The Grump Next Door

by Kendall Ryan

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

One guest house. One week. One slow-burn disaster waiting to happen.

Dean Whitaker has zero interest in weddings, fairy lights, or the perky woman currently turning his guest house into a scented-candle crime scene.

He’s a divorce attorney. He thrives on prenups, logic, and not getting glitter on his suits.

Poppy Monroe is a wedding planner with a checklist for everything—except how to survive living next door to a hot, brooding, tightly wound lawyer—aka the groom’s brother.

They’re opposites in every way—except for the undeniable chemistry neither of them wants to talk about.

Their mission: survive one week of wedding chaos.

Her vibe: sunshine and glitter pens.
His vibe: whiskey and restraint.

Opposites attract. Then they combust.

Release date: February 11, 2026

Print pages: 400

Sample

I kill the engine, check my face one more time, and open the car door.

Time to fake it like my life depends on it.

Because it basically does.

I step out of the car, smooth my dress, and immediately plant one Louboutin directly into something wet and squishy.

Still smiling.

Absolutely still smiling.

Even if it freaking kills me.

I look down.

“Oh no.”

It’s… not mud. It’s something wetter. More offensive. And deeply unwelcome. Something that was, at one point, probably alive or at least partially digested.

I gag once. Just a little.

But I’m prepared. I’m nothing if not prepared. I yank a biodegradable wipe from my bag and crouch down on the stone path, balancing on one foot like a deranged flamingo as I try to salvage my dignity—and my shoes.

Which is exactly when I hear a voice.

“Can I help you?”

Deep. Male. Annoyed. Very much not the kind of voice that says welcome.

I look up—and nearly lose my balance.

Standing in the doorway of the main house is a man. Tall, broad-shouldered, and absurdly good-looking in the kind of way that makes you briefly forget how sentences work.

His dark hair is neatly combed but already threatening to fall out of place. A five o’clock shadow clings to his sharp jaw like it’s made a permanent home there. A jawline that makes you reconsider your position on marriage. His eyes—gray? green? something stormy—are striking enough to make me momentarily forget that my foot is still covered in… something.

He’s wearing khakis and a crisp white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, the kind of casual-office look that he somehow manages to make look intimidating.

This has to be Dean.

The grump. The groom’s brother. The anti-wedding energy Ivy warned me about.

And the universe, in its infinite sense of humor, has made him hot.

He is, objectively, alarmingly attractive. And unfortunately, I’m crouched in front of his house, one foot in the air, my designer shoe covered in shit, my entire life in shambles, trying not to cry.

Cool. This is going great.

So I smile. Bright. Professional. Unbothered. “Hi! I’m Poppy Monroe. Wedding planner for the Lin-Whitaker event next weekend?”

He doesn’t smile back. He just looks at me. “I assumed you’d arrive earlier.”

“I would’ve,” I say, still crouched, still wiping, “but my flight was delayed, and the rental car situation was… character-building.”

His eyes flick to my foot, then back to my face.

I grin, apologetic. “Sorry, I seem to have found a small… welcome gift on the lawn.”

He doesn’t smile. Not even a polite flicker. “You’ll be staying in the carriage house. It’s unlocked.”

“Perfect.” I rise to my full height and pretend my left shoe isn’t squelching slightly. “Looking forward to settling in.”

He gestures, vaguely. “Try not to track anything inside.”

And just like that, the hotness dies a swift and fiery death.

I paste on a tight smile, because if I don’t, I might commit murder. ...