Page 41 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

I squeezed his hand. “This day turned out way better than I expected.”

“Definitely had a rough start,” Rhett said. He lifted our clasped hands and kissed the back of mine. “Let’s forget this morning altogether. I’ll even pretend that I never saw my ex-wife. In fact, it’s easy to push her out of my mind.”

I sighed. “Yeah, I’m feeling the same way about my new neighbor,Monica,” I said with proper disgust. “She’s very snooty and ugh, I don’t know. She rubbed me the wrong way.”

“Is that the neighbor you mentioned the night of the storm? She’s a renter, right? So maybe she’ll be gone soon.”

“Hope so. In the meantime, I’ll try to avoid her. It won’t be easy because there are only a few cottages along that strip of coast. She’s just a little too catty and pretty and flexible. Ridiculously flexible, as if she’s spent the last ten years in yoga classes. She was asking about the house, too.”

“Your house or the one she’s renting? Do you think she’s planning to buy the rental?”

“Audrey would never part with it. No, I meant Grimstone. She was asking about Grimstone.”

Rhett’s body tensed next to me. “What did you say her name was?”

“Monica.”

He fell silent, and I could still feel tension in the shoulder I rested my head against. I lifted my head and looked at him. “Everything all right?” I asked tentatively because clearly it wasn’t.

His jaw was set tighter, too. “Monica—what does she look like?”

“Blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect white smile and an incredible fig—” My words trailed off. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

The expression on his face assured me that was the case.

“Why is she here?” I asked.

Rhett stood up and raked his fingers through his hair. Tension rolled off him in waves. “She’s determined to make my life miserable, and she’s doing a great job.”

“Do you think she knows about us? I sort of got this kind of—I don’t know—icky feeling from her. Like we were mortal enemies in a different life, and we’d now met in this new one.”

Rhett turned to me. “I’m so sorry, Ella. Maybe we should?—”

I hurried over to him and pressed my finger against his mouth. “Don’t finish that. We’ve already taken a ride on that train, and we’ve determined neither of us want it. I’m not afraidof a skinny, bendable Barbie doll. I can handle her.” I paused. “Or are we talking Glenn Close inFatal Attraction?”

Rhett raised a brow. “You don’t happen to have a pet rabbit?”

“Oh my gosh, is she that nuts?”

“I’ll take care of it.” Rhett turned to the fireplace and pretended to be busy with the fire.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ll talk to her, get her to leave town. I know what she wants, so I’ll just give in. It’ll be worth it if it means getting her out of my life, our life, for good.”

I took hold of his hand. “Let’s make that cocoa I brought. I think we could use some chocolate cheer.”

A few minutes later some of the earlier angst had been muted by the rhythmic crackling of the fire and the smooth, chocolatey cocoa. I hadn’t meant to disrupt the calm, but that insatiable nosiness poked its head out.

“Is it more money? Is that what she wants? Because, really, Rhett, I can take care of myself. It’ll be fine. I’ll warn my sisters not to get chummy or invite the new neighbor over.”

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I pulled you into my sordid problems.”

Red sparks fluttered off the burning logs and then settled down into the light gray ash piling up under the grate. I turned slightly toward him. “First of all, I love sordid problems. Big fan of sordidness in general, because every story is more intriguing with dirty laundry. Not that yours is dirty, necessarily,” I added quickly. “I suppose rich people don’t have dirty laundry, just untidy laundry.” I sat back. “All right, I’m babbling, so I need to take another swig of cocoa.”

“I don’t think it matters how much money you have. Dirty laundry is just that, with or without the full bank accounts.”

I looked down at his arm. The blazing fire was just right for me, but I sensed it had grown too hot for Rhett. There werebeads of sweat on his forehead, and he’d rolled back the sleeves of his flannel shirt. He was no longer trying to hide the scar, and seeing more of it made my chest ache. He’d been through something harrowing, shocking. The scar was almost beautiful in its own way, smooth creases followed by ridges, like the topographical map of a pink desert.

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