Page 1 of A Very Grumpy Thanksgiving

ONE

Saffron

I’ve made a terrible mistake.

That realization hits me as I stand on the sagging front porch of the house that I just bought. What was supposed to be my dream home now looks more like a cautionary tale, or maybe like I just got super into haunted houses and Halloween and forgot to take down all of the scary decorations after the holiday passed almost a month ago.

I sigh as I brush a strand of dark red hair away from my face and glance at the peeling paint on the porch columns. If I squint hard enough, I can still see the potential I had glimpsed when I first saw this place, but the reality is harder to ignore, especially when I’m standing in the middle of it.

I’ve always had this image of myself: shy, quiet, the girl who preferred the company of books over people. And for most of my life, that’s exactly who I’ve been. But when I decided to move to Wolf Valley with my sisters after our parent’s deaths, I thought that maybe, just maybe, I could start a new chapter. I’d move to a new town and get a new beginning. I could be whoever Iwanted to be. It sounded so simple, so romantic, like something out of the novels that line the shelves of my bookstore,Shelf Indulgence.

When I first saw this house, I fell in love. It wasn’t just the way the oak trees framed the front yard or the soft creaking of the porch under my feet. It was the promise of possibility. A house like this—old, charming, with just the right amount of wear and tear—it was begging to be brought back to life. I could picture myself fixing it up, spending weekends painting walls, replacing old fixtures, and maybe even learning how to lay new floors. I’d be a new version of myself here. I’d be handy, capable, and confident. I saw myself growing alongside the house, piece by piece, until it was mine in every way, until the new me felt like the right me.

What I hadn’t factored into my daydream was just how much work a house like this would need orjust how terrible I am at home repairs.

Sure, I had a Pinterest board full of DIY projects and a box of tools that I barely knew how to use, but reality set in the moment I stepped inside. The leaky roof, the creaky floors, the wiring that sparked when I flipped certain switches... the house was a project, all right. And I had taken it on without enough money or experience to make it work.

Once again, I’ve romanticized my life and now I’m stuck dealing with the reality.

It’s not that I don’t love a challenge. I mean, I’ve spent the last year opening and runningShelf Indulgence, and if I can handle making a bookstore successful in a small town, I can handle this house. Right?

Only, the bookstore had its own sort of magic. Shelves filled with stories of love, adventure, mystery. Things always worked out between those pages. This house? Not so much. I spent nearly all of my savings on buying the place, convinced that Icould handle the renovations myself. Now that I’m realizing that I can’t, I’m screwed cause what I didn’t account for was just how expensive and time-consuming it would be to bring this place back to life.

I let out a sigh and pick up the ladder I dragged out of the shed earlier, leaning it against the side of the house. The gutters are clogged with leaves from last fall, another task that should have been dealt with months ago, long before I bought the place. This task feels like one that I can handle and I’m hoping that maybe if I’m successful with it, that my confidence will grow and I’ll be able to tackle the next project.

Grabbing my gloves, I climb to the top of the ladder, my hands shaking slightly from both exertion and nerves. As I climb, each rung of the ladder seems more daunting than the last. The wind picks up, making the leaves in the trees rustle softly. I grip the ladder tighter as I reach the top, awkwardly leaning over to scoop out the debris. The ladder wobbles slightly under me, and my heart pounds in my chest. I shouldn’t be doing this alone, but I don’t exactly have a choice.

My sisters are all busy with their own business and they know about as much about home repair as I do, so they’re not any help. I can’t afford to hire anyone. My bank account is nearly empty after buying this place. All of my money went into the down payment, leaving me with barely enough to cover basic repairs, let alone hiring professionals to help.

I’m going to need to start saving up so that I can hire a contractor. I’ve bitten off more than I can chew here. The realization stings, but there’s no denying it. I’m in over my head.

Speaking of over my head…

Heights have never been my thing, but I figured I wouldn’t be up that high and that maybe it was time to face my fears. How hard could cleaning gutters be, anyway?

The answer comes in the form of the ladder wobbling beneath me. I grip the gutter tighter, my heart racing as I glance down at the ground, which suddenly seems a lot farther away than it did a moment ago. My foot slips, and for a split second, I think I’m going to fall.

Just as I’m about to lose my balance completely, strong hands grab my waist. The sudden contact sends a jolt through me, and I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, I wonder if I’m imagining it, but then I hear a low, familiar voice.

“Are you trying to kill yourself, or are you just testing out the house’s life insurance policy?”

I look down, and there he is—Nolan, my grumpy, standoffish neighbor. He’s the last person I expected to see today, but here he is, saving me from what would have undoubtedly been a trip to the emergency room. His hands remain firm on my waist as I try to steady myself on the ladder, and for a moment, I can’t think of a single coherent thing to say.

From the moment I saw him, I couldn’t help but imagine him as one of the heroes from my romance novels—tall, broad-shouldered, with a perpetual frown that made him look both intimidating and fascinating all at once. He’s not the kind of man who strikes up casual conversations or waves from across the yard. No, Nolan is more the “stare from a distance and pretend you don’t exist” type.

Despite his gruff demeanor, there’s something about him that draws me in, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it’s the way he always seems so self-assured, so in control. Whatever it is, I’ve found myself daydreaming about him more than I care to admit.

And now, here he is, saving me like one of those very heroes I’ve read about a thousand times. Except this is real, and I’m not sure I know how to play the role of the damsel in distress.

His dark eyes meet mine, and I feel a warmth spread through me that has nothing to do with the crisp autumn air. Nolan and I have lived next to each other for a few weeks now, but I’ve barely exchanged more than a handful of words with him. He moved in around the same time I bought this house, and from day one, he’s kept to himself. Distant is putting it mildly. He’s the kind of guy who seems to prefer his own company, not one for small talk or neighborly chats. And yet, here he is, holding me steady on the ladder, like some sort of reluctant knight in shining armor.

I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit wondering about him. There’s something about his brooding demeanor that reminds me of the heroes from my romance novels, the ones who keep their hearts guarded but secretly harbor deep feelings. Sometimes, when I’m lost in my daydreams, I imagine Nolan as the hero, and I’m the heroine he’s pining for. Of course, in real life, he’s never shown any sign of interest.

Still, there’s no denying that he’s handsome. Ruggedly so, with dark hair that’s always slightly tousled and a jawline that could probably cut through stone. And now, with his hands on me, I can feel the strength in his grip, the solidness of him.

“I—uh—thank you,” I stammer, finally finding my voice.

Nolan releases his hold on me and steps back, crossing his arms over his broad chest. He’s wearing a flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves, exposing muscular forearms that only add to his whole grumpy lumberjack vibe. His expression is as unreadable as ever, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Concern, maybe? Or annoyance?

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