Shopping for the Grump (Too Busy for Love #1) Read Online Leah Busboom

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors: Series: Too Busy for Love Series by Leah Busboom

Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69462 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)

I’m the personal shopper for Mr. Grumpy, the grouchiest guy on the planet.

My name is Avery Turner, owner and sole employee of Too Busy to Shop, a personal shopping empire (a girl can dream) for those who simply don’t have time to look for the perfect gifts for their loved ones. I cater to clientele from celebrities to busy moms to business executives. No shopping gig is too large or too small. I excel at finding gifts to delight even your eccentric Uncle Ralph or fussy Aunt Gertrude.
Unfortunately, my shopping expertise is eclipsed by my tendency to attract catastrophe. No matter how hard I try, disaster follows me around.
Wearing mismatched shoes to an interview? Yep, don’t ask. Popping a button on my blouse in front of a hunky businessman? Not talking about it. Driving into a pond? Banished from my mind as if it didn’t happen.
There’s also the small matter of falling for one of my clients. Despite my best efforts, I’m attracted to Mr. Grumpy. The stuffy businessman’s scowls turn my knees to mush, and when he turns those grouchy eyes on me, my heart melts. Every now and then I get a glimmer of hope that he’s attracted to me too. But can I get him to fall for me without setting his suit jacket on fire?


One - The Black Pumps


Why did I leave so late for this appointment? My siblings always tease me about my tendency to run behind schedule, arriving a handful of seconds (okay, maybe minutes) after the prescribed time for every event. Not too late to be considered blatantly tardy, but always late.

I feel my deodorant start to fail in this unseasonably warm southern California November day, with temperatures heading towards the upper eighties. I hurry from the parking garage with my elbows slightly raised, hoping to keep my armpits aired out. Not only am I perspiring, but I feel a bit uncoordinated as I rush toward the glitzy office high-rise. Like I’m off balance—teetering back and forth as I try to stride in a professional fashion (not run) into the building. Is something wrong with my shoes?

Glancing down, I appreciate how sharp my outfit looks, the crisp black pants suit making a stylish yet professional statement. The vivid scarlet scarf jauntily tied around my neck adds just the right pop of color. The black high-heeled pumps are classy yet practical . . .

Wait! Ugh! My shoes don’t match.

At least they’re both black, my subconscious tells me. A little inner pep talk to boost my confidence since I’m stuck wearing these mismatched shoes for my interview with Mr. Bennett. No time to turn back now.

How did I get them mixed up? This morning, running late as usual, I flung footwear around in my messy closet until I found these black pumps, forgetting that I apparently own two pairs of black pumps. Squinting closer, I observe that they’re nearly identical, except for the bow on the toe of one pump and the pitch of the heels.

Why didn’t I notice until now? My aversion to wearing heels has put me in this fix. I drove here wearing my soft comfy bunny slippers—not wanting to put on the uncomfortable high heels until I had to.

Time to move on from stressing over the shoe mix-up . . . I practice a normal gait as I half-hurry through the lobby, figuring out how to walk with a balanced bearing in shoes that have slightly different heel heights.

Step. Step. Maybe hold my heel a little higher on the right foot. Step. Step. Now the left side is too low. Step. Step. The security guard standing sentry behind a shiny desk looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. I wave. Nothing to see here.

Once I’m enclosed in the thankfully empty elevator compartment, I continue adjusting my stride to the mismatched heels. There must be a way to compensate for the different heights while not looking like a crazy lady.

The brief ride up to the twenty-first floor and the four-foot-wide cramped elevator car give me very little time and space to sort this out. If anyone is watching—I examine the car for a hidden camera and don’t see one—I must look like I’m practicing a strange dance routine.

Step. Dip. Step. Dip.

Now higher on the right.

Step. Rise. Step. Rise.

Now lower on the right.


My heels make different clicks on the polished granite floor as I teeter my way down the endless hall looking for Bennett Marketing. Maybe his office will have carpeting. Yes, that’s what I need! Surely I can hide my mismatched stride better on a plush surface.

When I reach the opulent glass entry door sporting the Bennett Marketing logo, my heart sinks. No carpet in sight. More shiny floors polished to within an inch of their life. Straightening my shoulders, I enter cautiously, adjusting to the new surface.