The Night Before Grumpmas (Happily Ever Mishaps #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Noelle

People love to romanticize starting over. Like it’s some kind of grand adventure where you find yourself, have deep epiphanies, and maybe meet a mysterious, dark-eyed stranger in a coffee shop. Cue the montage.

But what they don’t tell you about is the panic. That gut-twisting, heart-thudding “what the hell am I doing?” kind of fear. The kind that doesn’t feel adventurous at all—it feels like you’ve just eaten a questionable burrito and now you’re waiting to see if it was a bad decision or a really bad decision.

Yeah, no one talks about that part.

Right now, that fear is sitting low in my stomach, heavy and uncomfortable, like a bad meal that I’m still trying to digest. It makes me wonder if this was a huge mistake, if I’m about to screw up everything in spectacular fashion.

Sure, starting over sounds liberating in theory. A fresh start. A blank slate. But in reality? It’s more like stepping off a cliff and hoping there’s a trampoline at the bottom. And honestly, I’m not even sure I’m the trampoline type. I’m more of the “fall flat on your face and pray no one saw” type.

When I decided to move to New York City, I thought starting over meant wiping the slate clean. New beginnings, right?

New me, new life, and everything that comes with the switch. But now that I’m actually here, staring at my new reality, it’s clear the slate isn’t clean at all. It’s a mess—full of smudges, cracks, and boxes labeled “misc.” in my panicked handwriting. And let’s be real, I’m way more terrified of what’s inside those boxes than I am about the life I was so eager to leave behind.

Ugh. Did I seriously leave Maple Ridge thinking everything would magically be better? Different? It’s like I tricked myself into believing the move would be the equivalent of a life makeover, complete with montages and upbeat music. Spoiler: there’s no upbeat music. Just the hum of the city and occasional honking that makes me jump every time.

Honestly, there are moments when adults should not be allowed to make their own decisions—especially under stress. Like in my case. Someone should’ve stopped me. Anyone could’ve stepped in—Mom, Dad, the postman, someone should’ve said, “Noelle, just stay. Ignore the gossip, put on a brave face, and keep going.” But nope. They let me shove all my boxes into a moving truck and drive it to Manhattan like it was the most rational thing in the world.

This is how instead of cozying up in a little cottage near Maple Ridge’s town square, I’m here, at my grandma’s rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan, carrying boxes that contain the entirety of my life and probably some trash I wasn’t sure I should throw away and ended up bringing with me.

Val, my sister, might have been right. I should’ve listened to her. She practically begged me not to do this. She even offered to help me move to California with her. But no, I refused—it’s way too far from home. I like it here. It’s the perfect distance from my former small-town life: far enough to avoid the constant stream of gossip, but still close enough that I can drive back and check on Mom and Dad if I really have to. Not that I plan on doing that anytime soon.

I yank the last box from the moving truck, balancing it on my hip as I trudge up the stairs to Grandma’s apartment. By the time I reach the door, sweat is trickling down my back, my arms burning, but I drop the box onto the floor with a satisfying thud. I swipe my forehead with the back of my hand, already feeling sticky and gross.

Okay, maybe this wasn’t my best idea ever. But at least the apartment smells like lavender and old books. It smells like her—like Grandma Holly.

I close my eyes for a second and can almost picture her, settled in her favorite armchair, knitting something absurdly colorful, probably for someone she met once in line at the grocery store. Her laugh would fill the entire room—warm, contagious—making this cramped little space feel like home.

Grandma Holly has always been that way. Filling spaces, hearts, and stomachs with love. She’s a force of nature. Even now, she’s sunning herself in Arizona, fully retired but still calling me every week to check in. “Honey, that cousin of yours and that two-timing, lowdown jackass of an ex-fiancé are behind you, leave them in the past. You dodged a bullet, you should enjoy the life you deserve without them in it,” she’d remind me.

She means well, but no matter how many times she says it, her words don’t quite erase the sting of Chad’s betrayal—or the endless gossip swirling around Maple Ridge.

Now it’s just me. Alone. With a mountain of cardboard boxes.

“Welcome to the big city, Noelle,” I mutter, brushing my hands off on my jeans and scanning the room.

It’s not bad, honestly. A rent-controlled apartment in New York is practically a lottery win. Subleasing Grandma Holly’s place was a no-brainer. Everything had seemed to align—the job offer at the nonprofit, Grandma needing extra cash to enjoy retirement. It all aligned. She’s the one who convinced me to do this. “You need a fresh start, and I need someone to keep the place warm while I’m off in the desert.”

Plus, this place isn’t just stuffed with Grandma Holly’s old things—it’s got her spirit, too. The peeling wallpaper, the ancient cabinets, the couch that looks like it’s been here since the seventies. It’s like she’s still here, tucked into every corner. That’s the only thing keeping me from freaking out right now.

Now it’s just me, my thoughts, and the overwhelming task of unpacking a life I’m not sure how I’m going to start. Still, it’s mine for now, and I’ve got to make it work.

I try not to let the memory creep in, but it does anyway, slithering up like a snake I can’t shake off. Maple Ridge—the picturesque little New England town where I grew up—was the kind of place where everyone knew everyone, and life was predictable. Peaceful, even. That is, until I caught my cousin Eleanor, who was at my cheating ex-fiancé’s house, naked and riding him reverse cowgirl.

Yeah, that part wasn’t so peaceful.

I grab a box labeled kitchen and start unpacking—anything to distract me from the bitter taste that rises every time I think about them. Leaving Maple Ridge wasn’t just a choice—it was survival. You can’t throw a rock there without hitting someone who knows all your business. And between the pitying looks from the neighbors and the awkward run-ins with Chad and Eleanor every Sunday at church, I had to get out. Fast.

New York is . . . different. There’s no familiar scent of pine in the air, no winding dirt roads lined with trees. Everything here is loud, big, and fast-paced. It seems like I’ve traded porch swings and quiet evenings for the screech of subway cars. Honestly, I’m still not sure if that’s an upgrade or a punishment.

“Okay, let’s get organized,” I mutter to myself, opening the box and pulling out a stack of plates. I place them carefully into Grandma’s ancient cabinets, half expecting the shelves to crumble under the weight of anything newer than the 1970s.

This place hasn’t seen an update since—well, probably since Grandma moved in decades ago—but it’s got charm. Sort of. The green linoleum countertops scream retro, and the floral wallpaper is peeling at the seams, but there’s something oddly comforting about it. Like the city can’t quite reach this little pocket of time that’s been frozen for years.

I’m halfway through unpacking when my phone buzzes on the counter, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s a text from Mom.

How’s the city treating you? Already found yourself a cute NYC man? (smile emoji)

I roll my eyes and type back quickly.

Mom, I’ve been here one day. Give me at least a week before I find my future husband. (eye-roll emoji)

You can’t take Maple Ridge out of Mom. She’s as tied to that town as the roots under its soil. Dad tried hard to convince her to stay in New York after they got married, but it was a losing battle. She’s a small-town girl through and through. Not that I’m complaining—I loved growing up there.

Her next text comes in almost immediately.

Fair enough. Don’t forget to call Grandma Jane. She worries about you.

I smile, despite myself. Unlike Grandma Holly, who’s probably sipping margaritas in Arizona without a care in the world, her mom, Grandma Jane, always worries. If she could, she’d knit me a scarf made entirely of concern and wrap me in it every day. Actually, scratch that—she’d knit an entire sweater.

Still smiling, I think back to college, when Grandma Jane’s idea of “keeping tabs” involved sending care packages stuffed with hand-knit socks and recipes for her famous pot roast—not that I could actually cook it. Now that I’m living in the city full-time, I’m sure she’s already plotting her next delivery. Honestly, it’s comforting knowing that even though I’ve left Maple Ridge, I’ve still got my family cheering me on one overly concerned text message at a time.

I set my phone down and glance around at the sea of boxes. Slowly but surely, the place is starting to feel like mine, even if most of it is still full with Grandma’s things. But that’s not a bad thing. Her love for kitschy knick-knacks and holiday decorations is legendary. I think she had four full bins of Christmas decorations just under the bed. I smile at the thought. I might not have much space here, but at least there’ll be room for my own seasonal touches.

Speaking of which . . . if I’m going to settle in properly, I might as well start with something festive. It’s early September, which means it’s time to officially begin prepping for fall. Not too early for a few pumpkins and maybe some cinnamon-scented candles, right? Just a light touch to ease into the season. Besides, if there’s one thing I love more than a fresh start, it’s a good seasonal celebration.

I practically bounce down the stairs and out onto the street, merging into the buzz of the city. The sidewalks are alive with people hustling in every direction, and for a second, I almost miss the quiet of Maple Ridge. But the nostalgia fades as I pass a shop window with a peek of fall décor—rust-colored wreaths, faux pumpkins, and a scarecrow among some Halloween decorations.

For a moment I wonder if I should just go all out and start with Halloween right now, but I abstain from doing so. I’ll wait until October first for that. We don’t want any premature decorations hanging around Grandma’s place.

“Perfect,” I mumble, stepping inside. The scent of cinnamon and clove hits me immediately, wrapping around me like a cozy sweater. This is exactly what I needed—a little slice of home in the middle of all this big-city energy. I grab a couple of mini pumpkins, a wreath for the door, and a candle that smells like freshly baked apple pie. Maybe it’s a touch early for some, but for me? The holidays start the minute the calendar flips to September.

Armed with my bag of goodies, I head back to the apartment, feeling lighter already. New York might be massive and intimidating, but I can bring a little piece of home with me by decorating my new space. And when fall rolls into winter? Oh, this place is going to be a Christmas wonderland. I live for it. I mean, how could I not? My name is literally Noelle Holiday and I’m Holly Faith Holiday’s granddaughter.

Back in the apartment, I waste no time setting things up. A pumpkin on the windowsill, a wreath on the door, the apple pie candle burning on the counter. It’s like I’m breathing life into the space, making it feel warm and familiar. By the time the sweet scent fills the air, the whole place feels different. Cozy, just how I like it.

I take a deep breath, soaking in the apple pie aroma, and smile. Tomorrow, I start my new job at the nonprofit. It’s going to be a lot—adjusting to the city, figuring out the subway without getting hopelessly lost, meeting new people—but at least I’ll come home to this little slice of holiday heaven.

Feeling festive, I grab my phone and scroll through my playlists. I settle on my Autumn Vibes mix—acoustic guitars, soft piano, and the occasional sound of rustling leaves—perfect to complement the apple pie fragrance now filling the room.

As a folksy version of “Harvest Moon” starts playing, I sway along with the music, admiring my handiwork. The warm orange glow from the candle flickers off the walls, and for a moment, I feel that familiar excitement that always comes with fall.

Until—bang, bang, bang—someone pounds on the wall so hard it almost knocks the pumpkins off the counter.

“Seriously what’s going on?” I mutter, pausing the music. Before I can fully process what’s happening, a deep voice rumbles through the wall. The kind of voice that could make reading a tax form sound sexy—if it weren’t dripping with irritation.

“Your music’s too loud. Could you cut it out? And what is that smell? Not everyone wants to live inside an apple pie or a pumpkin spice commercial.”

I blink. Did I just get scolded for playing acoustic music and lighting a candle?

“Wanna say that to my face?”

Indignation bubbles up inside me as I storm to the door, yank it open, and march into the hallway. And there he is—the source of all this grumpiness. Tall, mid-thirties maybe, with dark brown hair that looks like he’s just rolled out of bed. His eyes are so dark they practically swallow the light, and even though he’s clearly very annoyed, I can’t ignore that he’s ridiculously handsome—in that brooding, I’m-too-stuck-up-to-enjoy-life sort of way.

“What’s your problem, buddy?” I cross my arms and raise an eyebrow. “The noise ordinance doesn’t kick in until ten. It’s only four. You do know how to tell time, right?”

He narrows his eyes, arms crossed, clearly not here for pleasantries. “I’m just trying to relax while someone blasts music like it’s a Halloween rave. And don’t even get me started on that smell. It’s like being punched in the face by cinnamon and whatever other fruity crap you’ve got burning in there.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing. A Halloween rave? With acoustic music? This guy is too much.

“Really?” I say, trying to hold back a grin. “A rave? Aren’t we a little dramatic?”

His lips twitch, like he’s fighting the urge to smile, but he’s far too committed to his grumpiness to let it happen. “Look, all I’m saying is—could you just . . . not? It’s been a long day, and I’m about to jump on a call. I’m not in the mood for . . .” He waves a hand toward my apartment. “. . . whatever that is.”

“Well, that is my fall vibe,” I reply, keeping my tone playful. “And it’s not that loud, maybe invest in some earplugs. If you’re allergic to pumpkin spice season, cook something bitter if the cinnamon’s too much for you.”

His expression softens slightly, but he’s still clinging to his irritation like it’s his life’s mission. “Earplugs, huh?”

I nod, stifling another laugh. “Yep. Earplugs. You should try them. They work wonders, especially if you’re allergic to joy.”

His brow arches, the corners of his mouth twitching for a brief second before he catches himself. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thanks for the unsolicited advice, Ms. . . .?” His eyes narrow, suspicious. “Who are you again? I didn’t know that Mrs. Holiday moved out.”

“Grandma didn’t move out,” I say, trying not to panic. The fact that subleasing the rent-controlled apartment is technically illegal makes the release of information very tricky. So, he doesn’t need to know that I’m here on a permanent basis.

“I’m Noelle. Noelle Joy Holiday.” I give him a half-smile that says Yeah, I know. “Believe me, I didn’t name myself. Blame my parents—they thought it was festive or clever. I just call it a lifetime sentence of Christmas jokes.”

I shift awkwardly, hoping my confession will defuse whatever this is. “Anyway, I’m just apartment-sitting while Grandma basks in Arizona’s winter sunshine, which I guess she prefers over snow shovels.”

He raises a brow, still suspicious. “Winter doesn’t even start until December.”

I shrug. “Look, the woman left at the first leaf drop. That counts.”

His frown deepens. “You might want to tell her it’s illegal to sublease a rent-controlled apartment.”

I wince again. “Oh, I’m not subleasing—promise. Just playing delivery mule with a million boxes because, apparently, she couldn’t not order half of QVC.”

“Speaking of boxes,” he continues with what feels now like an interrogation, “were you the one moving all those boxes up the stairs?”

“Yeah and maybe you could’ve offered some help.” I give him an appalled look.

“Why would you be moving stuff if you’re just house sitting.” He draws air quotes.

“Well, I’m here for a couple of months. I had to bring my clothes, some books . . . I’m not a total animal, Mr. Grump Next Door.”

“Jacob. The name is Jacob McCallister,” he says, a bit less grumpy now. “And if you’re wondering, I’m more of a ‘Bah Humbug’ type.”

“Clearly.” I let my grin break free. “Well, Jacob. Jacob McCallister, you’d better get used to festivities and all holidays. You’ve got a neighbor who celebrates all the holidays—fall, Halloween, Christmas . . . the works. I go all out.”

He groans, dragging a hand over his face like he’s mentally preparing for a long, holiday-filled battle. “Of course you do. But don’t get too comfortable—I’ll make sure you find moderation, or the board will hear from me.”

“Or maybe,” I counter with a smirk, “you’ll learn to appreciate them. Who knows, I might even convert you into a holiday lover.”

He snorts, shaking his head. “Highly doubtful. But thanks for the warning. I’ll start stockpiling earplugs now.”

I shrug, giving him a cheeky smile. “Good luck. You’ll need them when December hits.”

His lips twitch, the grumpy mask slipping just a little. “Can’t wait.” As he turns back to his door, he throws over his shoulder, “I’ll make sure that by December, there are new building rules, and your ‘festivities’ are reduced to one tiny Hallmark card on the coffee table.”

“Or . . . you’ll be the one singing carols before Christmas Eve,” I fire back, grinning.

His jaw tightens, and I can practically see the irritation flare in his eyes. “Not happening. Ever.”

I watch him retreat into his apartment, feeling oddly victorious. Sure, my neighbor’s a total grump, but at least he’s kind of cute. And honestly? His reaction to my fall decorations just makes me even more determined.

If he thinks a couple of pumpkins and cinnamon candles were bad, wait until he sees what I have planned for Halloween. This place is going to be a full-blown haunted house. And don’t even get me started on Christmas.

This is going to be so much fun.