Cassie Mint

  Grump Gone Bad

  First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2023

  Copyright © 2023 by Cassie Mint

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  First edition

  ISBN: 978-1-915735-25-6

  Cover art by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design

  This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy

  Find out more at reedsy.com

  Contents

  1. Priya

  2. Emmett

  3. Priya

  4. Emmett

  5. Priya

  6. Emmett

  7. Priya

  8. Emmett

  Teaser: Whole Lotta Grump

  About the Author

  One

  Priya

  Something’s off the second I step into the office.

  There are well-dressed people all around, chatting and flirting and stressing about deadlines as they march across the lobby. That’s normal enough. The old fashioned cage elevator grinds its way to the top floor with a series of crunches and bangs, and that’s damnably normal too.

  The Landry & Co offices are sunlit and bustling, with more foliage than a tropical rainforest, and even before 8am the whole building thrums with energy.

  Normal. All normal.

  But the back of my neck prickles.

  Something’s off.

  Adjusting my grip on a cardboard tray of coffees, I offer the pair of junior architects in the elevator with me a polite smile. They’re both fresh out of college, the man wearing a pinstripe suit and sneakers, the woman in a silk t-shirt and blazer. Cool but professional. I’m outclassed in my faded purple sheath dress.

  They ignore me, chatting about the big pitch next Friday. Assistants are invisible like that—we only pop into existence when someone needs us. I’ll see these jerks later when they want a peek at the boss’s schedule.

  Numbers flicker past on the little screen. The elevator cranks to a halt on floor eighteen to let out the rude newbies, then I’m alone, juddering into the heavens.

  With no one to witness me, I yawn so wide my jaw cracks. My roommate’s cat kept me awake last night crying for his mom. She’s off on some messed up trip with her boss, fake dating for his family and pretending they don’t have real feelings for each other, and I’m left playing cat nanny for the long weekend.

  I don’t mind really. Rusty’s a cute little fuzzball.

  But I got no sleep last night, and now a headache curdles behind my right eye.

  Bang. Crunch. The elevator struggles all the way to the top floor, and I exit on wobbly legs. I’ve told Mr Landry a million times that the elevator is scary and weird, but he insists that it brings a vintage feel to the building.

  Oh, and it’s perfectly safe. Definitely an afterthought.

  Architects. Honestly.

  It’s always quieter on the top floor, all the frenetic energy kept below. I stroll through the hushed corridor, past my own neat desk where it stands guard, all the way into the boss’s office.

  “Coffee,” I call like every morning. This way I start the day as a savior; a caffeine-bearing angel. It’s worth the two minute detour on my walk here.

  Mr Landry glances up behind his desk and nods. “Thank you, Priya.” He’s wearing his usual Friday suit—charcoal gray with a sage green shirt—and his dark hair is pushed back from his forehead. All normal.

  But I slam to a halt, cardboard tray creaking in my grip, my heart suddenly pounding at one hundred miles an hour.

  Because even though he looks exactly the same, even though he wears the same clothes and knows my name, that man is not my boss. I’d stake my life on it. What the hell is going on?

  The man behind the desk notices my freak-out. He tilts his head and smiles, slow and devilish.

  I stumble back a step.

  * * *

  “Well, that lasted,” the man makes a show of checking his watch, “less than five seconds. A triumph.”

  “Wh-who are you?” The coffees wobble in my hand. I should put them down, should spare the real Mr Landry’s priceless rug, but the nearest flat surface is the boss’s desk and you couldn’t pay me to step closer to the strange man.

  The man who looks like a carbon copy of my boss. Same square jaw, same piercing blue eyes. Did he find a doppelganger somewhere in the city? Or does he have…

  “A twin,” I mumble, answering my own question. God, I’m slow first thing in the morning. Even though it’s rude, I pluck one of the coffees from the tray and swig from it, scalding my tongue.

  “Tom never mentioned me?”

  I shake my head, still guzzling coffee like my life depends on it. It’s hot and sweet and milky, and I need it more than air. The headache flares brighter in my temple.

  “I’m filling in for a few days. Keeping up appearances.”

  Who does this? What the hell? What about the huge pitch next week?

  “He said that you do eighty percent of his work anyway, and the rest he’ll send over email. You should breathe, by the way.”

  I lower the half-empty coffee cup, wheezing and queasy. I’ve always known my boss can be a flake—god knows I’ve made up plenty of excuses on days when he skips meetings to go kite surfing—but this is a new low.

  The replacement Mr Landry watches me from behind the desk, pale eyes intense. He’s so still. With floor-to-ceiling plants behind him, he’s like a panther in the foliage.

  “No one will buy it,” I say, waving a trembling hand at—at him. “It’s so obvious.”

  Another flickering smile. “Actually, you’re the only person who’s ever told us apart. Even our mother can’t do it. Isn’t that interesting, Priya? How exactly can you tell?”

  “It’s…” Well. If I’m honest with myself, here’s what it is:

  The butterflies in my stomach. The way my skin heats when this man looks at me. The way every nerve ending in my body crackled to life when I saw him, an electric current zinging through my veins. It’s the way something deep inside me recognized him, called out to him, but obviously I can’t say any of that.

  “Your posture,” I say instead, and it sounds so lame. “You sit differently. And you’re more still.”

  “Huh.” My fake boss shifts in his chair, the leather creaking. “What if I fidget? Is that more convincing?”

  How should I know? It’s still painfully obvious to me.

  Because I’ve worked for Tom Landry for three years, and my pulse has never once fluttered in his presence. My mouth has never gone dry at the sight of his hands. But a single glance at his twin brother, and I’m sweating through my dress.

  “Excuse me,” I rasp, and flee back to my own desk, slamming the office door shut behind me.

  I took the second coffee, but I’m not even sorry. I need it way more than he does.

  Two

  Emmett

  This is fascinating. Leaning back in my brother’s chair, legs stretched out beneath the desk, I allow myself a grin. The sunshine is warm where it spills through the huge glass windows, and a puff of cloud drifts across the blue sky.

  A week, Tom said. A week of stalking around this building and letting myself be seen, and in return he’d owe me a favor and a bottle of fine whiskey. And I’ve done this plenty of times before—passed myself off as Tom and tried not to die of boredom—but it’s never thrilled me like this.

  She could tell. Immediately, as soon as Priya stepped into the room, she could tell.

  How? What’s so special about Tom’s assistant?

  Sure, she spends hours with him in this building every week, but our own family members can’t tell us apart. Nor our teachers at school, or our friends and girlfriends back in college. That made for a few awkward encounters, let me tell you.

  “Priya Dhawan.” I say her name slowly, rolling it around my tongue like I could taste it. Tom mentioned her, of course, but he didn’t give many details. Didn’t mention her wide-eyed beauty, or the way her husky voice makes every sentence sound like pillow talk. Did he leave that out on purpose? Trying to throw me off the trail?

  Maybe they’re together. He wouldn’t be the first boss to sleep with an assistant, and surely not the last. I push to my feet, grin fading.

  The puff of cloud drifts in front of the sun, dimming the morning sky for one heartbeat. I push through the door.

  Priya’s at her desk, her knee jiggling under the table. Her silky dark hair is tied in a high ponytail, the ends dancing as she vibrates with tension. How many coffees has she had this morning? All that caffeine, then this shock… I round the desk and peer into her dazed face.

  Smooth tawny skin and a flush on her cheeks. Thick, arching eyebrows over brown, soulful eyes.

  Beautiful.

  And I signed up for a standard-regulation twin swap: no harm done. I will not be responsible for this young woman’s heart attack.

  A few steps to the water cooler. There’s a gurgling rush of bubbles; an

interminable wait. I return and place the cup by her hand, saying, “Drink this, please.”

  Priya huffs, staring past me down the corridor, but she takes the cup. It wobbles on its path to her mouth—lips pursed and painted a dark red color that would stain my shirt collar in the best way.

  Her throat works as she swallows. The cup taps against the wooden desk, empty after three gulps. “Where is Mr Landry?”

  I am also Mr Landry, but fine. “Tom’s upstate.”

  “Why—?”

  “Personal reasons.” I wince, remembering my suspicion from a moment ago, because if Priya and Tom are sleeping together, she will not like why he’s gone. “Does it matter?”

  Are you together? That’s what I really want to know. It started as idle curiosity, but the longer I stare at this woman, the more the question needles my insides. She’s too good for him, surely. Too regal, too smart. Even now, in the midst of this shock, her shoulders are back and she regards me with steady calm.

  My twin brother is a lot of things, but a decent boyfriend is not one of them. Never has been. It’s a sore spot between us; the cause of several fights back in college, punches thrown on the quad for honor’s sake. And this woman…

  Well, she’s a winning lottery ticket. I’ve only known her for a few minutes, and even I see that. He’d better not mess her around, or I swear to god, I’ll toss him around this office. Don’t care if we’re years too old for that shit.

  “You’re angry,” Priya observes, folding her hands on the desk. Her fingernails are short and neat, painted indigo blue. “Why?”

  Because my brother’s an asshole, and she apparently knows him better than our own relatives. Surely they’re sleeping together.

  The thought spreads through my insides like acid, eating away at my organs and bones. What is wrong with me? Why do I care?

  “Maybe I’m tired of foolish questions.” Inhaling sharply, I rub my chest. What is that slicing pain? “It’s Emmett, by the way. Since you didn’t ask.”

  “Charmed,” Priya says, her voice so flat, and Christ, I’m messing this up in the worst way. Blaming the one innocent person in this scenario; lashing out like a wounded animal because there’s a slim chance my brother has seen her naked.

  So what if he has? It’s none of my business.

  Fuck.

  “I’ll keep out of your way.” It’s harder than it should be to walk back to the office doorway—like wading through water. “Tom’s got his cell if you have a work-related question. Don’t bother him otherwise.”

  Her irritated scoff follows me into the office. I close the door, then lean against it with my palms pressed flat. Guilt and shame squeeze my throat.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into? A week with that woman? With her reproachful glances and her disappointed sighs?

  Sounds like purgatory. I fish my phone out of my pocket with a shaking hand, but Tom’s dial tone is busy. Figures. Guess I’m not the only one ready to curse him out.

  Closing my eyes, I wait for my heartbeats to slow. Priya’s faint voice drifts through the door, hardening each time she says my name.

  * * *

  When I finally get through to Tom on the desk phone, he’s already laughing. “Dude,” he says, like he’s still a college student and not a CEO in his late thirties, “Priya busted you so hard. I wish I could’ve seen your face. It’s Jenna McCay all over again.”

  Jenna was Tom’s steady girlfriend in the first year of college. He made me go on a date with her in his place for one night—a few hours at the cinema—and I spent the whole evening wracked with guilt, desperately trying to keep ten inches of space between us at all times. I confessed as soon as the movie ended and we spilled out into the night air, and Jenna slapped me so hard that her hand print glowed on my cheek.

  Who could blame her? That was not a proud moment for me. My idiot nineteen year old self deserved that slap, just like Tom deserved Jenna dumping him like old leftovers. She could do far better.

  “It’s nothing like Jenna McCay.” I tug on the collar of Tom’s shirt, grimacing at the abstract painting on his office wall. How can he stand these monkey suits? I can’t breathe. “We agreed back then: no more personal situations. And you and Priya aren’t personally involved.”

  I wait, heart pounding, desperate for his confirmation, but Tom doesn’t take the bait. He says, “Priya’s scary when she’s mad, isn’t she?”

  No. Not really. The young woman out there is dignified—poised when everyone around her is behaving like a jackass. But I can see why Tom finds that unsettling.

  Still, I won’t hear it. “Don’t talk shit about Priya.”

  He splutters. “I’m not! She’s the best assistant I’ve ever had.”

  And..? And..?

  I swear to god, if I don’t get a straight answer soon, I’m going to gnaw through the wood of Tom’s fancy desk. “Are you sleeping with her?”

  Screw it. I need to know.

  He laughs again, loud and bright, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. I sink back in the chair, my pulse finally slowing, and stop tugging on my collar. Tom sure doesn’t sound like a man who just got rumbled.

  Thank god.

  “No,” my brother says at last, “I am not sleeping with Priya. For one thing, she’s my assistant, and for another, she’s not my type.”

  Not his type? That makes no sense. Beautiful and resilient and smart aren’t his type? With this fresh insight into my brother’s taste, I respect him a little less… even as I’m glad for it.

  The phone crackles as he changes ear. “She’s not into us either.”

  Us? “What do you mean?”

  “She’s never looked at me twice. And I hate to break this to you, Emmett, but we have the same face.”

  The same eminently slappable face.

  Right.

  “Keep your hands off my assistant,” Tom says, mock-stern. “It’s the weekend tomorrow, then only a few days more. Just… hide in the office and do DIY or whatever. Let her run the show, she’s more than capable.”

  My fingers itch for my tool kit. Now that he’s suggested it, it’s all I want. “You got anything up here that needs fixing?”

  “The faucet leaks in my bathroom. And one of the lights in the corridor flickers. Hold up, I’ll send you a list.”

  Yeah. Okay. Fixing things for a few days—I can do that. Sounds almost calming.

  And I can keep my hands off Priya Dhawan for a week.

  Definitely.

  Three

  Priya

  “You’re tense.” My roommate Maisie comes to stand behind the sofa, prodding at my bunched-up shoulders. “These muscles are rock hard.”

  Rusty purrs on my lap, drooling on my pajama pants. It’s a Sunday morning, and the two of us are watching cartoons until his mom comes home. Our other roommate, Fliss, should be back today, and then I’m off cat duty.

  I’m trying not to be sad about that.

  Because I know Rusty’s not my pet, but I need him right now. My work life has turned upside down, and I’m wrestling with the world’s most unwelcome crush. Rusty’s my only comfort.

  “Want a back rub?”

  Maisie’s a massage therapist. And not just any massage therapist—the owner of the most sought-after healing hands in the city. She has this magic aura, this incredible sense of calm, and it’s no wonder that her schedule books out months in advance. Even chatting with her for a few minutes lowers my blood pressure.

  “That would be amazing. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

  It’s her job, after all. She’s off duty. The last thing I’d want to do with my weekend is file reports and send emails, especially when my boss is such a grade A jerk.

  But Maisie’s a sweetheart. A black-haired, freckle-faced sweetheart. “Shuffle up,” she says.

  Rusty squeaks as I wriggle along the sofa, his claws gripping my thighs. I turn my back to my roommate and she settles behind me, the sofa cushions sinking under our shared weight.

  Cartoons flicker on the TV, the volume low. The morning sunshine spills golden through the window.

  “We should clean before Fliss comes back,” I say.

  Maisie hums, her small hands gliding over my shoulders. “Don’t worry about that right now. You’re always so on, Priya.”

 

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