Page 6 of Melting the Grump
I'm not sure if she means the lantern or something else entirely. Either way, I'm in trouble.
"It's..." I search for a word that won't give too much away. "Effective."
She laughs, the sound threading through the autumn night like music. "High praise from Scott Martin. I'll take it."
As volunteers begin returning with more supplies, I step back, suddenly needing distance from her and the uncomfortable truths her presence forces me to confront. I've built my life around protecting this town, around knowing what's best for it. Abigail Robinson, with her city ideas and disarming smile, challenges everything I thought I knew.
"I should go," I say abruptly.
She nods, disappointment flickering briefly across her face. "Tomorrow, then? For the vote?"
"Tomorrow," I agree, already knowing my night will be spent thinking about her proposal.
And about her.
As I walk away, the glow of that single lantern seems to follow me, like Abigail herself—bright, unexpected, and impossible to ignore.
Chapter 3 – Abigail
After hours of hanging lanterns, arranging hay bales, and fielding questions from curious townsfolk, my muscles ache with a pleasant fatigue. Night has fully settled over Whitetail Falls. Despite the exhaustion, my mind refuses to quiet—filled with to-do lists, budget calculations, and frustratingly persistent thoughts of Scott Martin's steadying hands on the ladder.
Those large, capable hands. The unexpected gentleness in them.
I need a drink.
The Copper Kettle Tavern sits at the corner of Foxglove Lane and Dewdrop Way, its weathered wooden sign swinging gently in the evening breeze. Warm light spills from its windows, painting golden rectangles on the cobblestones outside.
When I push open the heavy door, the atmosphere envelops me immediately: a heady blend of spiced cider, wood smoke from the stone fireplace, and the rich, yeasty scent of fresh-baked pretzels. The bar itself stretches along one wall, backed by gleaming bottles and a large copper kettle that must have inspired the tavern's name.
"Abigail!" The bartender raises a hand in greeting. "First round's on the house for our festival planner!"
Several patrons turn to look, offering friendly nods or curious glances. Three weeks in town and I'm still getting used to being recognized, remembered, acknowledged. In Portland, I could frequent the same coffee shop for years and remain pleasantly anonymous.
I smile, sliding onto an empty barstool. "Thanks. Whatever's seasonal on tap would be perfect."
"Coming right up. Our pumpkin ale just came in yesterday."
As Mike moves to pour my drink, I shrug off my jacket and stretch my shoulders, trying to release the tension that's built up over the day. The tavern buzzes with a dozen different conversations, laughter punctuating the gentle backdrop of acoustic guitar playing from hidden speakers. It feels lived-in, welcoming, exactly what I needed tonight.
"Tough day?"
The low, slightly raspy, and painfully familiar voice comes from my right. I turn to find Scott Martin sitting two stools away, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He's traded his flannel shirt for a simple gray henley that does nothing to disguise the breadth of his shoulders. The tavern's warm lighting softens the angles of his face.
"Surprising day," I correct him, hoping my voice sounds steadier than it feels. "I didn't expect half the town to volunteer to help with setup."
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Whitetail Falls doesn't do anything halfway."
The bartender returns with my ale, a rich copper-colored brew topped with a perfect foam head in a glass mug. "You two know each other?" he asks, glancing between us.
Scott answers before I can. "We've met."
The deliberate understatement makes me laugh. "Scott's making sure I don't burn down the town with my festival plans."
"Ah." he grins, polishing a glass. "So you've experienced the full Scott Martin safety inspection."
Scott rolls his eyes, but there's no real annoyance behind it. "Someone has to think about these things."
"And you volunteer so selflessly," I tease, taking a sip of my ale. The flavor blooms across my tongue. Notes of pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg balanced by a pleasant bitterness. "This is delicious."
