Page 11 of The Pucking Grump

I dump the groceries on the couch, my headache compounding. Why is it so damn difficult to get this woman to listen?

“I told you,” I snarl, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to start watching news about your wedding just yet.”

Her shoulders are trembling. “Well, Kevin thought I should. Apparently, my dad is giving a press conference.”

That surprises me. I would have expected any member of her family to at least try to track her down before speaking to the press.

“Doesn’t mean you have to watch it, though,” I point out.

Her shoulders are trembling, this time with what looks like barely suppressed anger. “I need to know what they’re saying about me.”

My own irritation is mounting. “Now I’ve got to understand why you’re this obsessed with what a bunch of strangers think about you.”

She stomps her foot. “Those strangers are my fans. The ones that like my music. They are the reason I have a career. I can’t just keep calm when I don’t know what they think of me.”

I can’t hold back a smirk. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. The impressionable women you sing to are going to love you no matter what.”

Faye lets out an actual growl. I raise my brow. Where does she get the gall to act annoyed?

“I’m not helping you fix the TV.” My initial reason still stands. But now there’s a current of anger flowing through me, one that is desperate to seek retribution for how badly she’s getting on my nerves. “So, when you’re done failing at that, you can come get some food and go to bed.”

Bed. The pain in my head winds up a notch. I hadn’t even thought of that yet. My cabin has only a single bedroom, and I’m not the biggest fan of sleeping on the couch for a girl I don’t care much about.

“Fine,” she spits through gritted teeth. Turning back to the TV, she fiddles with it some more. I roll my eyes, torn between exasperation at her bull-headedness and amusement at the fact that this ditzy little princess actually thinks she knows enough about archaic TVs to get them to work.

Just then, the black and white blurry lines vanish, only to be replaced by a clear-cut image of a reporter on the E! station.

No way.

She turns back to me, not hiding her disdain. “I don’t know what your problem with me is, but your assumptions are wrong. I was dirt poor until I was eighteen. We lived in project housing and the only reason we’re comfortable now is because I worked my ass off. So, yeah, I know how to handle a TV from a previous century.”

How is it possible to dislike someone and be impressed by them at the same time?

I was right, I think as she reaches for the remote, I’m going to regret this. I am regretting it already, but not for the reasons I thought earlier. I assumed Faye Strummer was going to be the epitome of a spoiled brat, ordering me around and complaining about the lack of dairy and gluten-free options in the cabin. I even prepared myself for that kind of behavior during the long ride over.

What I didn’t expect was the strong-willed young woman doing anything other than playing the role of the shallow girl I pegged her to be.

Also did not expect that holding her for a few seconds would cause me to combust.

I think back to the moment in front of the cabin and berate myself. I got turned on real fast. Before meeting her, everything about Faye downright irritated me. And now, even the sight of her in a wedding gown is oddly alluring.

How the hell am I supposed to go the next few days locked in this tiny cabin with her without losing my mind?

I have not figured out an answer to that question when Faye unmutes the TV and the reporter’s voice resounds through the room.

“. . . think this means for Faye Strummer in terms of her career?”

This is a bad idea. Yet, I can’t help perking up and focusing on the screen. Faye, on the other hand, goes rigid as she stares at the immaculate, synthetic broadcasters, their artificial cheer grating at me.

“No one can predict anything yet.” The cameras flash to another news anchor, a pink-haired man with a drawling Texan accent. “But what we do know is that this is the greatest pop scandal of the year. Imagine good ol’ Faye Strummer actually being the one to set X ablaze tonight.”

“Well, she was going to set the whole world talking anyway,” the first reporter says with an unkind little chuckle. “It was revealed only last week that Alexander McQueen spent a year working on her wedding dress. Everyone was dying to see that.”

Faye’s shoulders are heaving as she breathes hard. I look over at her, feeling the first stirrings of compassion. Everything about her drives me insane, but I’m starting to understand why this is so difficult for her. Nothing an entertainment channel says has the potential to ruin a hockey player’s livelihood, but it’s quite different for a musician. Being a singer who has spent her whole career singing about love and then running from her own wedding isn’t helping her brand at all.

The female reporter straightens up a second later, looking excited. “Well, well, well! News reaching us right now is that Faye’s father and manager, Dave Strummer, is ready to dial in and give us the scoop.”

“We heard he’s been making a lot of statements over at other news channels,” the pink-haired man adds. “But I’m not ready to believe anything until I hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. Looks like we’re going to have that opportunity.”

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