Page 1 of The Grump I Got Stuck With

1

ALISTAIR

If I didn’t know any better, I’d think the whole bloody house was about to come crashing down on me. When I’d chosen this estate, I’d gone for privacy and security, but I really should have added Ice-Age-level storms to the threat assessment. Thankfully, these old Scottish estates were originally built as fortresses. Even the worst snowstorm was no match for these thick walls.

I drew the curtains across the window, trying to drown out the howling wind before I returned to my desk to fire off my last work email of the evening. My phone vibrated as soon as I sat down, and I snapped it up, pressing it to my ear. “All right?”

“Merry Christmas Eve,” Weston said. He was one of my oldest friends, and part of the reason I’d relocated to Braeburn.

“Is it merry?” I asked, my fingers drifting across my keyboard as I finished the list of tasks for my admin assistant. The internet signal flickered dubiously. Fan-fucking-tastic.

“Is that typing I hear? Don’t tell me you’re still working?” Weston said.

I stifled my reply with a huff. It might have been Christmas Eve, but there were some start-ups I was reviewing for potential angel investment, and I wanted to get the offers across the line before the new year.

“C’mon, mate, call it quits,” Weston said. “You’re supposed to be roasting by an open fire.”

“You’re thinking of chestnuts.”

“Well, it might start sounding tempting for you, too, if this storm gets any worse.” I could hear the grin in his voice. “Still glad you moved up here?”

I grunted. “Ask me that tomorrow when I try to get out of the bloody house.”

“Touché. Lena thinks we should park our Christmas plans until we can dig out. Maybe we have the family Christmas in a few days?”

Weston’s wife, Lena, grew up in Montana and knew her way around a snowstorm. Besides, she was about the most practical person I’d ever met. Whenever she advised something, I was always inclined to agree. I glanced up from my laptop as something echoed from the hall. Was that…barking?

I rose to my feet. “A few days sounds good,” I said to Weston. I heard another noise. “I should check on things. I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

“Sounds good. Be safe.”

Weston hung up, and I set off down the hall, following the odd yip toward the sitting room. Had I accidentally left the telly on when I brought Kenna upstairs to sleep? No. I paused in the darkened room, double-checking the windows, making sure they were secure. Maybe it was just the wind.

Bark. Bark. Bark.

I whirled around, heart thumping. Eyes narrowed.

That was no wind.

I strode down the hall and cut through the dining room toward the kitchen. There was a dog door left over from the previous owners, who’d had a large hunting breed, and I’d yet to close it off. Admittedly, when we’d first moved here, Kenna took great pleasure in using the smaller door, which she’d claimed was better for her size. So I’d left it alone…and was now regretting that decision. I heard another round of barks.

How the hell had a dog gotten to my place in this weather? The closest neighbor was over a mile away.

Things grew quiet, and for a beat, I thought I’d imagined it. Then, sure enough, there it was again—that infernal, high-pitched yipping. But that’s not what made me freeze in my tracks.

What made me freeze was the voice.

“Princess, get back here!”

I wasn’t just dealing with a lost animal—I was dealing with a human. Out here. In the middle of nowhere in the middle of a snowstorm. On Christmas Eve. This couldn’t be a coincidence. My thoughts immediately flashed to all the problems I’d endured in London—the paparazzi stalking me at every turn, wanting all the dirty little details that were none of their damn business.

I thought we were safe here from the constant harassment. Will it never bloody end?

I’d rather face a pack of ravaging hellhounds than another fucking journalist. They were worse than cockroaches. I knew they hadn’t hesitated to steal my post, go through my rubbish bins, harass my family and friends, and even bribe my staff to dig up more dirt on my ever-so-juicy scandal, but physically breaking into my house was a new low. If moving out to the edges of nowhere—and landing in the snowstorm of the century—wasn’t enough to keep them at bay, what the hell was? Not to mention, the woman had an American accent. Apparently, they were sending muckrakers all the way across the pond for this shit.

Bark! Bark!

“Calm down. I’m going as fast as I can!” The woman tutted. “Look at the state of me, crawling through a doggy door.” She groaned. “God, I should have done more yoga.”