Page 10 of Grump Hard
I will die alone, and pass the empire on to my brothers’ and sister’s children, assuming they have them. So far, all the Ratcliffes of this generation seem to be suffering from the same curse as my father and his father before him.
On the rare occasions when we find love, it never lasts.
My grandfather’s beloved wife died in a tragic car accident when my father was still a child, hit by a drunk driver on her way to Manchester to pick up the cake for his eighth birthday. Grandfather grieved her for the rest of his life and never remarried. My father grieved, too, I think. In his way. But instead of loyalty to love, the early loss of the most important woman in his world taught him that it was dangerous to give your heart away.
He’s spent his entire life chasing the wrong women and pushing away the right ones, and will likely die in the midst of another doomed love affair.
Even now, he’s somewhere in Thailand, trying to talk his latest mistake into moving back to the United States with him.
I close my eyes and press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, where my headache is doing its best to bloom into a migraine, suddenly certain I can’t agree to Holly’s bargain.
I can’t spend that much time exposed with one of the tragically naïve without losing my patience and saying something I’ll truly regret. I was grumpy tonight, yes, but I can be worse.
Much worse…
It’s best for both of us if we find another way to settle this.
I’ll send her a blank check, tell her to hire as much help as she needs, and be done with it.
At the mansion, I make my excuses to avoid “sugar rush decorating” with my siblings, and retreat to my bedroom to nurse my headache.
And my regrets.
Of which there are many…
The next morning, I wake feeling like something died in my mouth and then sent its ghost to punish me, and I instantly swear off eggnog for the rest of the season. Sunlight streams through the gaps in the curtains with aggressive cheerfulness that reminds me of a certain someone, and despite the ibuprofen I took last night, my head is pounding.
Downstairs, I can hear my siblings laughing.
Loudly.
Too loudly for it to be anything resembling a reasonable hour.
I check my phone: 10:47 a.m.
Christ…
I also have three texts from Elliot:
Are you alive?
Do you want me to send Heidi up with a glass of my handy-dandy hangover cure? I’m telling you—tomato juice, potato chips, and a hint of pickle juice, blended into a frothy cocktail—heals all wounds. My frat brothers are still after me to share the recipe.
Ashton also made cinnamon rolls and coffee when you’re up for joining the land of the living.
I drop the phone on the nightstand and stare at the ceiling, replaying just how much of an ass I made of myself last night.
The peg leg. The lies. The blackmail.
Holly Jo’s face when I pretended to have forgotten all about her…
My stomach twists, and it’s not just the hangover.
I should text her now. Tell her I’ll hire help to meet her holiday needs. Or hell, tell her to go ahead and release the footage, if she feels so obliged. I’ve weathered worse scandals than “Drunk Billionaire Attempts Theft of Historical Peg Leg.” My lawyers can manage local law enforcement and any potential fallout in the press.
Except…
Except I can already hear Elliot demanding, ”You tried to steal the captain’s leg? Really? What the hell, Luke? What’s going on with you? You’re not yourself. I knew I shouldn’t have left you alone.”
