would she do this to me? Why?

“You must hate me right now,” Sasha says.

I don’t correct her.

We step over the little cement bridge that leads into the park. Bubble-gum pink benches. Sprawling basketball court. Charming hopscotch sidewalks.

The sun is bright, but the trees are plenty. Branches, heavy with leaves, dance in the wind, luring us to sit beneath the shade.

I sit at a bench far away from the kids on the playground. Their cheerful laughter feels a world away from my heartless reality. Drake and I will never bring our kids here. I don’t want any more reasons to cry.

“Kenya, I know what I did was awful, but Drake and I love each other.”

My heart shudders.

This isn’t what I want to hear. She’s just pushing the knife in further.

“I want to explain,” Sasha says. “I want to—”

“Don’t bother.” My jaw is set. I don’t look at her.

“But I can’t let our relationship fall apart like this.”

I want to laugh like a lunatic. I want to throw my head back and cackle at the sky like someone completely unhinged. She’s concerned about our relationship? Where was all this anxiety about our sisterhood when she was bawling my boyfriend’s name and clawing at his naked back?

This was a mistake.

I jump to my feet. “I thought I was ready for this conversation, but I’m not.”

“Kenya,” Sasha digs her fingers into her purse and stares at her lap, “please hear me out.”

“If you need a listening ear, call your mother.”

Sasha hops to her feet. “Kenya, I can’t lose you.”

Silence fills the gulf of pain and betrayal between us. It grows until it presses into my skin and makes me feel oily and battered.

“You hurt me, Sasha.”

She sobs. “I know.”

“But mixed inside that hurt is genuine worry for you.” I nod to Drake’s apartment that’s still visible through the tree line. “I don’t want that punk to hurt you the way he hurt me.”

“He won’t,” she mumbles, tears bubbling in her eyes.

Of course she’s taking up for him. At least I know they weren’t screwing just to pass the time. Sasha’s in love with him. And Drake? I don’t know if he’s in love with her. I don’t know about anything anymore.

“I need you, Kenya,” Sasha whispers.

“And I need time.”

She covers her mouth with a fist. Mascara runs down her face and paints black lines on her cheeks.

I walk away.

“I love you, Kenya,” Sasha says to my back.

The words send a chill down my spine. Is this love? Is this agony deserving of that word? Drake looked into my eyes and told me he loved me before I left for the workshop last weekend. And now, Sasha is throwing that word around too.

If this is what love is—if this pain and betrayal is what it has in store for me—then I want no part in it.

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