The Holiday Grump (Hideaway Harbor #6)

Chapter 1

Noelle

The moment I stepped off the bus, I realized my brilliant plan had one fatal flaw. How could I skip Christmas in a town that was obsessed with it?

After a topsy-turvy ride over a mountain range, I’d landed in the middle of a shimmering tinsel dream.

Giant wreaths hung from every lamppost, and the cute houses lining Main Street were strung together with a canopy of lights.

Playful snowflakes drifted as if in slow motion, completing the storybook scene.

“It’s Christmas already?” I blinked at the twinkling lights.

“It’s late November, dear. At Hideaway Harbor, we start right after Halloween.” Ida, a gray-haired lady I’d met on the bus, beamed with pride as she negotiated the wobbly bus stairs.

I offered her a hand down to the icy sidewalk. Maybe it wasn’t that early, but fresh off a Mediterranean cruise, I felt like I’d slipped through a wormhole.

Ida smiled at my slack-jawed expression. “It’s that way to the harbor restaurants. Off you go. Get yourself some dinner and put some meat on those bones.” She pointed toward a slice of dark ocean peeking between the decorated buildings.

“Thank you! And thank you for the lesson. I promise to practice!”

She’d taught me to crochet on the bus trip, and I couldn’t wait to try my hand at the gorgeous flowers she produced with ease. Finally on dry land, with access to shops and an apartment of my own, I was itching to create. Yarn, fabric, beads. I wanted to try it all.

Ida patted her oversized tote, which I now knew was full of yarn. “The crochet club meets every Tuesday night at the Sip. Come along!”

“Sure thing.” I had no idea what the Sip was, but I’d find out.

I drew in a lungful of crisp winter air and adjusted the heavy backpack on my shoulders as I headed down the road.

Hideaway Harbor. Despite the over-the-top Christmas cheer, it still felt like a good place to lay low. A hard-to-reach coastal town with a name to match, where I didn’t know anyone and nobody knew me.

As I reached the harbor, icy wind pinched my cheeks, and I followed the noise to the nearest bar.

White lettering on the window welcomed me to The Shore Thing.

Was it some sort of hookup place? I sighed and pulled at the door.

I was too hungry to care. If this were the local meat market, I might as well present myself with unwashed hair and a layer of travel sweat under my coat.

Consider it a public service announcement that I wasn’t on the market.

A pop version of “White Christmas” met me at the door, along with the scent of pine and beer.

I took a deep breath, adjusting to my new reality.

Just a week ago, I’d been at the Port of Skala outside Santorini, watching retirees roast in lounge chairs and knock back ouzo.

Christmas hadn’t crossed my mind, especially since I’d planned to skip it this year.

It wasn’t an easy choice because I loved Christmas.

My whole family did. Mom watched holiday movies year-round and had named me Noelle and my sister Holly.

We used to joke about an imaginary brother named Rudolph.

My decision to stay on a cruise ship to work through the holidays had been a bitter pill for them to swallow.

Fate had other plans. The ship’s engine failed, leaving us stuck on home turf six weeks early.

I needed work, both for money and distraction, so I’d taken the only job offer available: selling Christmas decorations at a pop-up shop.

Which begged the question, was it even possible to skip Christmas while peddling fairy lights and plastic Santas?

Either way, I couldn’t go home, so this was it.

I stepped into the bar, ducking under a low-hanging garland.

A handful of older men nursed beers, eyes glued to the blond bartender.

The tables and booths were filled with younger people enjoying drinks, chowder and lobster rolls.

Apart from the seasonal touches, it felt like the ship again, noisy and boozy with vacation energy.

The interior had the charm of an English pub decorated with Maine fishing paraphernalia.

Lights with stained glass lampshades hung over weathered tables, and framed pictures, anchors and ship wheels crowded the walls.

By the window, an impressively tall potted cactus tried in vain to blend into the nautical theme.

I rushed to grab the one empty table by the cactus. The bartender appeared with a smile and a notepad. “What can I get you? We’ve got a two-for-one Black Friday deal on lobster rolls.”

That explained the crowd. I studied the menu and ordered a turkey sandwich. When she left, I checked my phone.

Grace: Everything okay? Call me!

Mom: How’s the Caribbean?

I sucked in a sharp breath, staring at the screen. I typed a quick reply to Grace, my Korean stewardess friend, but it bounced back within seconds.

No network connection.

That was just as well since I had no idea how to reply to Mom. She didn’t know I was back in Maine and only two hours away. If my parents found out, they’d drag me home. And Spencer would hear I was back.

He would find me.

I briefly considered asking Mom to keep my whereabouts a secret, but she’d have to tell Dad, the family blabbermouth.

Besides, everyone loved my ex-fiancé. Everyone, including me, thought I’d lost my mind.

Who left New England’s number-one bachelor at the altar?

He was wealthy, generous, and handsome. I was a college dropout who liked upcycling clothes.

Marrying Spencer Alford had made perfect sense to everyone. Running away to work on a cruise ship barely made sense to me. I’d been trying to come up with an acceptable explanation for a full year, and I still had nothing. Which is why I kept my updates short, sweet, and future-focused.

How could I tell my loving, devoted parents that I didn’t want financial security and happiness as Spencer’s wife?

That I didn’t want the huge house in Bangor and the summer place on Martha’s Vineyard, where my whole family would always be welcome?

I’d torn up their dream, wasted every penny they’d sunk into deposits in a desperate attempt to match the Alfords’ wedding budget.

Of course, I’d also wasted an obscene amount of Alford money, but I cared less about that than about my parents’ meager savings.

No. I couldn’t let Mom know I was this close to home.

But I had to send her a picture, something convincing.

My gaze landed on the cactus, and it gave me an idea.

If I framed myself against it with a tropical-looking cocktail, maybe it could pass for Port Canaveral, the first stop on my canceled Caribbean cruise.

Just another terrible holiday shot by a terrible photographer, which everyone knew I was.

I hurried to the bar. “Hey, can I order one more drink? Anything tropical looking, maybe with a straw.”

“O…kay. Alcoholic? Any flavor preference?”

“Any juice, really, with lots of ice. It’s a photo prop.”

She gave me a slow nod, eyebrows raised. “I’ll whip up something.”

I returned to my table and undressed until I was slightly shivering in my T-shirt. I rubbed my arms, but the goose bumps remained, teased by the cold air leaking in through the windows. I put my jacket back on, trying to think of a solution. Burpees!

The other bar-goers didn’t seem to be paying any attention, so I cleared enough room between the chairs and dropped onto the floor. Push-up, jump, push-up.

By the time the server arrived with my orange drink and a little umbrella, I was sweaty and out of breath.

“Just warming up for the pic,” I explained, scrambling to my feet. “That looks perfect.”

“Good thing I mopped yesterday.” She shook her head, laughing.

I posed with the drink and the cactus, snapping a smiling selfie. It looked good, except for the frost on the windows, which screamed “Maine,” not “Florida.”

I edged closer to the cactus to crop out the background. That was when I noticed the thick layer of dust on it. Would a cactus in Port Canaveral look like that? Maybe, but I had a feeling Mom would comment on it. Sighing, I dug a makeup brush from my bag and got to work.

Yes, I was dusting off a cactus in public.

Once it looked a little shinier, I tried again. Perfect.

I restarted my phone, but connection error popped up again. My eyes drifted around the bar, and I noticed something strange. Nobody else was on their phones. Not one. There were no glowing screens or scrolling thumbs. Everyone was talking and laughing over the music.

This was what life must have looked like before the internet. Conversation. Happy smiles.

And… a scowl.

I turned and found myself caught in a stare.

Deeply confused and borderline judgmental.

The unsettling pair of eyes belonged to a beautiful man with the wildest hair I’d ever seen, like a tuft of grass that had never seen a lawnmower.

His sculpted jaw was covered in a stubble so long it was almost a beard.

He wore an old-fashioned tweed coat over a flannel shirt so crumpled I wondered if he’d hung it after washing.

It made him look both outdated and neglected, like he’d been cast in a period drama, but the wardrobe department hated him.

He had a bottle of beer in front of him and a leather-bound book in his hands.

What was it? A dictionary? A Bible? Who read that kind of book in a bar by himself?

He turned back to it, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe his eyes. Had he been watching me? Judging me? When someone did something silly, people usually laughed. At least people who were out in a bar, drinking alcohol. What was this guy’s problem?

My curiosity kicked in like a drug. I’d always been fascinated by anything a little different.

Spencer had told me I needed to reel it in.

It was fine to be sociable, but I wasn’t supposed to bombard people with invasive questions.

His mother had trained me for weeks, the way I imagined someone training a commoner who was about to marry into royalty.

She’d said I had the makings of a wonderful conversationalist, if only I learned proper decorum.

Decorum, schmorcorum.

Spence was not here, and neither was his mom. If I wanted to find out what this stranger’s deal was, I would do exactly that.