Page 12 of The Grumpy Billionaire

My mind is the fucking Roman legion. It crawls through mud when I tell it to. It sleeps when I tell it to—on jagged rocks if need be.

I work uninterrupted and hit my morning goals.

ChapterEight

Stella

The walkhome takes a good forty minutes, but it’s a lovely late September evening. The sidewalks are mobbed, yes, but I’m starting to get the hang of how to move as part of the human river that is Manhattan and I’m working on my attitude.

It was a tough first day, yes. It’s hard on the ole self-esteem to be working at a job I’m not qualified for while being back in the orbit of Hugo and his displeasure at my existence and the weirdness of having to pretend I don’t know him—all made a hundred times worse by the hideous fact that he gave me the job.

And apparently I still have remnants of that crush. Which, how is that even possible? How many times does my soul need to be crushed by Hugo types?

“So done with Hugos,” I say to myself. Not that I ever had a chance with the original Hugo.

I remind myself to look on the bright side. I have two awesome co-workers. I have a great apartment and a new roommate who I’m becoming friends with. I’m living in the best city in the world.

I can figure this out.

I finally reach my cute new neighborhood and pause at the Cookie Madness window to see what the cookie of the day is. They make a special cookie for each day, commemorating a holiday. Apparently every day has some weird holiday. It’s September 30, extra virgin olive oil day, so there are cookies with olives on them.

The purple-haired clerk behind the counter waves. We bonded over owls the other day. She points to a tray of samples, but I shake my head and continue on. Some people might buy themselves a nice cookie as consolation for the kind of demoralizing day I’ve had, but I have a better plan.

I smile at Flo, who’s arranging flowers in her cart, and cross the street to check out the bookstore window. I’m stalking the third book in a certain trilogy, which would be an amazing cheer-up gift to get myself, but it’s not out for a week, and my goal is straight ahead: the Gourmet Goose, my favorite new store.

I walk in and say hi to Greta, the spiky-haired owner behind the counter. She’s a forty-something foodie who’s currently arguing with somebody about honey.

The store’s floor-to-ceiling shelves are stuffed with pasta and crackers from faraway lands, colorful little jams, and strange pickled things and chocolates of every kind, but the refrigerator case is where the action is. There among the spreads and dips and cold salads are cheeseballs.

And I’m not talking about the crunchy puffed-snack kind.

I’m talking about the kind of old-fashioned cheeseball that a person would put out for party guests—a large, delicious orb of soft cheese mixed up with yummy things and covered with crunchy things and surrounded by crackers.

Though I skip the crackers. I skip the party guests, too.

I’m eating that thing all by myself, just me and a spoon. Solo cheeseballs are my ultimate cheer-up food.

I discovered this place when I got pre-fired from my dream job. It seemed irresponsible to buy such an expensive gourmet treat when I had no source of income, but I promised myself a future cheeseball, and today’s the day.

Greta has the best selection of cheeseballs I’ve ever seen—from her “Blue Velvet and Honeyed Walnut” cheeseball to her pesto cheeseball with toasted breadcrumbs. She told me she creates the recipes herself and runs an offsite kitchen where they’re made.

I immediately home in on today’s special: a cranberry pecan cheeseball with white cheddar. I’m dying, imagining the goodness of it.

The great honey debate seems to have ended—badly from the sound of it—and Greta wanders over to me.

I point. “I’d love one of the specials. That large one in the back, please.”

Greta’s excited. “This batch turned out primo. What are you going to serve it with? Veggies or crackers?”

“Oh, I’m not serving it. I’m just going to eat it.”

She stiffens. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just for me. To eat.”

She doesn’t seem to comprehend, so I continue. “Like in a bowl with a spoon?”

“You can’t eat a cheeseball like that!”

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