Page 11 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

“Yes, and yes, I am named not so much after a literary character as I am after the Hollywood legend who played the literary character on screen. My grandmother and, subsequently, my mom are big vintage movie buffs, especially if it includes Clark Gable.”

“I love that story. And be happy they weren’t big Boris Karloff fans. Rhett is much nicer than Frankenstein … or Boris, for that matter.”

“Never thought of that. Guess I’ll appreciate my name more.” I still hadn’t made him smile, and something told me there was enough life weighing down his shoulders that a smile would not come easy.

“So, you’re living here alone?” I asked because I apparently still hadn’t learned my lesson.

“Unless there are some ghosts I don’t know about. Refill?” he asked as he got up.

“No, thanks. Another cup and I’ll be buzzing around the room like a hummingbird.” We drank a cup of coffee together. He wasn’t the terrible ogre I’d imagined after seeing him in the window. I’d worked up enough courage to ask about the items in the house.

Rhett sat back down at the table.

“Rhett, is it all right if I call you Rhett?”

“As you pointed out, it’s better than Frankenstein.”

I giggled, but still no smile on his end. “I’m writing an article for an online publication. They focus on interesting and noteworthy stories from small towns, towns like Whisper Cove. It’s my first assignment. I’m super excited because I’ve been wanting to write for this publication.”

He casually sipped his coffee. “You’re writing a story about Grimstone Manor.”

“Uh, yes, I am. About the curse,” I added and then rather wished I’d kept that morsel to myself.

“I found this house on the realtor’s site, and I know nothing about the curse.” His tone was drier and his expression harsher. “And here I thought you were just welcoming me to the neighborhood.”

“I am. The cookies were my way to say welcome,” I said quickly. I’d handled this all wrong, and he had every right to feel betrayed.

“And to get inside to see if you could find out information for your article.”

I felt the new job, the dream job, slipping away. “The realtor told my editor that there were a lot of photos and journals and books left behind through the years. That was before you bought the house.”

“So, you’re telling me I got in the way of your first big break by buying this wreck.” He stood up abruptly and I followed. I picked up the plate. It was over. I’d handled this whole thing like a big clumsy ox. I should have known a man like him wouldn’t be the least bit receptive to someone traipsing through his home and life.

I wanted this job. I wanted so badly to impress my new editor. So far, I’d been an absolute failure at this writing thing, and this job was supposed to change all that. “Look, I’m sorry.I went about this all wrong. I made the cookies, so I could meet you and ask if I could have access to the old things. I wouldn’t be a bother, and I’d be in and out as fast as possible.” I was tossing out all my words as he was already walking me to the door. It was over. My chance was over and so was my career in journalism.

Nonna told me I always wore my emotions on my sleeve, and I never shied away from letting the world know how I felt. She told me that was what made my stories so good because all my feelings came out in my words. She called it a gift, but I wasn’t so sure. Still, I had nothing to lose. He stopped at the door and turned to face me. That same indifference he was so good at showing was on full display now. He stared at me, waiting for me to make my final appeal before he waved me out the door.

“My whole life I’ve only had one dream—to write and to entertain people with those words. While other kids were outside riding bikes or playing on the beach, I was sitting in my room, my favorite quilt pulled up over my head to create what I called my writer’s den, scribbling stories onto notepads. I’d work feverishly on whatever story had taken over my soul that week and then I’d read them to my sisters. Some they loved and some were flops, but the flops never got in my way. I just kept writing stories. If I don’t do well on this story, I’ll lose the job.” I blinked back tears. His expression remained in stone. “But that’s none of your concern. I get it, and I’m sorry I wasted your time.” I reached for the door, pulled it open and let the cool blast of air from outside dry the tears. “Thanks for the coffee and good luck with the house,” I said over my shoulder. I reached the steps.

“I have one condition,” he said sternly.

I stopped and turned around. “Excuse me?”

“If I let you look through the old things, then you have to pack them up in boxes as you go through them. I need to get rid of all that old stuff.”

I didn’t react right away because I worried my ears were playing tricks on me. “Did you say I could look through the stuff?”

“As long as you pack it up when you’re finished.”

I clapped excitedly. “I can do that. You won’t regret this. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse, and you won’t even know I’m there.”

“Somehow, I doubt that. I’ll buy some boxes. You can start tomorrow. Nine?”

“Yes, yes, I’ll be here, and I’ll get everything packed up nicely. Thank you so much, Mr. Lockwood.”

“The occasional plate of cookies wouldn’t hurt either,” he added.

“Cookies. Of course. I’ll bake some tonight. Thank you again.” I turned and decided to skedaddle away before I said something that would change his mind. And that thought brought me to a new question as I hurried across the weed riddled lot. “Why exactly did he change his mind?”

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