The Penthouse Grump ( Love Place #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

ALICE

Monday morning rolls around, and I’m rushing through my apartment but still already ten minutes behind schedule.

Shoot. I really wanted to stop by Gobble Me Up, the coffee shop in the lobby, for my usual start of the week Caramel Macchiato, but there’s no way I’ll have time.

I guess I’ll have to make do with a regular old cup of coffee. Darn.

A few minutes later, I make my way to the door, juggling my purse, laptop bag, and travel mug.

As I make my way down the hall, I realize my right high heel shoe is slowly eviscerating my pinky toe. I make a mental note to dig out my emergency diaper rash cream and apply it to the spot before it breaks the skin.

Things get worse from there. I step into the stainless steel-lined elevator and wince when I see my hair already escaping the bun I hastily pulled it up into. Darn. I really shouldn’t have hit the snooze alarm that one little extra time.

I stake out a spot near the elevator control panel, my fingers clutching the polished metal rail as I silently pray we don't stop on every freaking floor on the way down.

Of course, my Monday morning luck sucks spectacularly—the elevator lurches to a halt on six, where a woman in a floral perfume cloud squeezes in beside me, then again on five, where three suited men with identical leather briefcases pile in.

By the time we reach the ground floor, the claustrophobic silence has overwritten my worry about making it to work on time. I've been pushed to the very back of the tight space, sandwiched between the three businessmen and the cold, mirrored wall.

I wait impatiently for everyone to step off. When it’s finally my turn to escape from the tiny metal box, I’m so focused on keeping my coffee from sloshing onto my laptop that I never see the impending doom.

A wall of muscle steps into my path just as I clear the elevator threshold, and I slam into it with the force of a one-woman stampede.

There’s a crunching sound, like Styrofoam dying, then the unmistakable splat of my coffee detonating.

I watch in horror as it launches a spectacular arc of breakfast blend mixed with my favorite caramel creamer across my gray suit, and squarely onto the chest of the man I’ve just body-checked.

Time stops. Every molecule of air in the lobby freezes.

I manage to look up—way up—into a face that’s at once terrifying and absurdly attractive.

Dark brown eyes, the kind that probably glare holes through subordinates for fun.

Short, dark, and perfectly styled hair that looks damp at the temples.

His formerly bright white T-shirt now clings to him, tie-dyed in an icky shade of muddy brown coffee.

My lungs forget what oxygen is. The only saving grace is that my disposable travel cup made sure my coffee rapidly cooled on the elevator ride down.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” he growls, voice deep enough to vibrate the floor tiles.

My eyes automatically roam down his smoking hot body.

Wow. This guy isn’t just hot; he’s a walking billboard for expensive workout wear.

His shirt is one of those ultra-fancy, vacuum-sealed things that look painted onto every muscle.

It’s drenched now, clinging to ridges and valleys that I didn’t know existed on normal humans.

His fancy athletic shorts are a tailored, dark navy that scream luxury, cut to show off tree-trunk thighs.

His calves flex as he shifts, probably annoyed at having peasant brew splattered on his workout gear.

And don’t even get me started on the watch.

It’s the kind of watch you’d have to mortgage a kidney for.

Wow. I wish I looked this good when I work out.

“Oh my God, I am so sorry,” I stammer, words escaping in a frantic squeak. “I didn’t see you. I’m running late and couldn’t go to Gobble Me Up. So, I made coffee at home. Mondays suck—” God. Why am I blabbing on like this?

He stares at me silently. And the humiliation blasts off into outer space when I try to hand him a fistful of napkins from my purse, but in my panic, I also upend the bag’s contents.

Lip balm, a tampon, and the diaper rash cream I use when my high heels hurt my feet.

The man looks at the diaper rash cream. Looks at me. Back to the cream.

A dark look breaks out across his face for a second, and I automatically jump in to explain.

“It helps keep my high heels from rubbing blisters,” I squeak. My face is on fire.

“Uh-huh.” He lets out his breath like he’s relieved I’ve finally stopped trying to explain.

The hottest man I’ve ever seen swipes at his shirt, but it’s no use.

That stain is definitely permanent. His eyes flick over my suit.

The muddy brown coffee has pooled right in the center of my chest, creating a large, vaguely obscene bullseye. Of course. “That will probably stain.”

No shit, Sherlock. “No kidding,” I mumble. Then, like the rational adult I am, I scoop up my things and bolt for the exit. I hear him mutter something under his breath as I escape.

Outside, I pause to breathe. My day is a disaster. My pride took a hit. My suit is probably ruined, and I don’t have time to change. And now, I have no caffeine. But hopefully, I’ll never see Mr. Wall-of-Muscle again.

Right? Why does that thought actually make my heart squeeze in my chest?

I trudge the four blocks to The Mercer Group on pure adrenaline with my head down and praying the coffee patch dries before I hit the lobby.

The security guard, who has probably seen worse, just grins and gives me a mock salute.

I spend the next eight hours fixing spreadsheets, fielding condescending emails, and explaining for the hundredth time how I got the big brown stain on my silky white blouse.

By five, the only thing left holding me together is the promise of a fresh shower and a microwaved burrito.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, the universe will give me one evening without a disaster.

It’s after eight by the time I finally drag myself through the glass doors of #1 Love Place. There’s a line at the front desk, some kind of heated dispute over a misdelivered package, so I slide past and make for the sanctuary of the elevators.

All I want is to crawl into sweatpants and binge-watch a reality TV show. Traitors sounds like the perfect way to end my day.

The elevator doors part with a sigh, and for once, it’s blissfully empty. I jab the “8” button and let my head thunk against the cool metal panel. Three, maybe four deep breaths, and I’ll be home.

Just as the doors start to close, a large hand wedges itself into the seam. I flinch and glance up into the brown eyes I thought I’d never see again. Fudge my life. The universe really has it in for me.

He steps inside, crisp and sharp and a hundred percent more intimidating than he was this morning. Now he’s in a suit that looks like it was custom-built for his tall, muscular body. His hair is still perfect. His tie probably costs more than my monthly rent.

“Hello again,” he says, and his deep voice flows over me, sending electricity straight to my core.

I lock my jaw and try to appear invisible. “Hi.” I sigh because there’s no dignified way out of this.

He swipes a keycard and then punches the penthouse button. Of course, he lives in the penthouse.

“Give me a break,” I grumble to myself. At least it was supposed to be to myself.

From the way his mouth twitches, I realize I muttered it out loud.

Almost a smile. “Long day?” He leans against the mirrored wall, crossing his arms. I try not to gape, but holy hell.

Up close, he’s even more devastating. The lines of his jaw could cut glass.

His eyes pin me in place, dark and bottomless, and I swear my heart does a somersault in my chest. His suit hugs every stupidly perfect muscle, and when he folds his arms, the fabric strains across his biceps.

My brain short-circuits. All I can think about is what those arms would feel like wrapped around me. I bet he could lift me like I weigh nothing. My cheeks flush so hard I probably look like a ripe tomato.

He just stares. Intense. Unblinking, and my freaking knees go weirdly wobbly.

Good grief. I need adult supervision.

“The longest.” I try to sound casual, but my voice does that embarrassing warble it gets when I’m nervous.

He doesn’t respond right away. The silence builds, an avalanche rolling slowly down the mountain. I stare straight ahead and watch our distorted reflections in the steel. His gaze is fixed on mine, dark and bottomless, as if he’s trying to solve a puzzle that no one else even sees.

When the numbers flash past six, he finally speaks. “About this morning. I shouldn’t have yelled.”

I blink. “You didn’t exactly yell. More like…

” I wiggle my fingers, searching for the right word.

“Growled.” He blinks several times, and thank the universe, the elevator stops at my floor before he’s able to come up with a response to my babbling.

He’s still staring at my reflection, not at me directly.

It’s weirdly intense. The doors ping open, and I scramble out with a muttered, “Sorry again.”

The doors seal with a soft thunk, and I stand there in the hallway, still holding my breath.