Page 1 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

Chapter One

ELLA

My finger stabbed the delete button. “There. Another chapter jettisoned into the literary graveyard, never to be seen again.”

“What was wrong with it?” My sister Ava looked up from her laptop, where she’d been researching her next possible job in yet another faraway and untamed land. She’d been offered a perfectly respectable position at the local university but decided she just wasn’t ready for a traditional job.

“Boring, predictable, bad prose; you name it, I wrote it.” I tossed aside my laptop. “I’ve lost my edge. I’m done with this whole writing dream. I might as well swallow the bitter pill. I can’t write.”

Ava put aside her laptop, too. “El, you’ve been entertaining us with your stories since we were in grade school. Layla had to sleep with the light on for a week after you read her your story about the Ancient Shadow Dwellers of Dusty Hollow. Isla developed such a crush on your Lord William Grantwood of Blackthorn Manor, she had his name doodled on her school notebook surrounded by big hearts. She even made us call her Lady Isla Grantwood for a week.”

“And she kept walking around with a bulky sweater tied around her waist, so she could pretend to have a bustle on her bottom.” We both laughed. “Why didn’t we take a picture of that?” I asked through another round of laughter.

Ava caught her breath first. “I guess her dream came true, only his name is Luke, and he’s technically not a lord.”

“But he’s definitely a prince. Isla said he’s planning to spend the whole weekend helping her shop for convection ovens for her bakery. I can’t believe that her big dream is so close. I’m so excited for her.” I looked over at my laptop. Its cursor light was blinking at me almost teasingly, letting me know that once again I’d failed to produce anything of worth on its clunky keyboard. I released a sigh, the kind that our grandmother, Nonna, used to chastise us for. Whenever she heard the deflated push of air, she’d tell us to look defeat right in the eye and tell it to take a hike. “I think I need to find a new dream, Ava. Do you think Nonna would be disappointed if I turned away from writing?”

“Yes,” she said bluntly. “But more importantly, I think you’d be disappointed … in yourself. You had one story get a few rejections. One story, El. You once told Nonna that you were sure you had at least a million stories in your brain. Seems to me you’ve still got nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand plus left.”

“That was the silly ramblings of a teenage writer with stars in her eyes.”

“I think there’s still plenty of that starry-eyed teenager lurking inside that head of yours.”

“You have all been so supportive, working hard while allowing me to spend my days writing, but it’s time for me to stop mooching off all of you.”

“You know we don’t mind. Nonna always told us to support each other’s dreams, and that’s what we’re doing. And it’s not as if you cost much to keep,” she said with a smile. “You’relike a tiny kitten, not high maintenance at all. Now, keeping up with Layla’s love of cosmetics and hair, that might have been a stretch, but look at you?—”

I dropped my gaze to my jeans. They were so faded and worn I could almost see right through them. “Gosh, I really am a slob.” I’d left college with a psychology degree and a minor in creative writing. After graduation, I took odd jobs, but all I wanted to do was write. I’d get in trouble for spending time at work jotting down ideas or scenes on my phone. My sisters knew I was miserable. They sat me down one day and told me to write and that they’d take care of me. I’d taken advantage of their generosity and love for long enough. I’d applied for several journalist positions at online publications, but I hadn’t heard back from any. Every time I sent off a new application, it felt as if my resumé just floated into space, like all the stories I’d started and deleted. I glanced at my phone. “I sure wish one of those online publications would be willing to take a chance on me. I just know I could do a great job.”

“It’ll happen, El.” Ava got up from the sofa. “I’m starved. What’s in the fridge?”

“Not entirely sure, but I wouldn’t expect much. I think Isla ate the last piece of leftover pizza.” While our oldest sister, Aria, had moved into her own place in town, Isla, Layla, Ava and I had remained in Nonna’s small cottage by the sea. The house itself was tiny and creaked like an old man’s bones. The smell of the sea had pervaded every corner of its somewhat lopsided walls, and the wobbly wooden floors occasionally stabbed a toe or sock with a splinter, but there was a million-dollar view right outside the postage-stamp sized kitchen window, and twenty-seven steps (that was an average; Ava’s legs were longest, so she could do it in twenty-three) got you to one of the nicest strips of sand on the Pacific Coast.

Ava nibbled a banana as she leaned over the sink to gaze out the kitchen window. “That fog is dense and creepy. I half expect a ghost ship to come floating through the haze from somewhere on the horizon.”

I sat up. “You’re right.”

She turned back toward the living room. “About the ghost ship?”

I picked up my laptop. “No, about the gloomy weather. It’s the perfect inspiration for a story.” I pushed the computer into my backpack and headed to the coatrack.

“Hmm, not sure I said that, but I’ll take the win. You’re actually going out in this fog?”

I whipped my scarf around my neck. “Yep, maybe I’ll get lucky and spot Heathcliff stepping through the milky haze in search of his long-lost love.”

“Or maybe you’ll catch a chill,” Ava said.

I raised an eyebrow at her as I buttoned my coat. “You’re right. You do need to get back out in the world. You’re becoming—dare I say it—a fuddy duddy.”

Ava lifted her eyes in thought. “Oh, my gosh. Just replayed those words in my head and you’re right. I’ve got to get back out in the world. Have fun, and I hope you run into Heathcliff.” She rubbed her chin. “I know he’s this big literary legend, but wasn’t he kind of a jerk?”

I laughed as I pulled the backpack onto my shoulders. “Let’s hope I run into a less jerky version of the man. I’d settle for Mr. Darcy walking through the mist. See you soon and wish me luck.”

I’d walked out bravely and with great enthusiasm but realized a few blocks from the cottage that it wasn’t just foggy. It was darn cold. I tucked my face behind my piled-up scarf so that the only things showing were my eyes. I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets and trudged toward the trail thatled around the top edge of the cove. My closest companion, my laptop, bounced lightly on my back, and small puffs of white air curled around my boots with each step.

On my right, the glow of lights from town had warmed the air enough to erase some of the fog, but on my left, where steep cliffs ended in sharp, dangerous rocks, the haze was still thick as molasses. Large, spectral-shaped wisps of fog floated over the large field that led to the cliffs. In summer, the same piece of land would be thick with loosely tufted salt meadow rush and sprawling vines of beach peas, but in the dead of winter, the landscape looked bald and scarred and desolate.

A black lacquer bench had been placed just off the trail for visitors to sit and admire the view or the sunset. If you were lucky, you’d spot a colony of seals swimming past, their fleshy round heads peering up over the waves like stubby periscopes. If you were lottery winning-caliber lucky, you’d spot a breaching gray whale or a squirt from a blowhole.

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