Page 1 of Stuck With the Billionaire Grump

Chapter One: Lucy

“Something old. Something new.”

I tap the garment bag that holds Josie’s vintage 1950s wedding dress, then drum my fingernails on the box that holds the gorgeous Manolo Blahnik heels she splurged on last month.

Josie watches me quietly, knowing better than to disturb me when I’m in Maidzilla Mode—a term she coined when she determined that making me her maid of honor was akin to Dr. Frankenstein making his monster. Thankfully, I happen to think that being compared to a reanimated corpse is rather chic. Very stylishly macabre. Plus, if I must be monstrous to ensure that my cousin gets the most beautiful wedding of the century, then so be it.

“Something borrowed…” I continue.

“My mom is dropping off her veil in the morning. And, yes, Lu, she’s already mended and steamed it. You can’t even tell that Auntie Cassie accidentally punctured the hem with her stiletto during a round of ‘The Bunny Hop’ at the reception. It’s perfectly ready.”

“Good.”

I turn toward the coffee table, where a nest of tissue paper that has just been dropped off at our door by our favorite neighbor, the wise woman of the beach, rests among the partially packed moving boxes.

“Something blue,” Josie finishes for me.

In unison, we grin and lean forward to peer at Miss Maisie’s creation. When I asked her to recommend blue gemstones for a potential headpiece for Josie’s wedding ensemble, I hadn’t expected her to create something out of her own mystical supplies. Yet, now that it’s here, I can’t deny that it’s absolutely perfect. Miss Maisie has used delicate silver wire to craft a dainty headband out of tiny aquamarines and raw sapphire stones. Nestled in Josie’s wild, dark waves, it’ll look like a little crown of stars.

“It’s so dreamy.” I sigh, admiring the headband.

“I can’t believe she won’t let me pay her for it.”

“I don’t think Miss Maisie has ever accepted payment for her mysterious gemstone deliveries before, Jo.”

“Well, this is different, no?”

I snort softly. “Maybe you can flip the script on her and slip a Benjamin into her pocket when she least expects it.”

Josie giggles. As locals of Mermaid Shores, we’ve often been the target of Miss Maisie’s hidden charms and wordless spiritual guidance. Even the tourists aren’t safe. She knows everything about everything, and rumor has it that the wind tells her what ails each and every person who wanders into this town.

For example, one minute, you’re minding your business, thinking about how little sleep you got last night, and the next minute, you’ve got a chunk of howlite stone and a sachet of chamomile tea in your pocket. This exact thing happened to me just last week. Honestly, I think Miss Maisie has spent way too much of her free time trying to cure my persistent insomnia overthe years. She’s not the sort of person who can accept a lost cause.

But I digress.

Officially, Miss Maisie does oracle card and palm readings from her eclectic and colorfully cushioned porch. Unofficially, she communes with the sirens who guard these shores and foretells the greatest love stories of the decade… usually between the least likely of couples.

She is, of course, invited to Josie and Elijah’s wedding.

“Anyway,” I say, turning back to Josie with my hands planted firmly on my hips. “You need to finish packing up your books.”

She smirks. “So eager to get rid of me?”

“You know I want you to stay here and be my roommate for the rest of our lives, but you’re getting married next week, so it’s inevitable that you’re leaving me. Which means that you really should finish packing your things.”

Josie sighs and turns to the built-in bookshelves that frame our television.

“You’re right,” she mutters. “I just know that Elijah is going to judge my taste in literature.”

“Elijah has always known you like reading historical romance. I’d even bet money that he’s sneaked a peak at a few of those novels.”

She waves me off and goes to the nearest shelf, where endless stacks of dollar-store paperbacks are crammed into every available space. I duck into the kitchen where we’re keeping the stack of empty boxes and grab one for her. Dropping it down onto the floor in front of the shelves, I help Josie neatly move the books from one spot to another.

Technically, the books aren’t going far. After her soon-to-be-husband Elijah officially moved back to town last summer, he bought a house just down the street from here. It’s barely a two-minute walk. Which is nice, of course, but I know I’m still goingto miss having Josie here in her messy bedroom just down the hall from mine.

This is my childhood home, but it’s just been me and Josie living in it since my dad moved up to Maine with his third wife a few years ago. And ever since Josie and Elijah officially became Josieandelijah again, they have been spending most of their time together. In that sense, I probably should’ve gotten used to the relative emptiness by now.

If I’m being totally melodramatic and pessimistic about it, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to it. I don’t like being alone. I’m a textbook extrovert. I love having people around as often as possible.

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