Page 11 of Grump Hard
And Bran: ”This is pretty Scrooge McBuzzKill, brother, even for you. Where’s the holiday spirit?”
And worse than both of them combined, Ashton, whose big, disappointed puppy dog eyes will silently ask how I could have ruined our first family Christmas in years and the Ratcliffe reputation in Silver Bell Falls in one fell swoop.
The house phone rings downstairs. I hear Ashton answer, her voice bright and excited as she catches up with yet another long-lost local friend. More laughter follows, and then Bran’s voice joins in, saying something I can’t quite make out.
They’re happy. Thriving.
Having the Christmas our grandfather wanted us to have.
And I’m the asshole who’s going to ruin it because I couldn’t keep my drunk vendetta against a dumb, dildo tree topper under lock and key.
If Holly releases that footage, the entire Ratcliffe family will take a hit for making a mockery of the town and its traditions, and our grandfather’s name will be forever attached to his oldest grandson’s ridiculous crime spree. That’s the way things work in rural Vermont. The people around here are slow to accept outsiders and even slower to forgive their mistakes.
I’ve spent most of my adult life protecting my siblings from Dad’s messes; I’ll be damned if I’m going to be the one who picks up where our feckless father left off.
With a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, I snatch my phone from the nightstand again.
I scroll to the new entry I apparently typed into my contacts sometime last night—Holly Jo Hadley: Diabolical. Possibly Dangerous. (Too Cute for her Own Good. Or Your Good.)
I can’t remember exactly how I was feeling when I typed those words, but I have a sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t joking. At least, not entirely.
I hover my thumb over the screen, the dueling sides of myself locked in silent battle.
This is insane. I run a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate. I negotiate with world leaders and corporate sharks. I do not get pushed around by small-town pet photographers with a penchant for extortion.
Another burst of laughter from downstairs.
I steady my hands.
Take a breath.
And type: I’m in.
Before I can think better of it, I hit send and toss my phone onto the mattress beside me, refusing to admit that a part of me is the slightest bit…excited about this development.
“Don’t be a fool,” I mutter, dragging my suffering mortal coil from bed.
This is damage control. Nothing more. I’m protecting my family. That’s all.
I’m absolutely not curious about what Holly Jo Hadley has planned for me.
Not even a little bit.
Four
Holly
Just twenty minutes south of Silver Bell Falls, Reindeer Corners is our fancier, even more festive-obsessed cousin.
Kind of like if a Hallmark Christmas movie and The White Lotus had a baby who really loved artisanal hot cocoa…
The moment I step inside the Reindeer Corners Inn, I’m enveloped in the most perfect holiday scent imaginable—a rich blend of fresh-cut pine, warm gingerbread from the kitchen, and spiced cider simmering in the breakfast room.
The inn’s lobby is peak Vermont Christmas fantasy with exposed timber beams that date back to when Captain Herbert still hobbled around these woods, a massive stone fireplace, and enough twinkling lights to guide Santa’s sleigh from three states away.
It’s the kind of place that makes you believe in Christmas magic.
Every time I walk in, I fall in love all over again.
