Sneak Peek The Grump I Loathe
BLURB
Connor Lockhart is gorgeous, grumpy, and about as charming as a brick wall. He’s also—plot twist—my new boss.
Our first meeting? A total disaster. I’m late for a major panel at a gaming convention, standing in line for a burrito, and the guy in front of me is treating the menu like it’s a gourmet tasting.
I ask if I can cut. He says no—like I asked for his social security number.
I may or may not have dumped super spicy salsa all over his precious order .
Fast forward: that burrito snob? Now signs my paychecks. At the company of my dreams.
Dream job. Nightmare boss.
He’s impossible—cold, cranky, allergic to small talk. Smiling seems physically painful for him.
Sure, he’s got that jaw-dropping face. And when the smile does show up? Swoon.
But there’s something else—something under all that grump that’s way too easy to like.
When his nine-year-old daughter starts feuding with my nine-year-old half-sister, we’re forced into a truce. Then a kiss. Then… way too many feelings.
I don’t want to fall for my grumpy boss. I just want to get him out of my system.
Too bad my heart has other plans.
Grab your copy of The Grump I Loathe
Available September 25, 2025
Chapter One
Eddie
I was about to commit burrito murder .
The upside to the amount of the game Word Trip I was currently crushing on my phone was that it kept me from committing actual murder. The down side? The fact that I was burning through all of my phone’s battery and the damn food line still wasn’t moving.
I tucked my phone away and peeked around a broad shoulder, mentally calculating my chances of making it to the front before I expired. At this rate, I wasn’t sure I’d live long enough to actually commit the crime.
“Next!” the cashier called and I advanced a few glorious inches. There were three people left between me and my tortilla of cheesy goodness.
My stomach growled as I peeked around that same broad shoulder, eyeing up the Mexican food truck that had been parked in the food hall of the San Francisco convention center.
If I didn’t receive sustenance soon I was going to have a Hulk-style meltdown.
I was hot and hungry—a truly dangerous combination—because GeekCon was rammed with thousands of costume-clad fans.
I tugged on my shirt, trying to get some air between my sweaty skin and the damp material.
The T-shirt is my favorite—it had a neon keyboard on the back and the front said Ctrl + S is my Love Language .
But I’d be a whole lot more comfortable in it if I was in a room with actual, functioning air conditioning.
“Next!”
Oh, thank God. We were moving again!
I’d only had thirty minutes (now probably more like twenty) between the end of my booth time, running the demo for my new solo game Alterbot , and the “Women in Indie Gaming” panel I’d been asked to speak at.
Being asked to sit on that panel had felt like a huge win considering I’d just gotten my foot in the door as a game developer on the indie circuit.
I didn’t want to screw up the opportunity by walking in five minutes late with burrito on my face.
I pulled my phone out, checking the time again.
Eighteen minutes till my panel! And that included the time it would take me to actually get there through this mob scene.
“Next!”
Finally! There was only one guy—one very tall, broad guy in a suit—left between me and my lunch.
Come to me, my sweet, burrito-y wonder. My stomach gurgled in anticipation of all the warm, gooey cheese I was about to stuff in my mouth.
And the chipotle crema! I couldn’t forget that smoky, spicy deliciousness.
Come on, suit guy, let me at that sauce bar!
I sized up the dude in front of me as he stepped up to the counter to order.
I wasn’t usually a clothes snob, but there was just something about the structured silhouette of the suit and the subtle sheen to the smooth fabric that screamed “money.” And “pretentiousness.” He was giving very rich-guy-who-lived-off-boiled-chicken-and-quinoa energy—probably some company exec here to network with new creatives.
That was good—it would likely take all of two seconds to slap his boring, low-calorie order into a tortilla and then it was my turn.
“What can I get’cha?” the young guy behind the counter asked. “Combo A is our best deal. That comes with chips and?—”
“I’m gonna do a single chicken quesadilla,” suit-guy said, interrupting the spiel.
Close enough , I thought, smirking. One side of quinoa, please.
“I want that lightly grilled though,” he said. “Definitely no char on the meat. ”
I arched my eyebrow.
“Are your tortillas fresh?” he asked.
Oh, no! My face fell. Don’t be one of those guys! I didn’t have time to hang around while Picky Peter deconstructed the meal.
“Can you crisp it up on both sides? And cut it into smaller triangles,” he continued.
“Cheese?” the guy behind the counter asked.
“Yeah, I’ll do a mix, but nothing spicy. And speaking of spicy, how is the chicken seasoned? Can I sample that?”
My head dropped back as I stared at the ceiling, silently begging it to collapse on me and put me out of my misery.
“And absolutely no cilantro,” he added.
Ugh, where was the help button?
“Which of these sauces are spicy?” he asked, gesturing to the salsa selection on the counter. “Because I absolutely do not want?—”
“Anything else?” I muttered under my breath. “Come on…”
My phone buzzed with a reminder. Fifteen minutes until the panel. I could see my chances of actually getting a meal today dissolving away…along with my patience.
“Excuse me?” The guy whirled around on the heel of his probably very expensive loafer, his eyes narrowed in response.
My breath caught as I finally got a look at his face. Okay, the Cilantro Cop was less chicken-and-quinoa-exec and more male-model-hiding-at-a-geek-convention but that was beside the point.
I blinked at him. All six-foot something of him.
His dark, slightly tousled hair was greying at the temples in that way all men wished they could pull off.
He had a bit of scruff on his cheeks, the kind of jawline that would make a concept artist drool, and eyes so brown they were almost black.
Or maybe that was just the instant hatred built up in his hard gaze.
Damn him for being this infuriating and this unfairly attractive.
It was like the universe's idea of a cruel joke.
“Did you need something?” he barked, his words clipped.
“Nope, sorry. Proceed.” I gestured back to the counter. “Just…maybe keep in mind the size of the line behind you. We’d sure appreciate it if you could move this along a little faster.”
He looked me up and down for a long moment, as if he was weighing whether my words were worth considering. He must have decided they weren’t, because he turned back around without another word to me and proceeded to demand ingredient lists for all of the sauces.
Picky Peter had just graduated from Cilantro Cop to Sauce Inspector.
God have mercy.
I could hear the people in line behind us grumbling. I wasn’t the only one who was getting fed up. But I was the only one within poking distance of the jerk, so that made it my duty to step in. I tapped him on the shoulder. Nicely.
“Look, you obviously need a minute to sort out your sauces and whatnot. Maybe you could just step aside while you do that and I could get my order in. It’ll be super quick. I swear.”
There was radio silence from those broad shoulders. The guy didn’t even turn to tell me no. He just flat out ignored me.
“Hey,” I said, an edge to my voice. “I’m not making unreasonable requests here.” Still nothing from him. The next time I prodded him in the shoulder, I wasn’t so nice about it .
“What is your problem?” he snapped, finally turning around again.
“My problem is that I’ve got”—I checked my phone—“ten minutes before I absolutely have to be at a panel, and you’re ordering so slowly that it’ll be time for next year’s convention before anyone behind you can actually place their order.”
He huffed or snorted. Either way, the puff of air was dismissive as shit.
"What I’m doing,” he said, taking a step closer, those dark eyes boring into me in a way that made me hot and cold all at once, "is standing in line like a civilized human being.
Novel concept, I know." His gaze flicked down to my shirt, lingered there for a beat, then he looked back up with a smirk.
"Maybe you should Ctrl + S that concept for future reference. "
My hands curled into fists.
I’d spent the morning working my ass off at my booth, doing everything short of a striptease to get people to pay attention to my game and actually give it a chance. I believed in my work, I knew I’d made something good.
And yet…
I was young, I was female, and I had a limited list of credits, all of which added up to me having to hustle like hell to get anyone to take me seriously. And this guy’s dismissiveness on top of everyone else’s was the straw that broke the very hungry camel’s back.
“I don’t have an issue waiting,” I spat out.
“I have an issue with you wasting everyone’s time.
You might be free to spend all day asking a million questions and trying to substitute every damn item, but the world doesn’t stop in its tracks to accommodate the rest of us.
We actually have things to do and places to be at this convention.
” I heard murmurs of agreement from the people behind me, and their support galvanized me to take another step forward.
“So why don’t you step off to the side there and do whatever chemical analysis you’re into on the sauces and I’ll just order real quick. ‘Kay? Thanks.”
“‘Kay?” he said, like the word had personally offended him.
I ignored whatever bull-like huffing he was doing, locking eyes with the kid behind the counter. “Hey, can I get a number four with?—”
“Absolutely not,” Picky Peter said, bumping me out of the way. “Why do you assume you can just cut in line?”
“Um, maybe because you’re not treating it like a line?
You’re treating it like this is your own personal restaurant built to cater solely to you.
Lines are supposed to move ,” I bit back, nudging him with my hip.
The contact sent an annoying little jolt through me.
The kind that made me want to either punch him or. .. something else entirely.
Neither of which I had time for.
“You can wait your turn,” he insisted, planting his feet and refusing to budge.
“No, actually, I can’t—because I’ve got a panel in,” I checked my phone, “ seven minutes now.”
He rolled his eyes. “Whatever panelist you’re fangirling over can survive without you for the first few minutes.”
“ Fangirling ?” I squawked. “I’ll have you know that I’m on the panel.”
“Sure you are,” he said, voice full of derision. “What’s your expertise? Queueing etiquette?” He turned to the cashier, tapping that infuriatingly perfect jawline and dismissing me entirely. “You know what, I’d actually like to change my order to steak.”
“Are you actually kidding me right now?” Five minutes!
I leaned all my weight against him. The guy barely budged.
It was like throwing myself up against a brick wall.
A very firm, muscly brick wall. “Don’t listen to him,” I told the kid.
“Focus on me. A person who actually intends to eat my food this century.”
“Sorry sir,” the kid said, checking over his shoulder. “We actually just ran out of the steak.”
“No worries,” Picky Peter said. “Do you think you substitute the steak for?—”
“No!” I cried. “He can’t substitute anything.” I kept trying to nudge him over, trying not to get distracted by the heat of his body against mine. “Seriously, kid,” I said to the cashier. “Just slap some beans in a tortilla for me—whatever’s easiest.”
My phone buzzed. Shit! Two minutes until the panel! I was so hungry I’d gnaw off my own arm, but there was no time to fix that now. At this rate, I was going to have to speed run across the convention center to get there on time.
The cashier pushed a plate with some quesadilla monstrosity in Picky Peter’s direction as a white hot fury burned inside me. Well, there was time to fix one thing.
I reached for the sauce counter, grabbed the spiciest salsa I could get my hands on—the one with the skull and crossbones on the label and all the warnings with exclamation points—and splattered Picky Peter’s entire quesadilla.
The icing on the cake was the epic fart noise the bottle made as the salsa exploded on the crisp white shirt he wore beneath his suit jacket.
“Thought you might need some spice in your life,” I said to the picky asshole as he cried out angrily.
I gave him my best shit-eating grin. I might be starving, but at least I could savor the tiniest amount of glee knowing that his meal plans had been ruined, too.
“You can catch me rocking my panel in Hall A when you’re done,” I gestured to his salsa-ed shirt, “dealing with that situation. ”
Grab your copy of The Grump I Loathe
Available September 25, 2025