Page 7 of Grump Hard
I grin. A real one, the first since he made it clear just how forgettable I am. “Well, thank you! I feel seen, Luke. I really do. Most people don’t realize I’m diabolical until they’ve known me for years. It’s the baby face and commitment to good cheer, I think. Makes them assume that I don’t have a hidden agenda. But they’re wrong and you’re right. I am diabolical, especially when it comes to ensuring I have enough support staff to make the season magical for my town and the people I love. So? Are you in? Or should I pop into Pam’s office to give Alice a call on the landline? I’m sure the troopers will be excited. I doubt they’ve responded to something as juicy as attempted grand larceny in ages.”
His lips twitch. “I doubt the Captain’s leg qualifies as grand larceny.”
“In Vermont, anything over a thousand dollars qualifies,” I counter. “And an irreplaceable, custom-made, two-hundred-plus-year-old artifact gifted to the town by its founder upon his death, is worth at least that much.” My smile gets a little smug around the edges as I add, “You’re mine for the season. Might as well relax and let it happen.”
“Diabolical,” he mutters again, a new respect in his gaze that makes my blood feel a little bubblier than it did before.
Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally stopped glowering. With his silky brown hair and intelligent blue eyes, Luke is gorgeous, even when he’s grouchy.
But with a hint of humor in that deep, rumbly voice, he’s…
Well, he’s also diabolical, but in a totally different way. A way I should be wary of, considering I have no interest in getting involved with a grumpy, holiday-hating man.
But for some reason, I’m not wary. I’m actually looking forward to the next few weeks and the chance to find out if that sweet boy I once knew is still in there somewhere, beneath the designer suit and bad holiday attitude.
“Think on it,” I finally say, reaching into the pocket of my reindeer costume and pulling out a business card. “You can reach me by email or text. If I don’t hear from you by this time tomorrow, I’ll assume you’ve chosen suffering over cheer, and reach out to Alice.”
He takes the card, brows lifting as he reads aloud, “Pet photographer?”
“Pet photographer extraordinaire,” I correct. “But I’m booked solid for the season, so I’ll have to fit you and your fur baby into my holiday portrait schedule next year.”
“I don’t have a fur baby.”
“I’m not surprised,” I say, heart aching for him again.
“Fine. As you wish, Holly Jo,” he says, starting toward the door, clearly having no idea that he just let the cat out of the bag.
He remembers what everyone used to call me when we were kids!
And I’m betting he remembers more than that…
But why pretend he doesn’t? Is he that desperate to hold his happy childhood memories at a distance?
And if so…why?
Better question: Can I heal this grumpy man’s emotional wounds before Christmas? Or is it going to take more time—and potentially prolonged exposure to puppies, fudge, and holiday magic—to turn Luke’s frown upside down?
I don’t know, but I intend to find out, or my name isn’t Holly Jo Hadley, the Diabolical, a woman who’s always secretly wondered what happened to the boy who got away…
Three
Luke
As I step outside, the cold hits me like a slap in the face…which is exactly what I deserve.
What the hell was I thinking?
I wasn’t. That’s the problem.
I was drunk and maudlin and behaving like a petulant child, and now I’m being blackmailed by a woman in a reindeer costume.
A woman whom, despite my protests to the contrary, I remember very well.
Holly Jo Hadley, the little girl with the perpetually sunny disposition and gap-toothed grin, who followed me around every summer vacation and Christmas holiday. Any time my brothers and I came down the mountain to play, she instantly became my shadow. The local boys used to tease me about my “little girlfriend,” but I didn’t care. She was a sweet, funny kid, and I had a little sister, one much younger and harder to play pretend with than Holly Jo.
And though I wouldn’t have admitted it at the time, I looked forward to seeing her nearly as much as she seemed to look forward to seeing me. But then, hero worship is a heady thing. And as a boy who often felt like the farthest thing from a hero, I was far from immune.
As a child, I would have slain dragons for the girl who called me “Wooke,” the entire first year I knew her. (At four, she still had trouble making “L” sounds.)
