Page 1 of Babies for the Christmas Grump

CHAPTER ONE

Sunny

November 20th

“I thinkI own this place now?” I blurt, stumbling into the lobby of The Garland Rose hotel.

I’m a human snowdrift, dragging two overstuffed bags, one dented cat carrier, and zero dignity. “I don’t know if this is right. I was a kid the last time I was here, and it looks really different.”

The poor guy blinks at me from behind the front desk, clearly rethinking every career decision that’s led to this moment. Tinsel the cat lets out an angry yowl from her carrier like, “Same, girl.”

I yank off my beanie. My hair explodes in all directions, frizzy, wind-whipped, and now statically bonded to my Chapstick.

“Sunny Quinn?” he asks cautiously.

“That’s me.” I hold up my ID and a crumpled manila envelope from Aunt Evie’s lawyer. “There’s a will. And a clause. And a cat. She bites.”

He takes the envelope as if it might contain anthrax or an overdue bill. “We’ve been expecting you. Charles Hunt. Night manager.”

Well. That’s both comforting and vaguely ominous.

Five minutes later, I’m standing in the world’s creakiest elevator, shoulders up to my ears, snow melting down the back of my sweater. I’m cold. I’m tired. I smell of travel-sized hand sanitizer and fear.

This cannot be real.

Aunt Evie, in her infinite, glitter-covered wisdom, left me a hotel—a Christmassy hotel in the middle of Boston.

I have approximately $147 in my checking account and a work history that includes “freelance copywriter,” “seasonal candle shop assistant,” and “the girl who accidentally deleted a client’s entire website and cried in the break room.”

I should not be in charge of anything more complicated than a microwave.

Especially since I don’t even know what I want to do with my life, at the grand old age of twenty-seven, I still have no direction.

I know I said I wanted to be just like Aunt Evie when I was last here, but I was a child. Is that why she left me the hotel? Does she think that’s still my dream?

It could be, I guess. I just don’t know.

Tinsel lets out another hiss as we unlock the door to what is now, allegedly, my room. An old room that was designed for staff but never used by anyone else but me.

The one I always stayed in when I was visiting as a child. I need something familiar in the middle of this madness.

It smells of cinnamon, old books, and faint judgment. The wallpaper is vintage floral. There’s a fireplace that I have no idea how to use.

But I guess I’m going to have to find a way to make it my own for good.

“I’m not cut out for this,” I mutter, opening Tinsel’s carrier before dropping everything else and collapsing on the bed. It squeaks in protest.

Tinsel jumps onto the dresser, knocks over a snow globe, and stares me down.

“Don’t look at me like that. I haven’t eaten since Delaware.”

Ten minutes later, I’ve swapped my travel clothes for a wrinkled burgundy sweater dress, twisted my curls into a passable bun, and applied a healthy amount of lip balm.

The dark circles under my eyes are doing a whole interpretive dance, but I’m chasing comfort, not couture. I need a hot meal, a stiff drink, and five minutes of pretending my life isn’t actively unraveling.

The lobby bar is tucked behind a velvet curtain like a secret, glowing softly with golden light and flickering candles. It’s warm. Cozy.

Too nice for someone whose boots are currently soaked through.