Mr Billionaire Boss Grump: a sweet clean second-chance romcom, page 1
Mr Billionaire Boss Grump
a sweet, clean second-chance romcom
Francesca Spencer
Copyright © 2023 by Francesca Spencer
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
For Lynn W with love and thanks.
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
13. Chapter 13
14. Chapter 14
15. Chapter 15
16. Chapter 16
17. Chapter 17
18. Chapter 18
19. Chapter 19
20. Chapter 20
21. Chapter 21
22. Chapter 22
23. Chapter 23
24. Chapter 24
25. Chapter 25
26. Chapter 26
27. Chapter 27
28. Chapter 28
29. Chapter 29
30. Chapter 30
31. Chapter 31
32. Chapter 32
33. Chapter 33
34. Chapter 34
35. Chapter 35
36. Chapter 36
37. Epilogue
38. Thank you!
Chapter 1
Olivia
“Ti amo.”
“Excuse me?”
“I love you.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe it is possible?”
The beautiful dream weighs heavy on the back of my eyelids when Contessa jumps on me to tell me it’s time for breakfast. For her anyway. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, desperate to get back into the dream; to reignite the images of Gianni’s handsome face; the sparkling river; the warmth of his skin; the touch of his lips on mine. But the dream of the memory has disappeared. It’s not coming back no matter how hard I try. I stare at the ceiling lying perfectly still, leaden limbs too cumbersome to move. Contessa is at the bedroom door saying something like, ‘Get up, stupid human, and attend to my needs.’
Yes. I am the crazy cat lady. Contessa is a pure white Persian with blue eyes that I inherited from the previous tenants of my apartment. She is absolute kitty royalty. And she knows it. My sole purpose, in my otherwise humdrum life, is to be her servant. I get it now, the saying about dogs having owners and cats having staff. It is perfectly true in my case.
“Be right there, Your Highness,” I tell her, although I am still in bed.
I’m going to be late for work if I lie here for much longer. It’s a good thing I have a cat. Something other than myself to care for, otherwise I may just stay in bed dreaming, remembering a golden moment that I lived: the best time of my life. Never to be repeated. Done. Gone. Thank you and goodnight.
I lived a dream in Florence, Italy, and fell in love with the place and the most beautiful boy imaginable. But that was years ago. So long ago, it seems as if the memory belongs to someone else. And that is kind of true. I was different back then, when I was eighteen. I was a different person from who I am now. Isn’t everyone?
Contessa tells me I’m a saddo and to get my life together before things get any worse.
I love her. She is so honest.
I ride the subway with a gazillion other people who work in New York, then pick up a coffee and muffin on my way to Mayfair & Lewis Gallery of Fine Arts, my place of work for about a thousand years. A slight exaggeration, perhaps. But that’s the way it feels sometimes.
Margot is in already. I’m her assistant and should be in first. No matter what time I arrive at the glass-fronted Manhattan gallery, she is always there ahead of me. Alright. I haven’t really altered my arrival time much to test when she comes to work. I used to care, but no one has said anything, so I just keep coming in after her. I try and sneak in under the radar.
“Morning, Olivia,” Margot says before I enter the office at the back of the exhibition space.
She is a witch and can see through walls. Although we do have a CCTV camera security system for seeing through walls. But still.
Margot is at her desk looking at the screen of her laptop. She doesn’t look up when I walk in. Usual. Her immaculately made-up face is expressionless. Business-like. As smooth and cold as the marble statue of Venus that stands against the wall behind her. It was new in this week and immediately got snapped up by a client in The Village. It has to be shipped today. That’s my first job. Or one of my first jobs.
I settle myself into my desk, open the laptop, and turn it on. The office space behind the gallery is serviceable most of the time, but with artworks coming and going, I need to be on top of things and organized. Perhaps more on top of things and organized than I am.
Artwork arrives. It has to be unpacked and checked. Then there’s a show in the gallery space. Or, most of the time, the artworks are purchased on behalf of a client who has submitted a detailed brief of what he or she wants. Our sales team has an intimate knowledge of what the clients are after and often sells a piece on to someone specific, less a percentage, of course. If the piece is not quite right for them, we send out a blast to our substantial client list, have a show at the gallery, and shift it that way. Mayfair & Lewis or M&L are high-end art dealers. I mean, our clients are the crème de la crème of big money collectors.
Margot is brilliant at keeping the admin up to date. She basically runs the place. And I am her assistant, so I pretty much get told what to do.
Margot: Jump
Me: How high?
I’ve got to hand it to her. She can turn it on, right down to the London accent that she wears like lipstick depending on who is in the room. She also keeps tabs on client trends and international markets. So, judging by the pieces I’m unpacking, there seems to be an uptick in European post-renaissance and classical Italian, which is perfect for me. I love Italian art. Especially Florentine.
A hazy memory flows across my mind as I cut away the cardboard outer casing of today’s shipment. I’m sitting on the bank of the Arno, sketching the wonderful shapes, shadows and light, of the Ponte Vecchio. But then, Margot asks something, and my attention is pinged back to the gallery.
I wear white cotton gloves to gently remove the layers of bubble wrap and tape from the painting that’s on the central table in the office. It’s a portrait of a haughty young woman wearing an elaborate lace-trimmed satin dress, cut low around her shoulders and pulled in with a structured corset. She casually shows off her gem-encrusted jewelry. Eighteen-century. A wedding portrait perhaps. The oil paint is fractured with age. I can see there has been some attempt at restoration, but it’s a bit heavy-handed. Probably done in the early twentieth century by someone who didn’t know what they were doing. The frame is finely carved and gilded. Possibly added at a later date. Margot comes over to the table to have a look. She shines a torch along the painting’s surface.
“Needs work,” she says, sucking air through her teeth.
“I’ll get on to Henry asap.”
Henry is our restorer of choice. A true artistic genius, he can bring a painting back to life and restore it to its former glory. Even one like this, which looks beyond help: dark, heavy, colorless. Henry will remove the yellowing varnish and clumsy overpaint to reveal the beauty hiding beneath layers of grime build-up and unloved years.
I email Henry and book him in for an appraisal. I photograph the painting, adding some close-ups of problematic areas, then carefully re-wrap the picture and add a label with details of artist, subject, date of arrival, and action taken. Then I log this information with the images, onto the company’s software.
I check the other emails in my inbox. There’s nothing surprising apart from one that has ‘Notice: change of ownership’ in the subject line.
“Margot. Sorry to interrupt. Have you seen this?” I point to my laptop screen. “Something about M&L’s new owners.”
“Yes, yes. Not to worry. The sale went through last week. I was told that everything is staying the same. But we have a new boss, apparently. Although Nigel’s a bit twitchy about it. So don’t say anything around him.”
Nigel is the main buyer at Mayfair & Lewis. He likes to think he is the one-stop shop when it comes to buying and selling high-ticket art. Sure, he knows his stuff. He graduated from the Courtauld Institute in London, the most prestigious seat of learning for art historians and dealers. He struts around, blustering facts with his boomy voice. If he is in the gallery, I make sure I have some important and exceptionally urgent task, that needs my undivided attention, far far away from him.
So, the gallery has a new owner. I’m sure things won’t change that much. I don’t think I ever met the old gallery owners. The M&L business was part of a portfolio of faceless partners. I don’t know how these things work, but as long as the gallery keeps making a profit for the people at the top, we should just be left alone to do our jobs. Business as usual.
Henry stops by to see the new acquisition.
“I was in the neighborhood,” he says with a cheery smile. “What do you have for me?”
I carefully unwr
“Ah yes,” says Henry on close inspection. He was looking at the painting through his special glasses under ultraviolet light. “It’s going to require a little effort but, yes, I think I can make her beautiful again.”
“That’s great. I had no doubt,” I say pulling a sheet of bubble wrap across the delicate painted board. Henry leans against the table and puts his equipment away in the carry case.
“You have a new boss, I hear.”
“That’s right. I don’t know much about him or her.”
“Italian, Margot says. So, hopefully, he or she will be bringing over some fabulous pieces for me to work on.” Henry smiles warmly. “The market is mad for Florentine post-renaissance, so you, my darling, are going to be super busy.” He taps me playfully on the shoulder and heads out. “Ship The Duchess over today and I’ll start on her right away,” Henry says as he heads for the door. Then he stops and turns around. “You’re not going to tell me what the gallery paid for her, are you?”
“Company policy, Henry. And also, I don’t have a clue.”
Henry laughs. “I know. Just teasing.”
Chapter 2
Gianni
My knee aches. It comes and goes. Instinctively I reach a hand down to rub the joint as if the action will erase the injury that ended my professional soccer career.
Swimming helps. I lap the pool a few times. The motion not only helps my knee but also sorts my head out.
I am learning all about the family business that I will inherit from my father, Carlo Moretti. I’m trying not to get overwhelmed by the weight of responsibility. There are a great many irons in the proverbial fire. When I say family business, I really mean businesses because my family, the Moretti, is one of the most influential and wealthy in Tuscany and has a number of different income streams.
My grandfather started with a small vineyard and made wine. Very good wine. He was an enterprising and extremely clever businessman who saw opportunities and seized them with both gnarly calloused hands. He acted at exactly the right moment, anticipating a growing market both at home and internationally. So, by the time my father took over from him, when I was a young boy, the Moretti empire of land, olives, and wine production had skyrocketed.
This massive birthright will fall to me, one day, to continue. I work closely with my father and the board of directors as I learn the facets of business. Papa is always on hand if I need advice or to sound out an idea. But he trusts me to take care of the family legacy. And I want to be ready to accept that trust and responsibility when the time comes. This mindset hasn’t always been the case.
When I was younger, I didn’t want any part of the family business. I wanted to play soccer for my country in the World Cup final. I was mad for it. Playing soccer was all I cared about. I was obsessed. Playing soccer consumed every minute of every day. Until, one day, I met an angel.
Yes. I believe in angels because I met one and she was real. And, bam! For the first time in my life, and probably the last, I was in love.
I know. I was young: a foolish romantic who fell hard. Just like that. What they say about Cupid’s arrow is true. I felt it fly into my heart, and I knew, as soon as I saw her, sitting there, cross-legged, with that intense concentration on her face, I knew it was love. Pure and simple. The blond-haired angel was sketching the view of the river and didn’t even know I was there watching transfixed. Her long, tousled fringe curtained her face. She swept it aside with the back of her hand. And I was caught. Mesmerized by her.
I finish swimming my laps and dry off on one of the sun loungers on the patio overlooking the sundrenched vineyards of the surrounding hills. The green and yellow landscape is punctuated by tall dark spikes of Cypress trees. Everything I see, stretching out to the horizon, belongs to my family, the Moretti.
Maria brings me a freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Grazie, Maria.”
“Prego, signor.” She smiles and nods respectfully and places the glass on the table underneath the sun umbrella beside me.
As I towel dry my hair, I think about the art-dealing branch of the family business. It’s relatively new and was my idea. So, yes, I realize I have a lot to prove. But I love beautiful things. I have an art collection of my own so turning my passion into a business was the obvious next step. I wasn’t sure what my father would say or how he would react when I told him about my idea. I chose my moment to talk with him in his study one day.
“I have been watching the international markets for Italian artwork and the United States seems to have consistent growth activity,” I say pointing to a graph on my laptop screen. “We must take advantage of this overseas interest right now. As long as I can source art from here, we are looking at some very lucrative returns.”
“Looks interesting, Gianni. Let’s investigate further.”
I supplied the projections for the next five years and covered all scenarios from best-case to worst-case.
My father perused the data with seriousness, then said, “Gianni, my son. Each generation brings something new to the family business.” He stands and walks a few paces to the window, then turns slowly. “For me, it was property. My passion is restoring the traditional buildings we have here and preserving the architecture. This house was rundown and almost derelict,” he says running his hand up the rough yolk-yellow wall. “But I made it beautiful and luxurious without losing the original character.”
I follow his gaze around the grand living space of our family home and understand what he means. There is so much care and attention in the details and authentic artisanal elements, but the historic features work in harmony with the contemporary design. Carlo extended the humble farmhouse and added a gym and sauna, an outside swimming pool and entertainment area, as well as garaging for the collection of classic Italian cars.
“So now, you have found something you can excel at and leave your mark.” My father smiles warmly. “Succeed or fail. It is all on you, my son. But you are a Moretti and failing is not in the family genetics.” He laughs.
And that was the green light I needed, although I still needed to convince the members of the board. My father was influential, but he didn’t have the final say. It would be down to a majority vote at the next meeting. I would need to get a compelling presentation together.
Of course, I thought I could run everything for my art dealership from my home in Firenze, but with the way the importation paperwork is over there, it became necessary to have an office/ gallery space in New York, the center of all U.S. art sales. So, when a commercial gallery came up for sale, I snapped it up without waiting for the board of director’s sign-off. Perhaps I was too quick with my decision, but it just felt right. Not a great business strategy, perhaps. But with my father’s blessing, I signed the papers.
Now I’m feeling the pressure. The gallery in Manhattan could be the golden egg for the Moretti. Or I could have egg on my face, be a laughingstock, and bring shame on the family name. I shrug off my doubts as I scroll through the M&L website. It could do with a refocus on Italian art, of course. But as my optimism grows, I am more and more pleased with this purchase. The glittering potential is clear, and I feel confident that I have made the right decision. I will need to be in New York and away from Firenze, but only for short periods and only at the start, until I get systems in place.
In my room, I choose a light grey Armani suit with an open-neck white cotton shirt: stylish and comfortable. I pack a few essentials for the day. I have an art sale in Arezzo, then dinner with friends in Firenze, later. I’ll stay at the city apartment tonight and probably for the next few days as I finalize the first shipment of artwork to the New York gallery.
