A Monster for HALLOWEEN

CH 3 - Grace

GRACE POV

Being in hangover and having to smile at flocks of tourists looking for the new book on Nessie, tales of Scotland, and druid myths was going to be the death of me.

I mean it. On my gravestone they’d write something like:

“Here lies Grace MacLeod: died of terminal boredom, murdered by her own fake smile as yet another tourist shrieked about the lost sea dragon.”

Something witty, of course. Something tragic. Something that would make people laugh as they walked past with their tacky Nessie mugs and fluorescent T-shirts.

And then—then the new keychains arrived.

Keychains.

Plural.

Monstrosities, each and every one. Just like my mother described them.

When Dad opened the box, I swear I heard a banshee scream inside my head. The plastic horrors shone in a way no earthly object should ever shine. They weren’t just green. Oh no. That would have been merciful. They were fluorescent. Neon lime with googly eyes and tiny glitter bellies. Some of them had rainbows. Others were shaped like hearts. And one—God help us all—even had angel wings.

Angel. Wings.

On Nessie.

There are crimes against fashion, crimes against taste, and then there are crimes against reality itself.

And as my father—my flesh and blood—sighed in pure, unadulterated delight, I gasped in horror like I’d just witnessed a brutal stabbing. Except, no, this was worse. This was cultural murder.

Before I could intervene, before I could stage a one-woman protest in the middle of our family bookshop-s***h-souvenir-store, a redhead in her fifties swooped in from nowhere. Like a hawk. Or a vulture. She needed that keychain. Needed. Like her life wouldn’t be complete without attaching a fluorescent googly-eyed monster to her car keys.

That’s when I realized I was starting to hate redheads. A problem, obviously, since nearly fifty percent of Scotland seemed genetically engineered to sprout ginger hair at birth.

Dad clapped his hands like it was Christmas morning. “See, Grace? People love them!”

I wanted to scream. Instead, I muttered something resembling, “I need coffee,” and bolted.

I didn’t just leave. I escaped.

I slammed the shop door so hard the little hanging bell above it nearly detached and flew into orbit. If anyone doubted I was dramatic, well, there was the proof.

The café across the street was my salvation. Old wooden beams, fogged-up windows, and the comforting smell of burnt espresso grounds. Mr. MacHunnigan, the owner, had been our neighbor since before I learned to walk. Same café, same apron, same permanent look of bemused cheer that had survived three recessions and a pandemic.

“Grace!” His eyebrows shot up in welcome. “Back for a few days, are ye? Holiday from the big city? Halloween at home, eh?”

My face did something between a smile and a grimace. I wasn’t ready. Not for that conversation. Not for the pity-eyes.

The truth? I was a walking cliché. Three years wasted on a career which’d turned out to be the equivalent of a flat beer. Foolishly loyal, catastrophically blind, and now here I was—back in my parents’ house with my tail tucked so far between my legs it could be mistaken for an extra organ.

But I wasn’t about to admit that to Mr. MacHunnigan, local gossip central. So I just nodded, forced another grimace-smile, and said, “Something like that.”

He chuckled like he understood. (He didn’t.) “Coffee, then?”

“Please. Something lethal.”

“Double espresso?”

“Triple. If your machine doesn’t explode.”

He winked and went to work, clattering cups with the steady rhythm of a man who’s been caffeinating a small village for forty years.

When he set the steaming mug down in front of me, I almost cried. The aroma was salvation itself—dark, rich, the only thing that still had the power to convince me life was maybe worth dragging through.

I carried it to the corner armchair like it was holy communion. Sat down. Curled into myself. First sip—burning hot, bitter as regret, perfect. For the first time all morning, I thought maybe I could survive this day.

That was my mistake.

Because the door opened.

And Timothy strolled in.

Of course he did.

Because the universe clearly had it out for me.

It couldn’t let me wallow in peace. Oh no. It had to throw him back into the picture like some badly timed plot twist.

Timothy. Tall, broad-shouldered, annoyingly good hair—at least not red but a dull brown—and the kind of smile that had once made my body betray me. A smile I now knew was less “charming rogue” and more “serial jackass.”

I sank lower in the armchair, clutching my coffee like a shield. Maybe if I concentrated hard enough, the steam would make me invisible.

Spoiler: it didn’t.

His eyes scanned the café. Landed on me. Lit up.

“Grace?” His voice was warm, surprised, like he actually thought this was fate, not a cosmic prank.

I muttered into my cup, “Kill me now.”

He pulled out the chair opposite me without asking. Of course he did. Timothy never asked. He just assumed the world rearranged itself to make room for him.

“You look…” he started, letting his gaze sweep over me in a way that made me want to throw my scalding coffee straight into his lap. “…better than I expected this morning.”

“Oh, so sweet of you,” I deadpanned. “Better than roadkill. Thanks.”

He smirked, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “You don’t remember, do you?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Remember what? That you exist? Unfortunately, yes. Daily trauma.”

He chuckled, shaking his head as if I were some silly girl in denial. “Last night. At the pub. The chitchat, the way you laughed at my joke. The way you leaned in. We almost…” He let the word hang there, smug, loaded. “Kissed.”

My stomach dropped like a stone. Damn whisky. Damn my moment of weakness. Damn me for even standing close enough to breathe the same oxygen as him.

“No,” I said firmly. “We did not almost kiss. What happened was that I leaned over to reach the peanuts, you leaned in like a creep, and for half a second, physics betrayed me.”

His grin widened, lazy, predatory. “Physics, huh? Interesting way to describe chemistry.”

I wanted to throw something. Preferably him, out the nearest window.

“There was no chemistry,” I hissed. “There was me, regretting every sip of alcohol, and you, being the same overinflated jackass you’ve been since high school.”

Timothy placed his elbows on the table, leaning closer, his voice dropping lower. “You felt it, Grace. You can hate me all you want, but I know what I saw in your eyes.”

Was he serious right now? I raised my coffee cup between us like a barrier, or a lethal weapon, ready to fire . “What you saw was disgust. Easily confused with desire if you’ve got the emotional intelligence of a potato.”

He laughed again, low and irritatingly shallow. “You’re feisty this morning. I like it.”

He must have had a death wish — in under ten seconds I’d jumped from “kill me now” to “I’m going to kill him.” New personal best.

“Good. Then here’s some more: I would rather lick one of those fluorescent Nessie keychains than ever let your mouth near mine.”

That made him wince, but only for a second. Then the grin came back, sharper. “You’ll change your mind. I’ll make sure of it.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I thought I saw my own brain. “I really am doing it. I’m moving to a cave. Alone. With no whisky, no tourists, and definitely no Timothy.”

But even as I said it, he just sat there smiling, like I’d handed him a challenge he was dying to take on.

Goddammit .