Page 1 of Big and Grumpy
one
Marigold
Themovingtruckdisappearsdown the gravel road in a cloud of dust, leaving me standing on the porch of my new cabin with nothing but boxes, optimism, and what my sister calls my "aggressively cheerful" disposition. The cabin is perfect—rustic logs, a stone chimney, and windows that frame the Alberta wilderness like living paintings. After two years of cramped city apartments and soul-crushing corporate jobs, this feels like coming home to a life I didn't even know I wanted.
I'm unpacking my bright yellow coffee maker when I catch sight of movement through the kitchen window. My neighbor—and apparently myonlyneighbor for miles—is splitting wood with the kind of methodical precision that speaks to years of practice. He's built like a lumberjack fantasy, all broad shoulders and powerful arms, with dark hair that's just long enough to be interesting.
Perfect. Maybe I can introduce myself, borrow a cup of sugar, start building the kind of friendly neighbor relationship that makes remote living feel less isolated.
I grab a plate of the chocolate chip cookies I stress-baked yesterday and practically bounce across the clearing between our cabins. The man doesn't look up from his work, even though I'm sure he's heard my approach. Up close, he's even more impressive—and more intimidating. There's something guarded about the set of his shoulders, like he's braced for impact.
"Hi there!" I call out cheerfully. "I'm Marigold Clarke, your new neighbor!"
The sound of relentless cheer seems to penetrate his concentration, and he looks up from the log he's splitting. Dark eyes take me in with a thoroughness that makes my pulse quicken, though his expression remains completely neutral.
"Holt Hartwell," he says curtly, not bothering to put down his axe. Maybe if he's unfriendly enough, I'll get the hint and leave him alone.
But I've never been good at taking hints.
"It's so nice to meet you! I brought cookies—chocolate chip, made from scratch." I hold up the plate like it's some kind of peace offering. "I figured it was the neighborly thing to do."
He stares at the cookies, then at my expectant face, and I can see him weighing his options. Something about my aggressive cheerfulness seems to irritate him.
"Don't really eat sweets," he says, though something in his tone makes me suspect that might not be entirely true.
My smile falters for just a moment before returning full force. "Oh! Well, maybe coffee sometime then? I make an excellent pot, and I'd love to hear about the area."
"Busy," he says, turning back to his wood pile.
Well, that was... not what I expected. I stand there for a moment, holding my rejected cookies and watching HoltHartwell's broad back as he attacks the next log with what seems like unnecessary violence. His dismissal stings more than it should—I've dealt with unfriendly people before, but something about his complete lack of interest feels almost personal.
"Okay then," I say to his back, keeping my voice determinedly bright. "Well, if you change your mind about the cookies, I'm right next door!"
He doesn't respond, doesn't even acknowledge that I've spoken. I trudge back to my cabin, pride smarting and cheeks burning with embarrassment. So much for friendly neighbors.
But as I unpack my kitchen supplies, I find myself glancing out the window toward his cabin. There's something about Holt Hartwell that seems familiar, though I can't put my finger on what. Maybe it's the way he holds himself, like someone who's been hurt and is determined not to let it happen again.
I know that feeling all too well.
By evening, I've managed to set up my home office and unpack most of my clothes. The marketing consulting work I do remotely is demanding but flexible, which is what allowed me to make this dramatic life change in the first place. After my last relationship imploded spectacularly—catching your fiancé cheating will do that—I decided it was time for a completely fresh start.
I'm arranging books on my shelves when I hear the sound of an engine outside. Through the window, I see a massive four-wheeler pulling up to Holt's cabin, ridden by a man who looks like a younger, more cheerful version of my grumpy neighbor.
The two men talk for a few minutes, and I catch fragments of their conversation on the evening air. Something about news traveling fast and someone making mistakes with cookies. The visitor, who must be family, given the resemblance, gestures toward my cabin more than once, and I see Holt's shoulders tense with each reference.
When the four-wheeler finally roars away, I watch Holt stand on his porch for a long moment, looking across the clearing toward my cabin. Even from this distance, I can see the conflict in his posture—like part of him wants to cross that space and part of him wants to barricade himself inside.
I understand that feeling too.
That night, as I lie in my new bed listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the wilderness, I find myself thinking about dark eyes and guarded expressions, and wondering what kind of story has made Holt Hartwell so determined to keep the world at arm's length.
two
Holt
Thenextmorning,Iwake to the sound of something breaking outside Marigold's cabin. Through my kitchen window, I can see that a branch has fallen across her little front porch during the night, taking out one of the support posts and leaving the whole structure looking distinctly unsafe.
I should mind my own business. Should let her figure this out on her own, or call someone from town. The last thing I need is to get more involved with my aggressively cheerful neighbor who makes me want things I gave up on two years ago.
