Page 1 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
Chapter One
Cassidy
Thewindshieldfogsupagain, and I swipe at it with my sleeve for what feels like the hundredth time. The heater gave up somewhere back in Cedar Grove, and now the inside of my old beat-up Honda smells faintly like damp socks and desperation. My side mirror vibrates violently as I take another curve and I just hope that the duct tape will hold until I reach my destination.
“This is fine,” I say out loud to no one. My voice is thin and a little shaky. “Totally fine.”
It’s not, but I’ve been rehearsing this line all morning, so it feels fair to repeat it. The coastal road winds down another curve, the trees on either side towering so high they blot out most of the early morning light. Their leaves are a patchwork quilt of fiery oranges, deep scarlets, and golden yellows, the kind of thing postcard companies would kill for. It's a far cry from the concrete jungle of my native Portland.
It's exactly what I need.
As my old compact car navigates yet another sharp curve, a flurry of fallen leaves spirals up like confetti in my wake. The russet and gold shapes catch in the side mirror, their brief dance almost mocking the misty, cold grayness of the early October morning. My fingers tighten on the wheel as James Taylor’s voice wavers through the static on the radio. His soothing tone flickers in and out of existence with the patchy reception, and I turn it off with a grunt. I never could stand static. I continue driving alone with the hum of my engine and the eerie, untamed quiet of a road that feels like it belongs to no one but me.
When I crest the next hill, the small town of Saltford Bay reveals itself, wide and breathtaking. I slow down to a crawling pace just to take in the view. The little town sprawls out like a secret pressed between the rocky shore and the gray-blue expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. I catch glimpses of white clapboard houses and shingle cottages nestled together, their neat little yard emerald green under the gray sky. Down by the harbor, colorful fishing boats bob on the waves, their reflections shimmering in the clear water. The waves roll and crash against the rocks, their whitecaps frothing like the hem of an unkempt wedding dress. My stomach knots at the sight. Not from nerves exactly, butfrom that strange mixture of fear and hope that comes with stepping into the unknown. I grip the wheel tighter, my knuckles blanching.
“Okay, Cassie, this is it,” I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible over the rumble of the car. “You’ve got this. A fresh start, remember? New life, new you. No turning back now.”
Not that I have anything to turn back to. But even as I say it, I feel the weight of the past tugging at me like a hook in my gut. Bits and pieces of the life I left behind pop in my tired brain, but I push them down resolutely.
The town vanishes behind another curve, and I find myself scanning the roadside for a driveway. The battery on my cell phone gave up ten miles ago and my GPS died along with it. My car is so old, there’s not even a charger inside. I’m left with nothing but hazy instructions from the Realtor. Something about a sign next to an old oak tree.
Or perhaps a maple? I don’t remember.
Just as I’m beginning to think I’ve missed it, I catch sight of a cluster of overgrown bushes leaning aggressively into the road. I slow the car so much that it would be just as fast to walk, then I see it.
A faded wooden sign, its edges curling with rot, peeks out from the evergreen vines like a forgotten relic. It’s painted with the words Saltwater Lodge, though the letters are chipped and pale, barely distinguishable against the peeling blue background. Below it, the Realtor’s plastic sign hangs askew. A bright-red SOLD sticker gleams diagonally across it.
I stop in the middle of the road as my heart hammers against my ribs so hard it hurts. The sound echoes in my ears and for a moment, I’m tempted to turn the car around and drive all the way back to the city.
Then the moment passes and I flex my fingers on the wheel.
I’m finally here.
It's the first tangible marker of the decision I made a few months ago, on the same day I signed the divorce papers. I sit there for a moment, staring at the word SOLD as if it might disappear if I blink too hard. A shiver runs through me, but whether it’s from the brisk autumn air seeping through my cracked window or the sheer gravity of this moment, I can’t tell.
“Breathe,” I whisper, forcing myself to exhale. “This is the future you’ve been dreaming about. That's what you want.”
But my trembling hands give me away, betraying the swirl of excitement and unease bubbling beneath my practiced calm.
I ease the car forward, turning into the uneven gravel driveway. Or at least I think it’s a driveway. The path is so overgrown with weeds and stray branches that it feels more like I’m forging a trail than following one. The undercarriage of the car scrapes against something, and I wince, muttering an apology to my Honda as if it can hear me. Then, as I round the final bend, the lodge comes into view.
I slam on the brakes, my breath catching in my throat.
There it is, standing at the top of a gentle slope, half-shrouded in the morning mist. The pictures didn’t prepare me for this. The Saltwater Lodge looms like a forgotten treasure, its pale-blue clapboards weathered and worn but still clinging to a kind of stubborn charm. The wraparound porch sags in one corner, its white balusters stained with moss and grime. The windows, clouded with neglect, frame the entire front of the building like the sleepy eyes of a giant. The roof is partially covered with stubborn ivy, and the entire structure gives anair of melancholic happiness, like a toy forgotten in an attic, waiting for a child to find it. Waiting to be played with again.
It’s beautiful and heartbreaking all at once. My throat tightens, and I feel my eyes prick with unexpected tears. I blink them back, my chest a confusing riot of emotions. Relief, awe, and a whisper of doubt I can’t quite silence flood my entire system.
“It’s perfect,” I say aloud, my voice trembling. It’s not, of course. Perfect isn’t the right word for the rotting wood and the rust-stained gutters.
But it’s mine.
The weight of it, the responsibility, the potential, settles on my shoulders in a way that feels both daunting and oddly comforting. I drive forward again, then pull the car to a tentative stop in what I’m choosing to call a driveway, though it’s more like a patch of gravel with some wildly ambitious grass trying to reclaim it. Then I cut the engine. For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the wind and the distant call of seagulls.
It’s the complete opposite of what my entire life has been. It's what the new and improve Cassidy Perkins needs to reimagine herself from the ashes of her old life.
I climb out of the car, pulling my hoodie tighter against the crisp air. The gravel crunches underfoot as I take my first tentative steps toward the house. The morning mist clings to my skin, cool and damp, and the salty tang of the ocean hangs heavy in the air. Up close, the lodge looks even rougher, the peeling paint and warped boards telling a hundred stories of storms and years of neglect. But I can see the potential beneath the wear. The sturdy bones of the building, the view of the harbor below, the way the bay windows catch the light just so.
I take another deep breath, letting the salty air fill my lungs.
