The Grumpy Landlord, page 1
The Grumpy Landlord
A Spicy Contemporary Romance (Open-Door, M/F)
Anna May Grace
Grace Ann Hansen LLC
Copyright © 2026 Grace Ann Hansen LLC
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Grace Ann Hansen
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Foreword
Paint Fumes and Panic
The Offer
Sunshine in the Guest House
Oil on Canvas, Sparks in the Dark
Rules and Boundaries
Canvas Catastrophes
On Call
Shared Sunrise
Rivalry and Ruffled Feathers
Late Night Confessions
Home Invasions
Tempers Flare
Small Town Rumors
Unintentional Date Night
Brewing Storms
Heat of the Night
Morning After Tension
Stubborn Hearts
Runaway Artist
Fractures and Fault Lines
Home Again
Bodies in Motion
Testing Normal
Lonely in the Studio
Crossing Wires
Rain-Soaked Reunion
Safe Harbor
War Wounds
Standing Tall
Victory Party
Choices and Chances
Empty Guest House
The Breakdown
Grand Gesture
Second Chances
The Proposal
New Foundations
Bright Futures
Family Ties
Mural of Us
Afterword
About The Author
Foreword
If you Googled me before opening this book, you might be a little confused.
Anna May Grace is not my real name. Just a placeholder for my collection of romance novels for straight girls.
If you found my real name, you would have found a Senior IT Executive with 25 years of experience in SAP ecosystems and Health Informatics. You would have found a certified Project Management Professional who spends her days architecting digital transformations for major healthcare systems. You would have found a board member for The Transformation Project, a gymnastics coach, and a serial entrepreneur.
And you definitely would have found a musician who has spent thirty-six years playing in The Rude Band, performing on stages while balancing a corporate career, a thirty-year marriage, and raising four incredible children.
So, why is the woman who specializes in enterprise architecture and data governance writing a steamy, grumpy-sunshine romance about a chaotic artist and a rigid surgeon?
Because I know a thing or two about the collision between Order and Chaos.
In my day job, I live in Ethan Rourke's world. It is a world of precision, logic, and structure. It is a world where success depends on controlling the variables and mitigating the risks. I understand the comfort of a plan. I understand the safety of a well-built fortress.
But the rest of my life? That belongs to Willow.
The rest of my life is loud music, late nights, and the beautiful, messy improvisation of raising a family and fighting for the causes I believe in. It is the creativity of songwriting and the adrenaline of performance. It is the refusal to fit into a single box.
The Grumpy Landlord is the story of what happens when those two worlds collide.
It is about the "friction and the sparks" that fly when a man who needs silence meets a woman who is the noise. It is about realizing that you don't have to choose between being strong and being soft. You don't have to choose between the safety of the frame and the beauty of the picture.
You can have both. You can be the executive and the artist. The protector and the muse.
I wrote this book for everyone who is trying to check all of life's little boxes. For the people who are holding it all together, and for the people who are brave enough to let it fall apart just to see how the pieces land.
Whether you are here for the steam, the snark, or the Kintsugi-style healing, I hope you find a piece of yourself in these pages.
And, as I like to say: Live your best life.
Welcome to the guest house.
Grace Ann Hansen, December 31, 2025
Paint Fumes and Panic
Willow
The smell of turpentine always hit me first. It was sharp, chemical, and somehow smelled exactly like panic.
My brush shook. A glob of Cerulean Blue dripped from the bristles, plummeting in slow motion toward the drop cloth. I held my breath. It missed the pristine hardwood floor by an inch.
I exhaled, my lungs burning.
"Focus, Willow," I whispered. "Just finish the sky."
The mural took up the entire north wall of the studio apartment. It was a riot of color. Oranges that tasted like tangerines. Purples that felt like velvet. I had promised the client a sunset over the city, but it had morphed into something wilder. It usually did.
My phone buzzed on the crate I used as a table. I ignored it.
The deadline wasn't the client. The deadline was the heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs.
Mr. Henderson.
I scrambled down the ladder, my boots slipping on the rungs. I wiped my hands on my overalls, adding a streak of yellow to the kaleidoscope of stains on my thighs. My pulse jumped, a erratic rhythm battering against my ribs.
I wasn't ready. I was never ready.
The knock on the door didn't sound like a request. It sounded like a gavel.
I took a deep breath. I smoothed my hair, probably spreading more paint into the frizzy curls, and unlocked the door.
Mr. Henderson stood in the hallway. He looked like a storm cloud stuffed into a cheap gray suit.
"Ms. Hart."
His voice was dry. Like crumbling drywall.
"Mr. Henderson! I was just... working."
I tried to smile. My face felt tight. Dried paint crusted my cheek.
He didn't smile back. He stepped into the room without asking, his eyes scanning the space. He ignored the mural. He ignored the way the afternoon light hit the dust motes dancing in the air. He looked straight at the floorboards.
"You got paint on the trim."
I looked down. A tiny smudge of green. Smaller than a dime.
"I can clean that," I said. "It's water-based. It wipes right off."
He turned to me. His eyes were cold. Empty.
"We discussed the noise."
"I don't play music after ten," I said. "I promised."
"Not music. Thumping. Moving furniture. At three in the morning."
"That was... inspiration," I said weakly. "I had to move the ladder."
He reached into his jacket pocket. My stomach dropped. It felt like I was in an elevator with the cable cut.
He pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out.
"I can't have this, Ms. Hart. This building is for professionals. Quiet people. People who pay rent on the first, not the fifth."
"I paid!" I argued, my voice pitching up. "I paid yesterday. The check cleared."
"This isn't about the rent anymore."
He shoved the paper at me. I took it. My fingers left blue smudges on the crisp white edge.
"You have a week."
The world tilted. The colors on the wall seemed to blur, running together into a muddy gray.
"A week?" I choked out. "You can't do that. The lease says thirty days."
"Read the addendum," he said. "Clause 4. Nuisance violations allow for expedited termination. The neighbors complained. Again."
"But... I have nowhere to go."
It was a whisper. A confession I shouldn't have made to a man who looked at me like I was a stain on his carpet.
"That," he said, turning back to the door, "is not my problem. Be out by next Friday. Or the sheriff comes Monday."
The door clicked shut.
I stood there. The paper felt heavy in my hand. Heavier than the ladder. Heavier than the failure that sat on my chest.
Evicted.
Again.
I sank onto the floor. The cold wood seeped through my jeans. I pulled my knees to my chest, curling into a ball. I was twenty-six years old. I was supposed to have it together. I was supposed to be a rising star in the local art scene, not a nuisance in apartment 4B.
Charlie, my orange tabby, trotted out from behind a stack of canvases. He chirped, head-butting my elbow.
"We're in trouble, Charlie," I murmured. I buried my face in his soft fur. "Big trouble."
My phone buzzed again. It vibrated against the wood floor, an angry, insistent sound.
I reached for it.
Sadie.
My thumb hovered over the screen. Sadie. The only person who didn't look at my chaotic life and ask why. Just how can I help?
But safety had a price.
I answered.
"Hey, Sades."
"Don't 'Hey Sades' me," her voice crackled through the speaker. "I heard."
"Who told you?" I asked.
"Mrs. Gable in 4A. She saw Henderson storming up there. She said he looked like he was going to war."
I leaned my head back against the wall. I closed my eyes.
"He gave me a week."
"I'm coming over," Sadie said instantly. "We'll pack. You can stay with me."
"No."
The word was sharp. Too sharp.
"Willow, don't be stupid. You can't sleep in your van. It's November."
"I'm not sleeping in the van," I lied. "I have options. Riley said I could crash at the studio if I needed to."
"Riley sleeps on a futon that smells like wet dog," Sadie countered. "Come home. My parents won't mind. They love you."
I squeezed my eyes shut tighter. That was the problem. They did love me. They loved me with pity. Poor Willow. The artist. The one who couldn't keep a job. The one who needed saving.
I was done being the charity case.
"I can't, Sadie. I need... I need to figure this out. On my own."
"You're stubborn," she said. "It's annoying."
"It's charming," I corrected, though my voice wobble betrayed me.
"I'm going to fix this," she said. Her voice went into planning mode. "I'll make some calls. Don't move."
"Sadie, please..."
"Love you. Bye."
The line went dead.
I dropped the phone. I stared at the mural. The sunset looked angry now. The oranges were too bright. The purples looked like bruises.
I needed to paint. Painting was the only way to quiet the noise in my head.
I stood up. My legs felt shaky. I grabbed a tube of Titanium White. I needed light. I needed to paint a way out of this room.
I squeezed the paint onto my palette. I mixed it with a violent slash of the brush.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
I froze.
He was back. Henderson. He probably forgot to tell me he was keeping the security deposit.
Heat rushed up my neck. My grip on the palette knife tightened until the wood bit into my palm. He wanted to kick me out? Fine. But he didn't get to twist the knife.
I marched to the door. My boots stomped on the floor. Good. Let him hear the nuisance.
I grabbed the handle and yanked it open.
"Look, you can't just keep coming back here to—"
The words died in my throat.
It wasn't Mr. Henderson.
The man standing in my hallway was huge.
He took up the entire frame of the door. Broad shoulders stretched the fabric of a dark gray t-shirt. He wore surgical scrubs pants, the drawstring hanging loose. Combat boots, scuffed and worn, were planted firmly on my welcome mat.
I looked up. And up.
His jaw was square, covered in a shadow of stubble that looked sharp enough to sand wood. His mouth was set in a grim line.
But it was the eyes that stopped me.
They were blue. Not the friendly cerulean I had dropped on the floor. They were steel. Ice. A cold, piercing blue that seemed to dissect me in a single glance.
He looked exhausted. Deep purple shadows bruised the skin beneath his eyes. His hair was dark, cut short in a military style that was growing out just enough to be messy.
He didn't look like a landlord. He looked like a weapon that had been left out in the rain.
"You didn't answer your phone," he said.
His voice was a low rumble. It vibrated in the floorboards, traveling up through the soles of my boots.
I blinked. My brain misfired.
"I... what?"
He held up a phone. His hand was large, the knuckles scarred.
"Sadie," he said. The name sounded like a curse word coming from him. "She called me. Said you were being an idiot."
My mouth fell open.
"I... who are you?"
He looked down at me. His gaze flicked to the paint in my hair, the smear on my cheek, the chaos of the room behind me. He didn't blink.
"Ethan," he said. "Ethan Rourke."
Sadie's brother.
The war hero. The surgeon. The ghost who never came home for holidays.
I gripped the doorframe. Paint transferred from my hand to the wood.
"Oh," I whispered.
He stepped closer. The scent of antiseptic and rain washed over me, drowning out the turpentine.
"Pack your bags," he said. "We're leaving."
The Offer
Ethan
My house was a coffin.
That was the point.
I stepped through the front door and locked the world out. The silence hit me first. Heavy. Absolute. It settled into the corners of the living room where the furniture sat at perfect ninety-degree angles. No dust. No clutter. No life.
Just the way I needed it.
I dropped my keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. The clatter was the only sound in three thousand square feet of expensive, empty architecture.
My shift had ended forty minutes ago. Twelve hours of trauma. Twelve hours of holding people’s lives inside my ribcage, trying to keep them from slipping through my fingers. I could still feel the phantom warmth of blood on my gloves. I could still smell the copper and the antiseptic.
I walked to the kitchen. The stainless steel appliances gleamed, judging me. I opened the fridge. Water. Protein shakes. A single apple that was probably petrified by now.
I grabbed a water bottle. My hand shook. Just a tremor. A tiny aftershock of the adrenaline dump.
I clenched my fist. The shaking stopped.
Control.
It was the only thing that mattered. Control over the environment. Control over the body. Control over the memories that waited for the lights to go out.
I took a long drink, the cold water hitting my empty stomach like a stone. I needed sleep. A solid four hours before the nightmares started.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again. And again. Persistent. Annoying.
I pulled it out.
Sadie.
My sister. The only person on the planet who didn't fear my silence.
I swiped answer.
"I'm sleeping," I said. My voice was rough, like gravel in a blender.
"You're not sleeping. You just got home. I track your shift schedule."
"Stalker."
"Concerned sibling," she corrected. Her voice was high. Tight. Panic mode. "I need you to do something."
"No."
"Ethan. Please."
I leaned against the granite counter. The cold seeped through my scrub top.
"I just spent twelve hours pulling shrapnel out of a drunk driver's chest. I am going to bed."
"It's Willow."
The name stopped me.
Willow Hart. Sadie’s best friend. The human equivalent of a glitter bomb. I had met her a dozen times over the years. She was loud. She was colorful. She had zero concept of personal space or volume control.
She was noise. She was disorder. She was a variable I couldn't control.
"What about her?" I asked.
"She's being evicted. Henderson is kicking her out. Today."
I rubbed the bridge of my nose. The headache was starting behind my eyes. A dull throb.
"That sucks," I said. "Send her a fruit basket."
"Ethan! She has nowhere to go. Her van is barely running. It's going to freeze tonight."
"She's an adult, Sadie. Adults pay rent. Adults find apartments."
"She paid! Henderson is being a jerk because of the noise. Look, I can't leave work. I have a board meeting in ten minutes. I need you to go over there."
"And do what? Perform surgery on her lease?"
"Just... check on her. Make sure she's not sitting on the curb crying. Please. For me."
Sadie knew my weak spot. It wasn't Willow. It was her. I had spent half my life protecting Sadie from the fallout of our parents' mess. I couldn't stop now.
I groaned. A low, guttural sound of defeat.
"Address," I said.
The apartment building smelled like boiled cabbage and bad choices.
I walked up the three flights of stairs, my boots heavy on the warped wood. The hallway was dim. Peeling wallpaper. Flickering lights.
I found 4B.
I didn't knock. I pounded.
When the door opened, I expected tears. I expected hysteria.
I didn't expect the assault on my senses.
