Damaged Grump By Nicole Snow PDF Free Download

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Damaged Grump

Damaged Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Summary

Damaged Grump: Our meet cute was one big sip of ugly. He pushed my hell-no buttons, wearing an indestructible smirk. I offended his warped morals in front of his starry-eyed minions. Then I got my sweet reward for doing the right thing. I found out I'd be calling Roland Osprey “boss.”

A filthy rich tabloid king. Emphasis on filthy. A gorgeous villain who sold his soul—if he ever had one. A tyrant who stole my sensitive, uplifting music magazine. Welcome to my bait and switch.

Apparently, disasters come in threes. His perfect vests that leave me delirious.The way he stares at my lips—painted for torment with an arsenal of lipstick. Our shared love for sad songs that makes me cry. So does the big fat secret assignment he drops on my head.

I hate that he has a good cause. I wish I could hate the wicked ways he makes me feel divine. When my guard slips, I'm in free fall. One all-consuming kiss in an alley seals our epic mistake. How many times can one damaged grump make me sing the blues? How do you ever fall out of love with the bad guy?

About the Author

Nicole Snow is a Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling author. She found her love of writing by hashing out love scenes on lunch breaks and plotting her great escape from boardrooms. Her work roared onto the indie romance scene in 2014 with her Grizzlies MC series.

Since then Snow aims for the very best in growly, heart-of-gold alpha heroes, unbelievable suspense, and swoon storms aplenty. With over a million books sold, she lives for the joy of making two people fight with every bit of their soul for a Happily Ever After.

Current fan favorites include her Enguard Protectors series, accidental love novels, plus long-beloved MC romance thrillers like the Grizzlies and Deadly Pistols.

Damaged Grump: An Enemies to Lovers Romance Introduction

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

I’m breakdancing on cloud nine and nothing is going to ruin this.

Seriously. I don’t think I’ve ever sat in a chair this comfortable in my entire life.

The deep leather seat feels as soft and smooth as butter.

I’ve heard people say that before, but I never took it to heart when leather is supposed to be a tight, slick hide with a hint of texture, hardness, and too much tension in the cushion.

But until today, I’ve never had my butt kissed by fine leather in a luxury airport lounge.

This thing swallows you and conforms to your contours until you’re pretty sure you’ve either died and gone to heaven or else you’re having the strangest wet dream ever.

Just sitting shouldn’t be so magical.

Between this chair and an impeccably mixed mint julep, I might actually get used to flying first class. I could even settle into a nap with my eyes shut.

If only I didn’t feel so guilty about my father paying for my flight to Chicago out of his dwindling royalty funds. He refused to take no for an answer, though.

He also didn’t give his dearest—and only—daughter much choice when he’d already bought the ticket.

I just wish I’d remembered my AirPods. Not even the fuzzy ambient music in the lounge can drown out the sharp, clipped voices across from me.

They fly back and forth like arrows, taking up too much space in the room and completely disregarding everyone who’s trying to relax while we wait for our flights.

I grit my teeth, trying to ignore it, fighting to focus on the loving embrace of my butt-worshipping chair.

Turns out it’s mighty hard when the intense chatter sounds like the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, all hard words and demanding questions.

Eavesdropping isn’t a choice with the way they’re going at it.

I catch a few familiar terms.

Photo spreads. Print layouts. Color boards. Content calendars. Sound bites.

It’s not the jargon that makes me open my eyes.

It’s one particular voice that dominates them all.

Even classifying it as a mere voice seems too mellow.

It’s deep, concentrated masculine, a sort of gritty, slow drawl dripping molasses and smoke. The type of voice that’s made for throaty, heart-stomping songs strummed to acoustic guitars under low lights that turn the audience into shadows of themselves.

Except there’s no passion in this thunderclap of a voice at all.

That voice dismisses every word with a disinterested, “No. Next,” or “Are you kidding?” or “Off brand. No.”

Jeez.

It’s hard to parse the words as rejections when they carry no harsh condemnation, no disapproval—but no interest, either.

I guess the other groupies are used to this song and dance because they just keep going, firing away with words like bullets.

I can’t help myself.

I’m too curious now.

Cracking one eye open, I try not to be too obvious when I scan the room.

I don’t need to look far.

The owner of that voice and his entourage are seated right across from me, less than fifteen feet away. They occupy the entire arc of leather seats on the opposite side of a scattering of little tables.

I actually get whiplash when I see Mr. Thunderclap.

He lounges like a king holding court.

Tall, elegantly built, too much toned muscle caged and sleek inside a crisp white button-down. A deep-grey wool waistcoat thrown over it. Devil-black slacks that make his long legs look even longer, ending in polished leather shoes borrowed from hell’s wardrobe.

The style suits him.

His hair is that shade of brown that’s so deliciously mocha-dark it looks nearly black until it catches the light. Then it gleams like brown butter and walnuts at the crests of the artful sweep flowing back from a princely brow.

His eyes are half-lidded—and aren’t they always with these sort of men?

They’re calm, lazy, sly, and such a piercing blue they’re like unpolished sapphires. All cutting edges, but murky enough to hide the shine in their depths, swirling with secrets.

God help me.

The minions around him look like children. Most of them are younger, apparently in their early to mid-twenties, all dressed in ragged imitations of his expensive clothing. Professional, but nowhere near his polish.

Not a single minion looks at him directly. They’re glued to their tablets while they ramble on and he sprawls in wait for their next big idea to shoot down.

I repress the sudden urge to snicker.

Even the way he sits in his chair is obscene.

Ugh.

I just wanted to give the asshat ruining my lounge vibe the evil eye.

Not find an interesting asshat.

He’s turned sideways, one leg drawn up and draped over the arm, the other spread out with the heel cocked. His arms flow along the back and arm of the chair, one hanging lazily over the back.

It pulls his body into a taut curve, thrusting his arrogant hips forward. His legs draw the crisp black fabric of his slacks against his pelvis.

No, Mr. Thunderclap doesn’t look like royalty after all.

He looks like a rogue playing at being king, languid as a lounging panther, smirky and all-knowing and just waiting for someone to figure out his ruse.

And when his eyes move, he’s looking right at me.

Of course he is.

One minute, he’s staring numbly at the wall, so far above the peons he’s practically in the stratosphere.

The next, those blue eyes flick toward me. The jagged gaze makes my heart shiver and shrink back with something that isn’t quite fear.

More like this annoying and reluctant sense of awe.

I hate that I catch my breath—and immediately slam my eyes shut.

Nope.

This isn’t happening today.

I’m old enough to know that staring contests with tall, dark, and handsome strangers never lead to anything good.

I don’t dare release the breath in my lungs, hoping he’ll look away now that he’s had his fun catching the rude weirdo mid-stare.

I wait, counting to ten as my chest implodes.

Yeah. I realize I look absolutely ridiculous, stretched out in this chair with my head propped against my arm, completely frozen for the next thirty seconds.

I can feel my face going red, needing oxygen.

…what am I even doing?

Why am I acting like a sleepy little girl who got caught up past her bedtime?

Pursing my lips, I push myself up, arching my back and opening my eyes, intent on ignoring whatever weird thing is happening across from me.

Only to stop cold, my arms lifted high in the air mid-stretch.

My heart does a barrel roll inside my chest.

The man across from me isn’t draped across the chair anymore like he owns the entire airport.

Now, he’s facing forward, legs spread, hands clasped with his elbows propped on his knees.

And he’s looking dead at me, totally ignoring the people around him to beam a cunning—mocking?—stare into my soul.

Jerkwad.

I swallow hard, ignoring my fluttery chest and prickly skin. I try lowering my arms, glancing away, and brushing my hair back like I hadn’t even noticed him.

Like I’m not giving this stuck-up suit the attention I’m sure he lives for.

…but why is he staring at me like that?

Now that I’m repositioned without an ear sandwiched against my hand, I can hear what his courtiers are saying a bit better.

“So did you hear?” a girl with glasses pipes up. “That divorce case is heating up and now there’s talk about custody of the kids—”

“Not interested. You can do better,” the human storm cloud murmurs.

“Okay,” another man tries nervously, a guy with a voice so shrill he just screams newly hired intern. “We’ve got Milah Holly’s latest nip slip. How about…”

He trails off.

Thunderclap rakes him with a dull look like he’s staring at a bowl of plain rice.

“The world is as bored of Milah Holly’s nipples as Milah Holly is,” he answers dryly—again looking at me.

Oh, God. Like I have anything to do with a conversation about anyone’s nipples.

“Considering her rather drastic reformation,” he continues, “I don’t doubt this was a genuine accident, and wardrobe malfunctions are rarely scandalous. Give me something interesting, Kyle. The whole lot of you have no instinct for a good story.”

I’m not looking.

I’m not.

But I listen with growing horror.

Rather than rebelling against his bossy indifference, they all scramble to please him, throwing out new ideas. Each suggestion seems more crass than the last.

An aging actor turned silver fox and a sex tape with a rising starlet half his age.

The guilty fast-food runs of one of the biggest food snob critics in Chicago.

The loss of a thousand-year-old castle to a fire caused by a royal bridezilla whose name the tabloids barely dare to whisper.

Holy crap.

It hits me.

These people…they’re freaking paparazzi.

They write for some gossip rag, the kind that take pleasure in prying at private lives and hacking them up into bite-sized morsels for hungry consumers.

I know.

I also know a lot of celebrities play into this insanity. It’s a dark trade off—privacy for notoriety, a skyrocketing career, parasocial relationships with fans who are addicted to these naked glimpses into their idols’ intimate moments.

The tabloids have made a lot of careers. Sometimes their “targets’” are in on the scandals.

But they’re not always consenting.

And when they end up shattering lives, it can be irreparable.

Maybe it’s a little too personal to me with Dad’s woes.

But I can’t help feeling this boiling irritation as I listen to these gremlins bartering off human experiences like human dignity is an afterthought.

Especially when I still feel that man’s wolfish eyes on me.

And especially when one of his sycophants straightens up and practically spits, “Oh, oh! What about Billie Hicks? Her career’s over, right? Her last album bombed. She should’ve quit while she was still young and pretty. They’re saying her voice is ruined from decades of smoking, and she’ll never have a chart topper again. She’s a waste of everybody’s time now.”

My eyes narrow as my blood goes molten.

There’s a gleefulness—carnivorous and ugly—in that guy’s nasally voice.

I kinda want to choke him.

But I’m surprised when Mr. Thunderclap cuts in, and that dead, empty voice takes on a note of thoughtful curiosity.

“That,” he murmurs, “now that, I believe we can work with. Not as a ‘waste,’ as you put it. There’s a human story here. Sincere loss, tragedy…the stuff that puts hearts through a shredder. We want our readers’ empathy for Miss Hicks. We want them to feel her pain like she’s their own appendage. As if she’s a dear friend and they care about her loss. Strumming the right chords is what makes a true connection…isn’t that correct, Miss Snoopy?”

Suddenly, I feel the weight of everyone’s attention shifting my way.

And it hits me with a pained gasp.

He’s speaking to me.

I whip my head around to stare at him in shock.

He hasn’t moved an inch, not in the slightest—but now there’s a wicked quirk to his arrogant mouth as he watches me with eyes like pure cobalt.

My shoulders stiffen.

“I…come again?”

He gestures with one relaxed hand. His fingers are thick and long like the rest of him, elegant yet strong, his movements controlled to give him a certain scary refinement.

“You’ve been terribly interested in our conversation for the last twenty minutes. I thought you’d like to offer some input in my editorial direction.”

I scowl at him.

“Um, right. I want nothing to do with your editorial anything, buster.”

It just falls out.

“Buster? Do I look like a buster?” Dark brows rise. Cultured, mocking, until I feel like an ant daring to speak to a god. “And what is it you think I do, Miss Snoopy?”

“You’re a dealer, dude,” I throw back. Hey, if I’m an ant, I’ll be a fire ant and make my bite sting like hell. “You get people hooked on dirt without giving a damn what it does to anyone. All you care about is getting paid. Not the lives you destroy to do it.”

Yay, I’m on a roll.

Shame his little gaggle of pigeons are gaping like I’ve just drawn a loaded gun, their eyes ping-ponging back and forth between me and him.

The young guy who brought up Hicks pushes his face into his palms.

The girl who had the first word looks pale as snow.

“On the contrary,” he grinds out slowly, those blue eyes sharpening like knives, never wavering from me until I feel like prey. “I care too much about who I destroy. I’m judicious in my choice of target. I do have standards, ma’am.”

“Ma’am?” I fling back, biting my tongue before I can say, Do I look like a ma’am? Do I look like that big of a bitch?

Then again, I guess I do feel like one…

I can’t help scoffing out loud.

And I’m a little satisfied at how everyone around him sucks in their breath dramatically like this is Drag Race and I’m the queen who just insulted Empress RuPaul.

“What would you know about standards?” I hiss. Okay, yeah, I’m feeling a little hot under the collar, and I can’t deny that a chance to raise hell to the face of one of the vultures who ruined my father’s life gives me a justice rush. “Your idea of good content is a sweat stain Photoshopped into a skidmark.”

His eyes narrow subtly, making them glitter with naked amusement.

“Such a foul mouth for such an innocent-looking mouse.” That’s enough to make my face burn, but he’s not done. “And what would you know about journalistic standards, Snoopy? I do wonder what you do for a living… Stenographer? Accountant? Librarian? You have that look.” He pauses and once again makes the same gesture, so graceful it’s almost hypnotic. “That one. Right there.”

What flipping look?

Now, I want to just sink through the floor.

Preferably with his detached balls in my hand.

I admit I’m a little frumpy today. I don’t dress to the nines for a flight, even if I’m taking first class for the first time, and he’s made it oh-so-clear he can tell.

That I don’t belong here in his pretty scenery.

That I’m not a part of whatever elite world he glides through every day with his perfect poise and tailored clothing.

Guess what?

I don’t care.

His world only glitters on the outside.

Inside, it’s all dry rot.

I don’t care to be a part of it.

My flash of mortification passes as I lift my chin with pride.

“We work in the same industry, I think—but I’m not tempted by the dark side. I’ve just been hired as chief editor for the most popular cultural and music messenger in Chicago, thank you very much. That, sir, is what I know about standards, and journalistic integrity, and ethics and…and lines I won’t cross just to get rich. I know enough to know you have no lines.”

This time, there’s not even a gasp.

They’re all just staring at me like I’ve signed my own death warrant, a few of them with a touch of distaste.

Except for him.

Gone is that subtle, playful curl of his lips.

He’s smiling now.

Yikes.

And it’s so cold, so terrible, it’s like being smirked at by a vampire who’s decided to spare my life—but he still wants me knowing he can smell my blood. My fear.

Too bad. I’m not afraid of you.

I don’t know if I’m lying to myself, honestly.

Or if this shiver running through me is something else.

No. No. Absolutely not.

But I can’t look away from him and that cruel, devastating smile as he holds my eyes hostage for long, awful seconds.

My breaths grow shorter, shallower, and I can’t seem to move.

When he finally speaks, it’s like shattering glass. I suck in a breath to ease my tightening chest.

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Damaged Grump

Damaged Grump PDF

Product details:

EditionInternational Edition
ISBN979-8405249407
Posted onJanuary 20, 2022
Formatpdf
Page Count494 pages
AuthorNicole Snow

Damaged Grump By Nicole Snow PDF Free Download - HUB PDF

Damaged Grump: Our meet cute was one big sip of ugly. He pushed my hell-no buttons, wearing an indestructible smirk. I offended his warped morals in front of his starry-eyed minions. Then I got my sweet reward for doing the right thing. I found out I'd be calling Roland Osprey “boss.”

URL: https://amzn.to/3FSnuyT

Author: Nicole Snow

Editor's Rating:
4.7
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