Page 15 of Stuck with Mr. Grump

His blunt assessment feels like a slap to the face.

“Excuse me? This ‘dated décor’ is what gives my café its charm. And as for marketing, I rely on word of mouth and loyal patrons. Not everyone wants a flashy, impersonal experience.”

He exhales sharply, clearly losing patience. “Ms. Cameron, sentimentality doesn’t pay the bills. Selling now would provide you with the capital to start anew, perhaps in a location more conducive to your business model.”

Anger flashes through me. “Start anew? This isn’t just a business to me, Mr. Harrington, and I’m not going to let you bully me into abandoning it.”

“No one is bullying you. I’m offering a practical solution to an inevitable problem.”

I take a step closer, my voice low. “The only inevitable thing here is that I will fight for my café. Now, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

His jaw tightens. “Be reasonable, Emilia.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snap, my eyes narrowing into a glare.

For a moment we stand in tense silence, the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, his lips tilt up in a smirk.

“Alright then, I’ll leave. But trust me when I say this, darling. You don’t want to fuck with me.”

Oh, please.“Go fuck yourself, Mr. Harrington.”

He glares at me for a second before turning and exiting the café. As soon as he’s gone, I release a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Damn, that was intense. I really didn’t mean for the situation to escalate that much, but something about that man is really infuriating. It’s pretty obvious he’s gone through life without being told no or had anything taken from him.

I look forward to knocking him down a few pegs.

Seeing as I’ve basically declared war on a multimillion dollar corporation, I decide it might be a good idea to see an expert whocould give me some advice on my position. And that expert is… my dad.

I pull up to my dad’s house, a classic two-story home nestled on a quiet street. It has a well-manicured lawn with a garden on the side that my stepmother Priya tends to every single day. I walk up the stone pathway leading into the house and I don’t bother knocking before I push the door open.

As soon as I do, I’m immediately assaulted by the delicious aroma of dinner. The house is pretty warm on the inside and I can hear the distant clatter of pots from the kitchen, which means I came at the exact right time.

“Dad,” I call out, stepping into the living room.

“Is that my beautiful daughter I hear calling out for me?” a soft baritone voice questions right before I step into view.

I laugh as my father, Jeremiah Cameron, rises from his favorite armchair, a broad smile spreading across his face. He’s in his early fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose. He pulls me into a big warm hug that I will never grow tired of.

My dad’s a really warm person. He just exudes kindness. Which is why it makes me tear up at times that I missed out on experiencing his warmth in my childhood.

“It’s good to see you, Dad,” I murmur.

“You too, sweetheart. How have you been?”

“Good, good.” I shrug.

He offers me a knowing look, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? Considering I just saw you two days ago, I’m guessing something’s wrong.”

“Nah,” I say, waving him off with an innocent expression. “I just missed you.”

His eyes twinkle. “I’d believe that if I didn’t know you were lying. But I’m not going to complain about seeing you, Em.”

“Is Priya in the kitchen?”

He nods. “Yeah, she’s making dinner.”

I grin. “I see I have perfect timing, as always. I’ll see if she needs any help.”

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