Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

As usual it was my big mouth getting me into trouble. In my defense, I hadn’t realized that Whisper Cove’s mysterious new resident was behind me when I called him strange, dark and grim.

I finally landed my dream job as a journalist for an online publication, and my first assignment is a story about Grimstone Manor, a turn-of-last-century home that is rumored to be cursed. Naturally, the strange, dark and grim mystery man is the new owner of the manor.

It’s time to turn on that Lovely sister charm and warm my way into his crummy, cursed house.

When Rhett Lockwood, a handsome introvert, decides I can look through the old artifacts and books in the house, the last thing I expect is to become friends with the man.

And that friendship grows to something else. There’s only one thing in the way. His very angry, vengeful ex-wife.

It seems the curse is all too real, and the house has chosen me, Ella Lovely, as its next victim.

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’re like 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 that led 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.

I reached the bench and used the end of my coat to wipe off the moisture. A brass plaque reminded anyone who sat there that Norris and Jean Burnbaum used to stand in this very spot hand-in-hand every evening to watch the sunset. Their family had the bench placed there as a memorial to Norris and Jean.

I pulled off my backpack and hugged it to me as I sat down. I could feel the chill of the metal bench through my jeans. I stared out at the ocean. It was a layer of choppy black beneath a blanket of white. On days like this, even the gulls that normally dotted the surface, bobbing up and down on the current, were gone. They flew inland and hung out in parking lots and around the shops whenever the weather at sea was uninviting. And it was definitely uninviting. I doubted even Heathcliff would venture out on the clammy moors on a day like this. I was hoping to get inspiration, but Ava was right. The only thing I’d return with was a chill.

I was determined not to let the trip be an entire waste. I dug through my backpack, reaching straight past the slick cover of my laptop to the bottom where an inordinate amount of crumbs (possibly even left over from my college days) were gathered. My fingers finally found a pen and the notebook I’d shoved in there months ago to catch all my overflow story ideas. The notebook’s cover was a picture of two llamas wearing flowery headdresses. They stared at me wryly to let me know that they didn’t appreciate languishing for so long in the dark, cookie-crumbed corner of my backpack. When I purchased the notebook, I had visions of waking up in the middle of the night, searching frantically nearby for my notebook and pen so I could jot down my brilliant ideas. That only happened once when I searched for the notebook so I could write down a reminder that I had a dentist appointment later in the week, something I’d forgotten until I woke in the middle of the night thinking about it. A dentist appointment wasn’t exactly the stuff of literary dreams, but at least I didn’t forget the appointment.

I flipped open the cover and thumbed through the pages. Most of them were blank. Six months ago, I’d been temporarily inspired by a dream I had where I discovered I was the queen of the dragons in a strange, desolate land, and there were scratchy notations about possible characters. I even sketched a few dragons in the margins, but the farther I got from the weird dream, the farther the story slipped from my imagination. Starting my career with an epic fantasy was like a brand-new surgeon skipping the tonsillectomy to perform a heart transplant. I needed to prove myself with a decent single title first, preferably one set in reality, the world I knew best. Not that I hadn’t spent a lot of time in fictional worlds. Nonna used to pinch my cheek to bring me back to earth whenever she caught me daydreaming too long about a story.

I opened the notebook to a blank page and had to fight the wind to keep the page from turning. I poised my pen as if a big, lovely and wholly interesting idea was about to flow from the inky tip, but there was nothing. I scribbled a big frowny face in the middle of the page and drew an empty lightbulb over the face. I lifted my mouth from the scarf cocoon. “Stupid, blank mind. Face it, El. This isn’t going to happen.”

Something fluttered in the haze, drawing my attention to the edge of the cliffs. It was the bottom of a long black coat. A man with broad shoulders, his black wool beanie pulled low over dark blonde hair, looked as if he’d emerged from the mist to stand at the edge of the cliff. The long ends of a gray knit scarf flopped around in the wind. I could see his profile, finely carved like a statue, as he stared down at the rocks below. My heart sped up as I considered the horrid possibility that he was there to jump. A longstanding tale of a suicide, one that changed in detail and sordid proportion every time it was retold, had been passed down through generations in Whisper Cove. The only person to ever take their life on the treacherous cliffs was a man named Gregor Turner. One account said that he was so despondent about his beloved Annie leaving him for another man that he walked straight to the cliffs and pushed off. Another account, one that was far less romantic, said that he’d had too much whiskey one night, and on his way back to his cottage got lost in the fog and stepped right off into the abyss. Either way, a fall from the cliffs on this side of the cove would be painful and most certainly lethal.

The man didn’t seem to notice me sitting on the bench just fifty yards away. He looked deep in thought. His hands stayed tucked in his coat pockets as he stared out at the foggy coastline. I thumbed through all the worthless knowledge I’d gathered during my days as a psychology student. What I needed was a quick checklist to see if the man seemed suicidal. Nothing. It was as if those four long years of studying, highlighting textbooks and trying to stay awake during dull lectures had been a figment of my imagination. None of it had stuck.

He pulled off his beanie and raked his thick hair back with his fingers before replacing it. Would a suicidal man take the time to smooth his hair? I was relieved when he took a few steps back from the edge. His face swung in my direction, and I froze as his gaze landed directly on me. Dark eyes stared out from under the edge of the beanie, and his full mouth was firmly set in a frown. I considered asking him if he was all right, but all the words stuck in my throat. He turned around and walked with heavy, solemn steps toward the road, the tails of his long black coat flapping behind him and the scarf dancing off his shoulder.
I managed to suck in my first real breath since spotting him standing precariously close to the edge. I’d never seen the man before, and Whisper Cove was not a place chock-full of strangers. Truck tires broke up some of the mist clinging to the asphalt. It was an old truck with faded green paint and two white stripes on the hood. Smoke trailed out the back as he pulled away from the curb, disappearing as quickly as he’d appeared. I sat for a minute wondering if I’d imagined the whole thing—the mysterious man standing on the cliff edge, contemplating something or maybe nothing at all. Had my vivid, overactive mind conjured Heathcliff, after all? That silly thought was interrupted by my phone. It was a text from a number I didn’t recognize.

“Hello, Ms. Lovely, this is Andrea May from Stories We Love, the online publication. We received your application and resumé and would love to chat with you. We think you’ll be a perfect fit for our writing staff. Are you still interested in the position?”

I practically dropped the phone in my haste to write back. The cold had turned my fingers into useless lobster claws, but I managed to return a text. “Yes, I’m still interested.” I sent it and then immediately wondered if I looked too desperate answering so quickly. I stared at my phone waiting for a response. It came. “Do you have time tomorrow morning for a video interview?”

I took a deep breath to calm myself and combed through the mental pile of applications I’d sent out. Stories We Love focused on interesting stories from small towns. It was a small publication but with a respectable number of subscribers. “Yes, tomorrow morning would be fine.”

“Great. Looking forward to meeting you. I’ll send you a link for the meeting. We’ll talk soon.”

“Thank you.” I wanted to add in a dozen exclamation marks but held back. It seemed my adventure out into the dreary fog had paid off after all.