: The Grump’s Holiday Guest

The storm was a beast, and it was hungry. I was in the workshop, trying to finish the trim on Lily’s dollhouse, but the wind was rattling the windows so hard I thought the glass might actually give up. Then, through the white-out, I saw it: a flash of red. Not a bird, not a light. A car. A car that had no business being on my road. "Goddammit," I muttered, dropping my chisel. "Daddy? Is someone outside?" Lily asked from the door, clutching her stuffed rabbit. "Just another tourist who thinks they’re in a car commercial, Lil. Stay here. Don't touch the heater." I geared up—canvas coat, heavy boots, the works. The second I stepped outside, the cold slapped me across the face. I hiked down to the ditch and there it was: a shiny, expensive SUV tilted like the Titanic. I yanked the door open. The girl inside looked like she’d been plucked straight out of a posh NYC coffee shop. Huge eyes, perfect hair (well, it was messy now), and she was clutching a leather bag like it was a holy relic. She was literally shaking. "Out," I barked. I didn't have time for a "meet-cute." It was negative ten degrees and dropping. "My bag—I have a laptop and—" "Leave it," I said. She started babbling about some "travel firm" or whatever, but I wasn't listening. I grabbed her arm—her wrist felt like a twig in my grip—and hauled her out. She stumbled, her ridiculous boots sliding on the ice, so I just grabbed her and tucked her under my arm like a piece of lumber. "I can walk!" she shrieked over the wind. "Yeah? Well, walk faster. I'm not freezing to death because you forgot how to use a GPS." I got her inside the mudroom and slammed the door. The silence was instant. She stood there, shivering and looking at my house like it was a cave. She was way too polished, way too "city," and she smelled like expensive perfume—not woodsmoke and pine like a normal person. "I'm Clara," she panted, trying to look dignified while wrapped in a blanket I basically chucked at her head. "I'm just passing through to—" "You aren't passing through anywhere," I interrupted. I was already over this. "The pass is closed. You're stuck here. End of story." I saw her hand slip into her bag. She was twitchy. Nervous. Like she was hiding something more than just a dead iPhone. "Don't get comfortable," I warned her, my voice low. "As soon as the plows are out, you're gone. I don't do roommates." Lily peered down from the stairs, whispering about "snow queens," but I just glared. This wasn't a fairy tale. It was a headache in a designer coat. Alright, big guy, she’s in your house and she’s definitely acting sus with that bag.