Page 2 of The Holiday Grump
How could I tell my loving, devoted parents that I didn’t want financial security and happiness as Spencer’s wife? That I didn’t want the huge house in Bangor and the summer place on Martha’s Vineyard, where my whole family would always be welcome? I’d torn up their dream, wasted every penny they’d sunk into deposits in a desperate attempt to match the Alfords’ wedding budget. Of course, I’d also wasted an obscene amount of Alford money, but I cared less about that than about my parents’ meager savings.
No. I couldn’t let Mom know I was this close to home. But I had to send her a picture, something convincing. My gaze landed on the cactus, and it gave me an idea. If I framed myself against it with a tropical-looking cocktail, maybe it could pass for Port Canaveral, the first stop on my canceled Caribbean cruise. Just another terrible holiday shot by a terrible photographer, which everyone knew I was.
I hurried to the bar. “Hey, can I order one more drink? Anything tropical looking, maybe with a straw.”
“O…kay. Alcoholic? Any flavor preference?”
“Any juice, really, with lots of ice. It’s a photo prop.”
She gave me a slow nod, eyebrows raised. “I’ll whip up something.”
I returned to my table and undressed until I was slightlyshivering in my T-shirt. I rubbed my arms, but the goose bumps remained, teased by the cold air leaking in through the windows. I put my jacket back on, trying to think of a solution. Burpees!
The other bar-goers didn’t seem to be paying any attention, so I cleared enough room between the chairs and dropped onto the floor. Push-up, jump, push-up.
By the time the server arrived with my orange drink and a little umbrella, I was sweaty and out of breath.
“Just warming up for the pic,” I explained, scrambling to my feet. “That looks perfect.”
“Good thing I mopped yesterday.” She shook her head, laughing.
I posed with the drink and the cactus, snapping a smiling selfie. It looked good, except for the frost on the windows, which screamed “Maine,” not “Florida.”
I edged closer to the cactus to crop out the background. That was when I noticed the thick layer of dust on it. Would a cactus in Port Canaveral look like that? Maybe, but I had a feeling Mom would comment on it. Sighing, I dug a makeup brush from my bag and got to work.
Yes, I was dusting off a cactus in public.
Once it looked a little shinier, I tried again. Perfect.
I restarted my phone, butconnection errorpopped up again. My eyes drifted around the bar, and I noticed something strange. Nobody else was on their phones. Not one. There were no glowing screens or scrolling thumbs. Everyone was talking and laughing over the music.
This was what life must have looked like before the internet. Conversation. Happy smiles.
And… a scowl.
I turned and found myself caught in a stare. Deeply confused and borderline judgmental. The unsettling pair of eyes belonged to a beautiful man with the wildest hair I’d ever seen, like a tuft of grass that had never seen a lawnmower. His sculpted jaw was covered in a stubble so long it was almost a beard. He wore an old-fashioned tweed coat over a flannel shirt so crumpled I wondered if he’d hung it after washing. It made him look both outdated and neglected, like he’d been cast in a period drama, but the wardrobe department hated him. He had a bottle of beer in front of him and a leather-bound book in his hands.
What was it? A dictionary? A Bible? Who read that kind of book in a bar by himself?
He turned back to it, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Had he been watching me? Judging me? When someone did something silly, people usually laughed. At least people who were out in a bar, drinking alcohol. What was this guy’s problem?
My curiosity kicked in like a drug. I’d always been fascinated by anything a little different. Spencer had told me I needed to reel it in. It was fine to be sociable, but I wasn’t supposed to bombard people with invasive questions. His mother had trained me for weeks, the way I imagined someone training a commoner who was about to marry into royalty. She’d said I had the makings of a wonderful conversationalist, if only I learned proper decorum.
Decorum, schmorcorum.
Spence was not here, and neither was his mom. If I wanted to find out what this stranger’s deal was, I would do exactly that.
CHAPTER 2
Fredrik
Before that Friday night, the craziest thing I’d seen at The Shore Thing was my friend Jackson tipping with a fifty-dollar bill. And he was a trust fund kid who occasionally got far too drunk, so it wasn’t that out of the ordinary.
That was until I saw a woman approaching a cactus with a makeup brush. Moments earlier, she’d dropped to the sticky floor to do some sort of push-ups. It was hard to tell since she was wearing a fluffy, peach-colored overcoat that made her look like a baby chick. I was good at minding my own business, but when she took out a toiletry bag to attend to a cactus, even I couldn’t look away.
It wasn’t my intention to gawk at anyone or, God forbid, catch their attention. I despised chitchat and avoided it at all costs. According to my sister, that defeated the purpose ofgoing to a bar, but I liked the soundscape—talk and laughter blending with music. Upbeat, meaningless noise that drowned out my darker thoughts.
Except now my meditative Friday night buzz had been replaced by jittery nerves. The strange woman at the nearby table had noticed me watching her, and she had questions. I could feel them in the air as she regarded me with open curiosity.
