Page 1 of Don't Fall for a Grump

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Bree

I throw another handful of chicken feed across the pen and tell myself that this is not the worst job in the world. No, really. I mean, who doesn’t like chickens? But honestly, I didn’t have a ton of career options to choose from.

When you move from the Big Apple to a tiny obscure town, you find that there’s no great need for corporate sharks. Which is what I was back in the city. Here, I’d be lucky to be a small corporate fish. Or even a tadpole.

But it’s not like I suddenly had this epiphany that I can only truly be happy in the countryside. No, no. Far from it. I just needed to get away from the two men who have made my life hell—correction, broken my heart—in a single year. When I phoned Lana and told her what I was doing and why, my older sister didn’t quite say “I told you so,” but I knew she was thinking it. After the divorce was finalized, she advised that I take some time off, relax, and gather my thoughts. She’s a therapist - everything that comes out of her mouth sounds like an inspirational quote from Instagram. If only I had listened.

The move, and the cottage purchase, nearly bled me dry; and so here I am, a twenty-seven-year-old divorcee with a degree in economics, feeding chickens as part of my housekeeping duties. But that’s not nearly the end of it. There are a hundred different kinds of chores around the house; there’s cleaning, lots and lots of cleaning. The beds that must be stripped and remade every morning, the windows that must be washed. All kinds of work that I have never, ever, done in my life. It sure is a step down from corporate life, but it’s a step I’m willing to take to get my head straight.

While Ben Scott is kind and witty, he’s also pretty frustrated, due to the fact that he’s stuck in a wheelchair for the next six weeks. He’s a very active middle-aged guy, and currently my employer. Of course, he has no idea that his housekeeper could run his wood-carving business blindfolded with one hand tied behind her back. I didn’t think talking about being blindfolded and tied up would go down too well at the interview. Though now that I’ve got to know him a bit, I think he might have found it quite amusing.

When I arrived this morning, I wheeled him out onto the porch with a jug of iced-tea, before heading to feed the chickens. He likes being outside. I can’t say I blame him. The area surrounding Ben’s house is beautiful; full with lush green gardens, and a gorgeous view of the countryside. By all accounts, Ben’s an outdoorsy kind of guy. That’s how he broke his leg—hiking.

His farm is huge, I have no idea how many acres, but, if you can see it, he probably owns it. Which means my job now involves a lot of trekking back and forth over great distances. With the chickens fed, I leave them to their pecking and clucking and make the great hike back to the French Colonial-style home that Ben renovated with his bare hands. It’s quite beautiful. With its polished wooden floors and so many rooms, you would need a map.

After a good twenty-minute jaunt, I finally, and breathlessly, make it up the porch steps. I’m blaming being in the country for my apparent lack of stamina. The city is all smog and exhaust fumes. My lungs are just not used to clean air.

Yep, that’s it. The clean air’s to blame. Not the fact that I was so glued to my desk in the city that I had to be surgically removed from it. Nothing at all.

“Bree,” Ben calls out from across the porch as I approach the screen door.

“I’ll…be…right…with…you,” I holler back, panting like I’ve just run the New York Marathon. Something that’s definitely not on the bucket list. I may be slender, but how fit I am on the inside does not reflect on my figure on the outside.

I’m not entirely averse to exercise. My previous job, demanding as it was, just never gave me the time. Or maybe, all that wining and dining with clients had something to do with it. The truth is, I was burning the candle at both ends, and the wick was running low. Like, really, really low. Then, there was the stress accompanying my relationship, which was as far away from a Mills and Boons novel as anyone could imagine. My life was so unbalanced, I was in danger of toppling off the edge of my own little universe. Hence the retreat to the country.

Yanking at the screen door, I enter the huge house and, desperate to quench my thirst, slam my hand hard against the kitchen door, which swings in the opposite direction. To my surprise, the door barely moves two feet before it suddenly stops with a resounding thud, like it’s hit something sturdy, before bouncing back toward me with alarming speed.

“Ooww!”

My hands fly to my mouth, and I come to a complete standstill. I don’t know what’s worse. The fact that my first thought was that the door cried out in pain, or the very speedy realization that someone is clearly standing behind it, and I’ve just slammed it into them. I know it’s not Ben. He’s still on the porch.

For a second, I don’t know what to do.

Well, you can’t stand here all day glaring at the darn thing, Bree!

Sheepishly, I push the door open with the fear and anticipation of discovering whoever I might have seriously damaged behind it. But I quickly find myself even more astonished. My mouth drops open, like one of those corporate fish I mentioned earlier, and all I can do is gawk.

He’s holding his elbow. All six feet and something of him. Nearly as broad as he is tall, the man in the suit stares down at me, rubbing his elbow and still wincing. The deep pools of his eyes are dark brown, and I’m sure that many a woman has drowned in them. They’re staring at me now, with an expression I can’t really make out. It’s like he doesn’t really know what to make of me. Or maybe, he’s in too much pain to care. His eyes match the color of his unruly hair, which sits just above his collar and topples down a strong forehead. Strong, like it lifts weights or something.

As I take in the rest of his face—I’m still more than a little taken aback, and there’s a bit of confusion slowly creeping in—I notice the sharply chiseled jaw and wonder how he doesn’t cut himself on it while getting dressed.

The shock is gone now, even though I am yet to speak, the confusion has taken over completely…

First comes confusion, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage.

What the heck are you doing? Seriously, is any man with a pulse in danger when you’re around?

It had been the ease with which I fall for another guy barely five minutes after I get divorced that got me here in the first place. My running—I mean, moving away—is supposed to be a new beginning. A place where no one knows me, so I can discover who I truly am and what I actually want. Me working on myself for me. I’m so done with trying to be someone I’m not for everybody else. In fact, as soon as the first boxes came off the truck and into my new cottage, situated three miles down the road, I took a vow of celibacy for at least a year. No men. No relationships. No drama.

Yep. Uh-huh. Then, why am I mentally drooling?

“I’m so sorry,” I finally blurt, not able to think of anything else more appropriate.

It is clear who this guy is. Ben had been talking about him just the other day. He’d told me that a guy like this would be arriving in a few days. But a few days haven’t passed yet, which is why I’m standing here feeling a little shell-shocked that he’s now standing in the middle of the kitchen today. I don’t know how many minutes have passed since I began ogling at him, but he still hasn’t opened his mouth. I’m expecting a sort of normal response, something like, “Hey, no worries. Accidents happen.”

Currently, I’m getting nothing. I try to figure him out, but unlike many other guys I’ve met in the past, he’s giving nothing away. And I mean, nothing. His facial muscles have not moved a single millimeter. Well, apart from the obvious signs of shock and pain.

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