Page 54 of Grump Hard
Like I’d spoken in a foreign language.
The language of a complete asshole…
A knock on the study door cuts through my thoughts, making me flinch before I call tightly, “Yes? Come in.”
Bran pokes his head through the door, looking as relaxed as I am wound tight. “Hey, I’m running to the Kountry Store for coffee beans. We’re completely out, and Ashton is threatening violence if someone doesn’t restock before the blizzard. You need anything?”
“Why is no one in this house capable of basic inventory management?” I snap, my voice sharp. “The maids just went to Manchester to restock before the storm yesterday. Coffee should have been on their list. One of you should have made sure it was on there. How are we constantly running out of essentials?”
Bran blinks, clearly taken aback by the vehemence of my response. “Um, okay. So, you don’t need anything? That’s what you’re saying?”
Guilt floods through me.
This isn’t about inventory management. This is about the fact that my brain has been gnawing away at itself for days. And now, I’m taking it out on Bran, who’s done absolutely nothing wrong except want his grouchy older brother come stay at the mansion with the rest of them for the entire season.
“Sorry.” I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m…wrestling with some things. For work. I’ll go get the coffee. I need some fresh air anyway.”
Bran nods. “Clearly. Get lots of air. And fudge. You need fudge. It’s the only thing with enough sugar in it to sweeten you up again.”
He leaves before I can respond, which is just as well.
I don’t have anything nice to say.
Best if I don’t say anything at all.
The ride into town on the snowmobile is cold and loud, which helps.
The wind whips against my face, numbing my cheeks and making my eyes water. The roar of the engine drowns out thought, forcing me to focus on the mechanics of navigation—the turns, the terrain, the patches of ice hidden under fresh snow.
But once I park behind the post office and start walking toward the Kountry Store, the intrusive thoughts intrude once more.
Now, they’re layered with a fresh coat of guilt about snapping at Bran. We’ve all been growing closer, especially since the sick spell, bonding in a way we haven’t since we were children. They were starting to relax around me, to treat me more like a brother and less like the taskmaster guardian who took over ruling their lives after our father failed them.
And now I’ve gone and damaged our progress.
I wasn’t just an ass to Holly. I’ve been a terror to live with since what I saw at the caroling that night.
Or what I thought I saw.
I’m so lost in rumination that I don’t register the voices coming from beside the Kountry Store until I’m almost on top of them. But then I hear a strained voice beg, “Let’s just take a breath. Maybe she just needs a minute to calm down and realize she’s safe here.”
I recognize the sweet, patient tone immediately.
Holly.
It’s her professional voice, the one she uses to great effect to soothe both anxious pets and owners alike.
I glance around the corner, spotting her in the space between the Kountry Store and the art gallery, where the light is nice and even, and a mural of Silver Bell Falls in the 1950s forms a perfect backdrop for an outdoor portrait.
It looks like she’s shooting a couple—late forties, expensively dressed in a way that screams “five-star ski resort”—with a small, traumatized terrier. The dog is trembling hard enough to lift its small body off the ground, its ears pinned back, trying desperately to hide behind the woman’s legs.
It makes Daisy, the beagle, look calm by comparison.
“Come on, Colette, don’t do this again,” the woman grits through clenched teeth. “I swear, Kyle, this dog is impossible.” She gives the leash a sharp jerk, making the small dog yelp in pain as she drags it forward by the neck.
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
“Here, why don’t I give her a little something to distract her?” Holly moves forward, a treat in hand, but the man—Kyle—shifts to block her path.
