Page 4 of The Grump's Assistant

“Don’t bother coming into the office,” he snaps.

“Please, Vincent. Uh, I mean, Mr. Sloan. Let me prove my…worth.” I choke on the word, hating that I’m groveling. This job could mean serious money. Money my mom and I need. Money that could save her life. So, if I have to suck up to the most arrogant brute in the business world, so be it.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath. After heaving out a huge sigh, he rattles off an address. I place my bag on the bench at the bus stop I’m still standing at, digging through it to find a pen and something to write on. “That’s for dry cleaning. I have an account there. Don’t let Mr. Santori rip me off. That’s your first task. Let me know if you’re successful.”

Then he hangs up.

Bastard.

Looking down at the scribbled address, I take a deep breath and scurry toward the train station. It’s a long ride to the Upper East Side, but I’m determined to keep this job. For the money, of course. And maybe a little bit so I can rise to every single one of Mr. Sloan’s challenges and show him he can’t just treat people like trash. Seems like a win-win to me.

2

VINCENT

Ishould fire her.

I should call her back and tell her not to bother with the dry cleaning. This whole situation is already messed up with HR, whatever the fuck happened there, and now she’s late. And sassy.

And I hate it. Or, I should hate it. No one talks back to me. Admittedly, not many people talk to me in general, but when they do, it’s with the respect I’ve earned over the years.

Not Ms. Leigh, however. She accused me of having high standards, as if that were a bad thing. Of course, I expect perfection from my employees. I expect it from myself, too. Juniper better get used to that if she wants to keep this job.

No, not Juniper.Ms. Leigh. No use getting too familiar with the woman who will likely be out of a job by the end of the day. A twinge of something pierces my chest, but I clear my throat and ignore it. Why does the thought of sending her away make it hard to breathe?

It’s just stress. I usually thrive off of the frantic energy in the investment world. Everyone is out to make a buck, and I happen to be very good at turning other people’s money into moremoney, while taking a percentage for myself. Lately, though, I’ve been feeling… Well, that’s just it. I’ve beenfeeling.

And I don’t like it.

Drumming my fingers on my desk, I clear my throat and look around my office. Navy blue walls, solid oak furniture, and not a trace of art or personal touches, just the way I like it. This is a room with no distractions. It does little good for me now though as I try to focus on the mountain of work in front of me.

Numbers, I understand. Algorithms, patterns, probability formulas, I can easily figure out. Once you have one piece of the puzzle, the rest fall into place. I happen to make a lot of money off of being the first person to find all the pieces of the puzzle.

People, on the other hand, are infuriating and not worth my time. I talk to clients only when I absolutely have to, usually in a quarterly meeting to report how fat their bank accounts are. Everything else is handled by the cogs in the great machine I’ve built, including hiring decisions. I’ve never met Juni— Ms. Leigh, and I’ll likely never meet her. Even if she stays on, I don’t interact with my employees face to face on a regular basis. Phone and email only. That’s my policy.

There it is again. That tightness in my chest. I grind the heel of my hand down on the sore spot, hoping to somehow wipe it away. This…feelinghas been lodged in my throat for weeks now, but it gets worse when I think about sending the sassy woman with no respect for my time away.

Like I said, I don’t care much for other people. My circle of trusted individuals is very small. In fact, there’s really just one person, Cutter Morgan, and we only talk a few times a year. He’s the only person I take advice from, and that’s probably because he doesn’t offer it very often.

Cutter and I met almost fifteen years ago when we were freshmen at NYU. We shared a dorm room, and though we’re opposites in a lot of ways, Cutter and I actually got along. Thetwo of us differ on almost everything, from what motivates us to how we dress. I’ve always been clean-cut and focused on climbing the corporate ladder, so to speak. Cutter, on the other hand…

I can picture his ripped jeans, messy hair, and perma-scowl now. He moved to New York City from his small mountain town on the other side of the country, and regretted the decision almost instantly. I convinced him to stick it out for the rest of the year and really give this city a chance, but ultimately I knew the mountain man would return home when classes let out.

Cutter went on his own journey while I built an empire. I don’t care about the money, as long as it keeps flowing. What I’m really interested in is figuring out the systems in place and using them to my advantage. Nothing illegal, of course. I’m just playing the game, and I’m very good at it.

But lately, I’ve been restless. No, that’s not the right word. I’m agitated and on edge, but there’s something else. Something deeper. Something I don’t want to name, but can’t ignore forever.

I’m lonely.

There. I said it. “Weak fucking piece of shit,” I snarl at myself before slamming my laptop shut. I don’t need anyone. My old man would laugh at me if he knew the thoughts flying through my head. He’s told me throughout the years that the only thing holding him back from reaching greatness was being saddled with a family.

When I first told Cutter that sentiment when we were in college, he said it was the most tragic thing he’s ever heard. To me, however, it always made sense. You only have so many hours in each day, and a limited number of days in this life. Ergo, if you want to be great at something, you must sacrifice everything else.

I’ve never had a problem with that before. All of my time and energy has gone into building up Sloan Investments, and I don’t regret it one bit. Sometimes, though, I want… more.

Not more money. Not notoriety. Certainly not another photoshoot for most blah blah blah bachelor of the year. That was a nightmare. I only recently stopped receiving calls and emails from women who want me to put a ring on their finger and end the bachelor life. I never responded to a single one.

No, I want something meaningful. Something real. Something… someonewho sees the man behind the numbers. Whoever he is. I sure as hell don’t know, but maybe the right person could bring him out.

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