Page 2 of Falling for the Grumpy Orc
“Welcome home,” I say out loud, glad to hear my voice steady and strong. It’s not just the lodge I’m talking to; it’s the version of myself I’ve been trying to find, the woman who mended her broken heart and took a leap of faith, then gripped a crumbling dream with both hands.
There’s so much to do, so much to fix. But standing here, with the ocean singing in the distance and the lodge towering above me, I feel something I haven’t felt in a long time.
Hope.
Maybe it’s the frayed edges of my bone-tired brain. Maybe it’s the smell of iodine and seaweed in the air. Whatever it is, I feel a burst of ridiculous affection for this battered old building.
“Nice to meet you.” I address it like the building is staring me down. “We’ll fix you. Really.”
The wood protests under my weight as I climb the short flight of stairs of the front porch. Still, I can’t help but smile at the pair of enormous oak doors that greet me like a grumpy old butler. When I pull the keys from my pocket, the metal jingles so loudly in the quiet it makes me jump. The lock sticks, and I have to fight with the warped door before it finally gives, swinging open with a groan. My first step inside kicks up a plume of dust, and I cough, waving a hand in front of my face as my boots scrape against the worn burgundy carpet in the foyer.
It’s darker than I expected, light trickling dimly through fogged-up bay windows. The air is heavy, thick with the age of the place. But I can see the potential there as surely as I could in the pictures and as I flick a light switch on, I feel a grin spread out on my lips.
At least, the utility company turned the power on like they were supposed to.
I cast a wide look around from my vantage point at the front door. The sweeping staircase, the intricate wood paneling, the carved detail on the fireplace that dominates the far wall. Everything has a story here; it just needs a little elbow grease to bring it out.
And, like, atonof cleaning supplies.
The floor feels thankfully solid under my feet as I step carefully inside. I trail my fingers over the banister of the staircase as I walk farther in and toward the back of the building, where the open door to a kitchen sheds light on the hallway. It’s a little sticky, and the dust clings to my palm.
“Charming,” I mutter, and my voice echoes faintly off the high ceiling.
Then my enthusiasm is dampened. By like a thousand degrees.
The kitchen is worse than the entrance. Much worse. The stove is a graveyard of rust; the countertops are beyond saving, and the refrigerator looks like a science experiment gone wrong. The sink drips constantly, the faucet sputters, and the cabinets smell like something crawled in there and died.
And then I spot movement to my left. A streak of flame-orange fur sits up on the counter, just to my right. A cat, lean, with bright-green eyes, stares at me likeI'mthe intruder here. Which I kind of am, from its point of view. The cat's tail flicks once like a lazy pendulum as it gets to its feet.
“Well, hello there,” I say softly, inching closer. But the moment I take a second step, the feline darts toward a broken pane in the kitchen window and disappears outside.
“Fantastic.” I shake my head, then call after it, “Don’t forget to leave a review!”
The sound of my phone buzzing in my pocket startles me as I leave the kitchen. I fumble it free and glance at the screen. It’s Silvia.
“Don’t say it,” I answer, smoothing back a flyaway strand of hair as though she can see me through the phone.
“Say what?” she chirps, her voice bright and teasing in my ear. “That you’ve lost your marbles? That this lodge is probably the nesting ground for a colony of vampire bats? I wasn’t gonna say a word.”
I snort, leaning against the parlor doorway. “You’re hilarious.”
“I know.” There’s the sound of a coffee machine grinding beans in the background. Silvia is always either caffeinating or planning her next caffeination. “So… are you standing in the ruins?”
I glance at the hanging chandelier, one of its crystal pieces dangling precariously like a single earring after a wild night. “It’s got potential.”
“Oh, honey, that’s you trying to be diplomatic,” Silvia says, ever helpful. Not. “What’s the damage? Tell me everything.”
“Well…” I glance around, trying to be kind. Mostly, not wanting to make myself more overwhelmed than I already am. “There’s carpet here that’s probably seen the Civil War, so taking this out is my first priority. Some of the windows are broken. And the kitchen is, like, genuinely haunted.”
Silvia snickers in the phone and I can clearly picture her, standing in her bright-yellow kitchen next to her Italian espresso machine.
“Haunted?”
I can hear her brows furrowing. If it's a thing.
“That’s the only explanation for how bad it looks.”
Silvia cackles. “Good thing you don’t cook.”
