Page 1 of Melting the Grump


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Chapter 1 – Abigail

I tighten my grip on my presentation folder, its edges damp from my nervous fingers, as I take my first steps into Acorn Circle. The historic heart of Whitetail Falls sprawls before me in all its autumn glory, a picturesque town square where cobblestones radiate from an ancient oak tree like spokes on a wheel.

The late afternoon sun slants through branches half-dressed in crimson and gold, casting dappled shadows that dance across my path with each breeze.

A ruby-colored leaf spirals down, landing on my folder as if offering encouragement. I'm still smiling at it when a woman approaches, her silver-streaked auburn hair catching the light.

"Abigail Robinson?" She extends a hand, her smile warm beneath observant eyes. "I'm Meredith, we spoke on the phone. Council's waiting inside the Thornwood Center."

I tuck the leaf into my pocket like a talisman. "Thank you."

I smooth down my burgundy sweater dress, chosen specifically to complement the season and my curves, and follow her across the square. Fallen leaves crunch pleasantly beneath my ankle boots as we walk.

This is my moment. After three weeks of living in Whitetail Falls, I'm still the newcomer, the city girl who bought the old Willowbrook cottage and started renovating it without asking anyone's advice on the "proper way" things are done here. Event planning was my career in Portland, but here, it could be my bridge to belonging.

The Thornwood Community Center rises before us, all weathered brick and tall windows glowing amber from within.Inside, the scent of lemon polish and old wood wraps around me. Six council members sit waiting, their expressions ranging from curious to, in one case, downright skeptical…

That would be him. The tall, broad-shouldered man with the perpetual furrow between his eyebrows. His flannel shirt stretches across a chest built from regular physical labor, and his brown hair has a slightly mussed look. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing forearms corded with muscle.

I've seen him around town—impossible not to notice him, really—but we've never been introduced. Something about his presence fills the room differently than the others, like he's operating on a frequency that makes my skin prickle with awareness.

"Everyone," Meredith announces, her hand settling briefly on my shoulder, "this is Abigail Robinson with her proposal for expanding this year's Fall Festival."

I step forward, centering myself with a slow breath. "Thank you for meeting with me. I know I'm new to Whitetail Falls, but I've fallen in love with this town… its character, its traditions, and most of all, its potential. I believe the Fall Festival could become a signature event that draws visitors from all over the region."

Mr. Skeptical crosses his arms, his startlingly blue eyes narrowing slightly. His gaze, unlike the others, doesn't yield an inch.

I forge ahead, opening my presentation folder. "I'm proposing we transform Acorn Circle into an enchanted autumn wonderland. Picture this: lanterns floating above the cobblestones, creating pools of golden light. Pumpkin arches framing the walkways, carved with intricate designs. Localmusicians performing on a small stage by the oak tree. Artisan cider stalls and harvest-themed food from local restaurants."

As I speak, my hands move, painting the vision in the air between us. I pass around mockups I've created, feeling a flutter of satisfaction at the appreciative murmurs.

"The centerpiece would be a maze of hay bales and corn stalks for children, with a treasure hunt that leads them to local businesses. It creates foot traffic for our shops while giving families an unforgettable experience."

"This all sounds lovely," says an older gentleman, his bow tie slightly askew, "but rather ambitious for our little town."

"That's precisely why it will work," I counter. "Whitetail Falls has authentic charm that can't be manufactured. We're just enhancing what's already magical about this place."

A soft round of agreement circles the room… until Mr. Skeptical finally speaks.

"And who exactly is paying for this enchantment?" His voice is deep, with a slight rasp that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine. It's the kind of voice that resonates somewhere behind my ribs.

I meet his gaze directly. "I've prepared a complete budget breakdown. The floating lantern display uses affordable materials, and I've already secured donations from three businesses on Foxglove Lane. The remaining costs would be covered by vendor fees and a small allocation from the existing festival budget."

He leans forward, elbows on knees, and I catch a hint of pine and cedar. "Those floating lanterns—fire hazard. The hay balemaze? Insurance nightmare. And 'vendor fees' assumes we'll get enough vendors to show up in the first place."

Something about his dismissive tone ignites a spark in me. I've faced down tougher critics in Portland boardrooms.

"Mr...?"

"Martin. Scott Martin." His name comes with no smile, just a steady gaze that feels like a challenge.

"Mr. Martin. I've consulted with the fire marshal about the lanterns. They're LED, battery-operated, and secured with fishing line rated for three times their weight." I pull out the safety documentation and slide it across the polished table. "The hay bale maze design includes emergency exits every twenty feet, with fire extinguishers stationed throughout." Another document follows. "And I've already got fifteen vendor applications from businesses in neighboring towns." I slide the stack toward him with a smile that's sweet but firm. "I anticipated these concerns."

His eyebrows lift slightly, the first crack in his stern facade. "You've been busy."

"I'm thorough," I correct him, a pleasant warmth blooming in my chest. "And passionate about making this festival something special."

"Scott's our local voice of caution," Meredith explains with a knowing smile. "Comes with running a construction company and serving on the safety committee."