The Grump Next Door (The Dom Next Door #2)

Chapter 1

one

AMANDA

My suitcase lay on the bed like a gaping mouth.

Clothes spilt from its sides, an assortment of colours and fabrics, as I attempted to plan my days ahead.

Taking the Christmas event booking had been a hot debate amongst my extended family, but the wealthy clients paid very well, and dealing with their nonsense had to be better than dealing with my family’s.

‘You’re actually going then?’ Megan asked from the doorway.

She wore one of my hoodies, having stolen it like the feral little raccoon she was.

Ever since she’d moved to Edinburgh and taken up residence in my spare room, my wardrobe had morphed into an unofficial charity shop for her.

‘You’re really working through Christmas? ’

‘Can you blame me? It’s not like Mum and Dad aim for a Christmas movie-style celebration. Or celebrations,’ I said, rolling a black jumper up and sliding it next to the other perfect fabric rolls in my case.

‘Mum’s going to be so mad.’ Megan strode in and perched on the dressing table stool, sloshing some coffee onto her joggers as she sat. ‘And Dad will do that thing where he pretends not to care, but blame Mum for it until we beg him to change the subject.’

‘Maybe they’ll learn to stop pulling us at both ends like we’re Christmas crackers between petulant children.

It’s been years. I’m done being the puppet in between their arguments.

’ I placed a sweater dress beside the jumper, another neat little soldier lined up amongst the rest. Clothes that cost far more than I enjoyed spending, but that screamed I belonged amongst my clients.

Even if I didn’t, really.

But half of the job was wrangling millionaires into believing that their money really does buy happiness, and the other half was looking like I deserved my rather hefty paycheque.

My Edinburgh flat tried its best to look festive despite my complete lack of decor. I’d spent enough Christmases believing in the magic and spirit of the season only to be surrounded by anger and resentment, before my parents’ divorce, and after it.

I couldn’t be more done with the whole bloody thing.

But my lack of festive cheer was thwarted the moment you stepped into the external hall. The building’s committee strapped twinkly lights just about anywhere they could be affixed, and a matching wreath on every single door. The corridor looked like a party of elves had vomited all over the place.

And against Megan’s best attempts to sneak in sparkly stuff whenever I went out, I kept the inside clinical. Candles. A plant that always looked a little worse for wear due to my stints away working, and Megan’s lack of watering capabilities.

Megan lifted her eyebrows at me.

‘But you are doing Christmas, just not with me,’ she pouted, as had swooped in like the Grinch and swept her celebration into a sack.

‘I’m coordinating it, not having fun without you, I promise. It’s going to be long days arguing with suppliers and cleaning up messes, all while slapping a smile on my face,’ I corrected, sliding my shoes into protective bags.

Megan snorted. ‘Sounds like being back home.’

‘But without the emotions. Other people’s messy lives are much easier to deal with than mine.’

‘You hate Christmas, how on earth can you be in charge of someone else’s festive cheer?’ She rifled through the bottles of perfume on my dressing table before spraying her wrist with one of them.

‘I do.’ I pulled on a boot. ‘And it’s much easier to deal with when it pays for several months’ rent. Isn’t that growth?’

‘Bayview Manor.’ Megan tasted the words, like they were slightly sour. ‘Otterleigh Bay. Ten days. Millionaire family. Do they know you’re a Scrooge in heels?’

‘They know I’m an event planner who can conjure ice rinks out of car parks and reindeer out of thin air.

’ I pointed at my laptop, which sat open and bursting with spreadsheets and digital notes.

‘They demanded “authentic Scottish festive magic.” And sent a mood board with a stag in a scarf. A scarf, Megan. I’m saving them from themselves. ’

She buried a smile in her mug. ‘No, you’re hiding.’

‘There it is.’

Megan forever came in the guise of help or support, but would use that soft voice of hers to chide me into relenting. Not this time. Backing out wasn’t an option, even if I wanted to.

‘You can’t seriously want to spend Christmas alone,’ she tried again. ‘What about Mum and Dad? What about me?’

‘Skipping the annual tour of emotional baggage?’ I asked, counting socks. ‘Stop at Dad’s for eggnog that’s eighty per cent whisky while he complains about Mum and Graham—’

‘He’s not that bad.’

‘I know his drunken monologue word for word, and so do you. Then we leg it to Mum’s, where she cries into her gin about not having grandkids, and Graham has a meltdown about the roast potatoes.’

‘He didn’t meltdown—’

‘He threatened to deep-fry the turkey.’

She winced. ‘Fine. But it’s just what people do. You deal with your family quirks.’

‘Not anymore, it was work or the Maldives. You could come with me?’

Megan sighed and set her mug on the table top. ‘You can’t keep hiding from them forever.’

‘Watch me. I can, and I will. And I’ll be bloody well paid to do so.’

The money was obscene. They’d wired the deposit as if it were as insignificant as a fiver.

Ten days of a quaint family stay at a manor house overlooking the sea.

Private chef. Staff. Presents pre-wrapped according to my spreadsheet.

I’d arranged a brass quartet because the brief said carols, but I doubted the local village had much more than a group of grannies with loft intentions about their talent.

The hot chocolate wouldn’t be powdered and dumped in a mug before being topped up by the kettle.

I’d instructed the gardeners to source fresh mistletoe to artfully drape in photogenic doorways.

‘I cannot believe you won’t be home on Christmas Day,’ Megan said, acting as if I’d said I was moving to Mars. ‘Can’t you do one day? Come for lunch at Dad’s? We can time Mum’s so we get her before the gin. You can nap in the car between houses. I’ll drive. I’ll bring snacks.’

‘Tempting.’ I folded another jumper. ‘But no.’

‘Amanda.’

I didn’t look up.

‘Megan. I’m not going to back down. Everything is arranged.

I’m going to go and give my clients the kind of Christmas most people could only dream of.

Then I’m going to invoice them until they cry festive tears.

And then, in January, when everyone else is touting for work to see them through the month, I’ll book a holiday somewhere with sun and no tinsel. That’s my Christmas.’

‘So you’re replacing our family with strangers.’

‘I’m replacing emotional warfare with controlled chaos. There’s a difference.’

‘They’re millionaires,’ she said, as if the word itself should rearrange my mind. ‘Remember the wedding in Monaco? You came with that twitch.’

‘That twitch paid for my deposit on this place, and the nice knives.’

Her eyes softened.

‘Is this about…’ she gestured vaguely.

My muscles seized. ‘It’s about work.’

‘Mmm.’

Megan dug her toes under my rug and watched me stuff my life into zippable compartments.

‘Tell me about them,’ she said, accepting that I wasn’t going to back down. ‘This family. The clients.’

‘Australian old money married new. He made something with an app.’

‘Of course.’

‘She runs a foundation. Then there’s the grandmother who moved to Australia as a kid when her parents emigrated.

She was brought up on a rural Scottish estate, and it’s her urging that has them back here to celebrate Christmas.

Three adult children with surnames for first names and careers that I don’t fully understand.

A heap of grandchildren. And there’s a donkey. ’

‘A donkey.’ Megan brightened. ‘Well, at least someone will be there to smooch you.’

‘I’m not kissing a client’s donkey.’

‘You’re so lame.’

‘I never said I wasn’t.’

‘Mum is going to ask where you are,’ Megan said. ‘Graham will offer to pick you up in the Volvo like we’re ten. And you won’t be here.’

‘Correct.’

‘And I’ll have to say, Amanda had abandoned us for another family’s Christmas, and she’ll give a sad smile and say she’s happy for you, and then she’ll pour an extra-large gin. And you know what gin brings.’

‘Tears.’

Megan pressed her fingers against the edge of the table. ‘You can’t hide forever.’

‘Forever is a stretch,’ I said. ‘I’m hiding for ten days. And I’ve already told Mum and Dad.’

‘Christmas isn’t that bad…’

‘It’s loud and fake, and people expect things from you,’ I said.

‘It thrusts you under mistletoe with men who can’t take no for an answer.

It drags out all my failings as the family probes me about why I haven’t found another boyfriend yet.

It makes Mum look at me like she’s waiting for me to announce a miraculous conception, while I’ve only brought a bloody cheese board. ’

Megan scrunched her nose. ‘We love you, though.’

‘I know. I love you all too. Just can’t handle another Christmas in a misery sandwich.’

She reached for the little stack of gift tags on my dresser.

‘Are these for them?’ The tags were beautiful: thick cream card, hand-pressed lettering, my logo, a tiny golden monogram on the back—pale gold ribbon. No glitter.

‘For place settings and presents. Gifts are purchased, wrapped, and weighted so they look generous but fit in cases to travel home. There’s a Santa sack with their initials embroidered on it.

The thing cost more than my first car. I’ve got the menus finalised and the alcohol signed off on.

The tree is arriving with its own team, decorated in the soft golds and glassware that’s in this season.

We even have a full sleigh and a team of reindeer stopping by with a Santa who’s flown in from Norway for the day. ’

‘A sleigh.’

‘A real one. For photos.’

Megan grinned. ‘You’re going to hate how beautiful it is there.’

‘Unlikely.’

‘You are.’ She flopped onto my bed and punched my spare pillow before stuffing it under her cheek.

‘You’ll get out the car and pretend not to notice the shimmer of the sea or the quaint little houses.

Just hide behind your clipboard like an emotionless robot.

You’ll scowl at it all and then secretly fancy living there in about four days. ’

I allowed myself half a smile. ‘If I get any notions, I’ll call you.’

We did the checklist dance. Passport, I always bring it; rich people can pivot destinations like they’re ordering pudding.

Charger. Chargers for the chargers. Contract file.

Site maps. The emergency bag with needles, paracetamol, plasters, stain remover, safety pins, and my little black book of sources.

The people who can get just about anything at the drop of a hat. For the right price, of course.

‘Do you get a day off?’ Megan asked, reading my schedule upside-down. ‘At all?’

‘I get hours that are less insane than others.’

‘When will you call me?’

‘Every time I can.’

She came around the bed and hugged me, which I endured like a belligerent cat. ‘I know you’re doing what you need to, but you don’t have to do it alone.’

‘I’m literally taking a team.’

She squeezed, eyes shiny. ‘Text me when you get there?’

‘If I have signal.’

‘If you don’t, I’ll assume a kelpie ate you and tell Mum you died doing what you loved, bossing people around.’

‘I don’t enjoy bossing people around.’ I just happened to be good at it. If anything, it was exhausting.

‘ I hope Bayview Manor is haunted by a friendly ghost who teaches you the true meaning of Christmas.’ Megan said as we battled my suitcase onto the floor.

‘If I’m going to get haunted, it better at least be a hot ghost.’