Book Blitz + Giveaway: ‘How to Solve a Murder with a Grump’ by Laura Pauling
How to Solve a Murder with a Grump
Author: Laura Pauling
Publication Date: October 8, 2024
Genres: Adult, Comedy, Contemporary, Mystery, Romance
Add to Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/219753950-how-to-solve-a-murder-with-a-grump
Synopsis:
Barrie:
I am determined to make my best friend’s wedding weekend perfect. That includes editing the best man’s speech and making sure he doesn’t drink too much.
Except, he’s the worst kind of grump with a capital G.
Not only that but when this perfect wedding unravels, I find myself the object of his wrath.
He blames me.
So I run.
And I’m wearing the wedding dress. (Don’t ask.)
As I hide out in a small town, following my dreams, I stumble upon a decades-old murder mystery.
Turns out texting the grump might be my only lifeline. And I’m definitely not flirt-texting. Nope. Not me.
Because falling for a grump can only lead to a broken heart.
Right?
Miles:
For the record, I am not a grump.
It’s not me. It’s them.
It’s women.
I’m looking forward to the wedding this weekend. My best friend is getting married.
And the maid of honor texts me.
Not just once.
Oh, no, because that would be much too sensible. Nope. Try a dozen. It felt like a hundred.
I can tell by a glance at the texts that she’s one of those micro-managing, in your business, thinks-she-knows-everything type of woman.
Forget it.
I don’t want her number. I don’t want coffee. I don’t want a date.
I don’t want a single conversation.
Okay, fine. I’m a grump.
But can you blame me?
How to Solve a Murder with a Grump is a full-length hilarious romantic mystery with a swoony, heart-thumping, happily-ever-after kind of ending complete with glitter bombs, snapping turtles (imaginary or not), a decades-old murder, and grand romantic gestures.
Purchase Link – Amazon: https://amzn.to/4fdWVX0
(Barrie, Chapter 1)
I take one look at him. Oh yeah, he’s a grump.
Definitely.
But I don’t have time for grumps right now.
You see, I’m running late and the elevator is taking forever to get to the bottom floor. My best friend is getting married in two days, and I’m the maid of honor. I’m trying to compose a text to the best man so we can talk about the speeches. I should’ve reached out to him ages ago, but this weekend came fast. It snuck up on me.
Then, a man near me clears his throat, like he’s trying to send me a message. I take one look at him.
No doubt in my mind he’s a Mr. Grumpy Pants, because I can pick them out a mile away. They’re easy to spot once you know the signs.
Of course, sometimes you’ll get lucky. You’ll make a quick exit. Or he’ll spill his coffee. Someone else will grab his attention.
But there will be times you have to interact with this particular species of men.
Just so you know, there are many ways to deal with a grump. I could write a book on it.
First, don’t be fooled by those flashing white teeth and sexy smirks. Don’t be fooled by a blue shirt, almost the color of tropical ocean water that offsets the gray of his eyes. Don’t be fooled by the rippling muscles underneath the blue shirt.
Nope.
Sexy grumps are the most dangerous, because they’ll steal your heart then stomp all over it.
Excerpt 2 (Barrie, Chapter 1)
I’m dealing with a classic grump.
He’s practically standing right on top of me, and he’s showing all the symptoms. First, he can’t hide the fact that he’s impatient. Like the way he’s stabbing me with his facial features. Definitely a clue.
Then the grump speaks.
“What are you doing?” he asks, in what seems to be disbelief; his tone, dismissive. Annoyed. The kind of tone filled with condescension that sends my heart rate sky high.
All signs we might be dealing with the most extreme kind of grump.
It’s a simple question. It should be an easy answer. Now, you might be tempted to be a grump back, but instead, why not have a little fun?
Give the grump an extra dose of sunshine. Of course, ignore the eye daggers and the huffs and the pursed lips.
I wait another second—just for funsies—then give him the brightest, cheeriest smile I can muster. “Oh, just in for a fantabulous weekend with the girls. We’re going to have so much fun. So much. You know”—I flash him another smile like he understands—“all the typical girl stuff. Painting nails. Too much wine and dancing in the hotel bar. Laughing.”
Another fact about grumps.
They don’t like to laugh. Just the idea of laughing or having fun makes them want to run screaming for a man cave.
I go on and on about our fun weekend. Adding more sunshine to his day.
Finally, he interrupts. Very grumpy of him if you ask me.
“I mean, what are you doing right now?” he demands.
I laugh—a girlish-like giggle, which drives a grump nuts. “Like right this second?” I hold up my phone and wave it. “Just doing a little texting.” I see his gaze go to the elevator behind me.
Ah yes, here’s the reason.
They eventually give it away. He’s annoyed he’s not first in line and the elevator is taking a long time. But we’re in the city and there are a lot of floors.
“Yes, I’m waiting to get to my room, too. Sometimes, these hotel elevators take forever. You just gotta role with it, hon.” Somehow, a Southern accent—I’m a New Englander all the way—has slipped in and I’m not sure why.
Hey, I never said it was easy dealing with a grump. It takes nerves of steel. It takes commitment to follow through on the sunshine treatment and not devolve into snarky remarks.
Longer Excerpt 3 (Barrie, Chapter 1)
I’m dealing with a classic grump.
He’s practically standing right on top of me, and he’s showing all the symptoms. First, he can’t hide the fact that he’s impatient. Like the way he’s stabbing me with his facial features. Definitely a clue.
Then the grump speaks.
“What are you doing?” he asks, in what seems to be disbelief; his tone, dismissive. Annoyed. The kind of tone filled with condescension that sends my heart rate sky high.
All signs we might be dealing with the most extreme kind of grump.
It’s a simple question. It should be an easy answer. Now, you might be tempted to be a grump back, but instead, why not have a little fun?
Give the grump an extra dose of sunshine. Of course, ignore the eye daggers and the huffs and the pursed lips.
I wait another second—just for funsies—then give him the brightest, cheeriest smile I can muster. “Oh, just in for a fantabulous weekend with the girls. We’re going to have so much fun. So much. You know”—I flash him another smile like he understands—“all the typical girl stuff. Painting nails. Too much wine and dancing in the hotel bar. Laughing.”
Another fact about grumps.
They don’t like to laugh. Just the idea of laughing or having fun makes them want to run screaming for a man cave.
I go on and on about our fun weekend. Adding more sunshine to his day.
Finally, he interrupts. Very grumpy of him if you ask me.
“I mean, what are you doing right now?” he demands.
I laugh—a girlish-like giggle, which drives a grump nuts. “Like right this second?” I hold up my phone and wave it. “Just doing a little texting.” I see his gaze go to the elevator behind me.
Ah yes, here’s the reason.
They eventually give it away. He’s annoyed he’s not first in line and the elevator is taking a long time. But we’re in the city and there are a lot of floors.
“Yes, I’m waiting to get to my room, too. Sometimes, these hotel elevators take forever. You just gotta role with it, hon.” Somehow, a Southern accent—I’m a New Englander all the way—has slipped in and I’m not sure why.
Hey, I never said it was easy dealing with a grump. It takes nerves of steel. It takes commitment to follow through on the sunshine treatment and not devolve into snarky remarks.
His gaze travels over my suitcases, my bags, and I can see it in his eyes. He has one slim and trim weekend bag. That’s it. Like I said, typical.
“Looks like you’re moving in to stay,” he says. It’s definitely an insult.
He needs another dose of Vitamin D. So, I have a lot of bags. This is a big weekend. I need a few extra outfits, just in case. I need mementos and gifts for Jillian, because this is going to be the most special, the bestest weekend ever, if I have anything to do with it.
And I do.
That’s why I’m trying to contact the best man. Maybe he needs helps with his speech. Maybe it needs to be refined or shortened. This weekend will be perfect! No bumbling best man, tripping through a thirty-minute speech because he’s drunk. Okay, my perception might be skewed by the last wedding I went to where this happened. Just saying. I have reasons.
That is not my fault.
He huffs.
Oh, he’s waiting for a reply. That’s another way to get a grump going. Don’t answer any demanding questions right away.
“Looks like you’re staying for two hours,” Oh, geez. Big mistake. The snarky comment just slipped out before I could stop it. There was no sunshine in the response. Like I said, it takes grit.
He smirks.
Oh, have I mentioned this guy is handsome? Well, he is. I have eyes. But he’s the fake, the forged, the plastic kind of manufactured handsome. Meh. Not for me.
“You know, you really shouldn’t judge someone by their number of bags,” I say, trying to say it with a smile in my tone, but I fear I’m coming across like a teacher in a one-room school house. “It’s not nice.”
I’m losing it. This won’t end well. Where is that elevator? It’s taking forever.
Another smirk from you-know-who. “I can when they’re blocking the elevator. Not paying attention to the fact that it dinged and is open.” Oh, he’s mad, his words a constant drip of sarcasm. “And when they have so many suitcases and bags it’s like Mt. Vesuvius erupted. So many bags they need about ten assistants. Maybe twenty.” He’s worked up. But his hair? Hasn’t moved. “So many bags they take up the whole foyer and block elevators.”
Sunshine, Barrie. More sunshine.
“Feel better?” The words spit from my mouth, like I’ve lost control of my speech. Not good.
He says nothing.
Here’s where you stop and rethink the strategy. Is that what I do? No, because he’s getting to me. “Geez,” I say. “Try some yoga or deep breathing. Really, living in constant stress isn’t good for your health.”
Enough, Barrie!
Now, these clashes with the frowny, cloudy type don’t always go according to the plan. If you find his grumpiness affecting you, it’s best to escape and cut off all communication as soon as possible.
So, with fading confidence, I stride into the elevator. I leave him behind in the dust. This is what should happen. I do the striding, the hair flipping, the confident smiling, and never see him again.
In this alternate reality, my suitcases work properly, my bags stay exactly where they are, the straps over my shoulders. Have I mentioned my shoulders are killing me? The elevator doors should stay open a few more seconds than usual so I have time to bring all my stuff inside.
And let me be perfectly clear. I do not have twenty bags. I only have three suitcases, two weekend bags, a garment bag—my dress! Can’t be helped—and then a somewhat oversized backpack purse that could be mistaken for a bag. It’s not.
First, the suitcase tilts and almost falls over on its side. To compensate, I lunge forward to save it. The strap to one weekend bag—and it’s kinda heavy—slides down my arm. This causes an avalanche of other straps to go with it.
The overstuffed bags crash onto the floor. When the doors start sliding shut with a suitcase still in the foyer, I lose my balance in an effort to grab it.
My arms pinwheel.
I flounder. I gasp. When really, I want to cry.
It’s like a nightmare in slow motion.
I trip over a bag and land on my butt on the hard elevator floor.
It would have been so much better if he just laughed or watched my utter humiliation with a smirk. Then I’d be completely justified in hating him.
But he doesn’t.
He holds out a hand and pulls me up. For one second, I’m in his personal-space-bubble and inhale his cologne or body wash or shampoo, whatever heavenly scent is wafting around me. I’m close and personal to those eye daggers, which now are not quite as sharp, not quite as dagger-ish. I breathe in the coconut scent, then step away.
More like, I stumble back, mumbling thank you.
My tail bone hurts, the pain radiating up my spine. I’ll probably barely be able to sit during the reception on Saturday. Never mind the rehearsal dinner tomorrow night.
He pushes my bags into the elevator, then grabs the last suitcase.
“What are in these things, rocks?” he asks, grunting.
I sniff, trying to hold it together when I want to cry. “I’m a geologist and this is my collection of special gems and stones. I’m here for a conference.” Total lie. Obviously. I meant it as a joke, but pretty sure he takes me at my word, because his expression says You look nothing like a geologist or someone who wants to traipse about in nature.
“Don’t judge bags or women by their covers,” I manage. Okay, terrible analogy but he knows what I mean. Or he should.
Then the door does slide shut. I realize he’s managed to hijack my ride when clearly there’s barely room for the two of us.
I push twenty. He pushes twenty-five.
Thank God we’re on different floors. I’ll never see him again. I’ll leave this humiliating scene behind me.
Only twenty floors of awkward silence to manage. Good. We’ll leave this encounter on a positive. He helped. I said thank you. He can feel good about himself. And his hair is still in place.
Floor three.
Finally, I can’t take the silence. The whole situation has devolved into chaos.
“You know”—I point to the purse, backpack, possible suitcase with straps—“This is a purse. Doesn’t count as a bag, so you should apologize.”
“Apologize?” He’s flustered.
That came out wrong. Guess he wasn’t ready for humor. Well, part humor, part serious. Someone has to defend large purses. “I suppose you want me to apologize because I can’t pack my life into a three-inch bag.” Stop already. Why am I antagonizing him? We were on a positive note, too. Plus, his hair smells like coconut.
“Whatever,” he says.
Somehow being dismissed is worse than an insult. Like he just can’t handle me anymore. Unfortunately, that’s one of my triggers—long story, tied in with my strained relationship with my parents. I know in my head he doesn’t know this, but…
“Sorry we can’t all have perfectly styled hair, like you.” Why, Barrie? Why?
“What’s wrong with my hair?” he asks, offended.
Floor twelve.
I shrug. “Oh, nothing.” Just too styled, too stiff, too formal. I picture him with no styling gunk, his hair grown out a couple more inches, thick. Maybe a bit wavy. Kissing him. Wait, what? Where did that come from? “Just that women might want to kiss you if you’d let down your guard. Your hair is like a metaphor for you. Perfect. Unmoving. I bet you have daddy issues.” Like I’m one to talk. “I bet you’re constantly striving in your job, and definitely with your hair to prove yourself.”
The dagger eyes return.
The silence is loud.
He looks away. I’m betting he’s shocked I saw into his life, or shocked that I would say something like that. Maybe I’m wrong. But I’m hardly ever wrong about people. It’s part of my job. It’s why I’m good at my job. Now I feel bad. Like it’s something he didn’t realize about himself. Maybe he loves his hair and has been thinking the girls love it.
“Don’t feel bad. About your hair, I mean. I’m sure there are women out there who love rock-hard, glued-stiff locks.” The image of a woman having to yank her fingers from his hair flashes. I definitely don’t laugh.
Ding. Floor twenty.
Hallelujah and all of that. I shove and push and drag everything out. I just want to get away and never see this guy. Never remember this experience.
I grab the last suitcase. I’m about to say, Have a nice life, when he beats me to it.
He holds the door. He leans forward just enough that I get another whiff of coconut. “All I got from that is that you want to kiss me.” He grins, more like smirking. “Earlier, you definitely smelled me and obviously liked it.”
The door shuts.
I’m left, standing. My mouth gaping open like some sort of fish.
Until, finally, I jar from my shock and shout as loud as a I can as the elevator continues up.
“Grump!”
Excerpt 4 (Barrie, Chapter 2)
I start texting.
Barrie: Hey, grumpy best man. Heard you’re kinda cute.
Jillian leans over and laughs. “You wouldn’t.”
Just for the challenge. Just to make her smile.
I click Send.
She gasps.
We wait, breath held.
Nothing.
Not even the little dots that indicate he’s texting back.
We wait a few more seconds. That’s plenty of time.
“Again,” she laughs-hisses.
Barrie: No worries. I know how to handle a grump.
We wait. Nothing.
We wait longer. Nothing.
Now I can’t help but think he’s ignoring me.
Barrie: It’s not nice to not respond to the maid of honor, you know. I can be the happy to your grumpy problem.
Jillian laughs and it urges me on. I love her laugh. After I was the downer, it’s my job to be the upper. Pretty sure I’ll regret this later, but right now, it’s worth it.
Barrie: They want us go on a coffee date. Not sure I can date a grump.
Barrie: I can handle a grump but are you a good kisser?
More squeals from Jillian. I’m on a roll. The confidence surges; a happy feeling, a peace, a warmth spreads through me. Or maybe it’s adrenaline. My texting knows no bounds or limits.
Barrie: What level grumpy are you on a scale from 1 to 10? Or are you off the charts?
Barrie: Are you like the dwarf, Grumpy? Do you have a white beard? Are you short? Nothing wrong with that, of course. Just wondering. Maybe that’s why you’re grumpy. You haven’t learned to love yourself.
“What scale grumpy is he?” I demand of Jillian, who is full-out smirking at my texting. Immediate suspicion fills me. She’s happy about this. She likes that I’m grumpy texting the best man.
“That’s right.” She jumps off the bed and does a little dance. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. This is total foreplay. It’s major flirting.”
“It totally is not.” Truly, it isn’t. This is purely about seeing that gleam in her eye the night before wedding weekend starts. I’ll text any grump about kissing if it makes her laugh.
He never texts back.
Definitely a grump. And not even a flirty or fun grump.
About Laura Pauling
I write about spies, murder, and mystery. I love a lot of things about writing and reading stories that have mystery and romance. I love the puzzle of a whodunnit and witty banter between characters who love to hate each other. Especially, when they don’t know they are falling in love.
There are about a gazillion books in the wilds of Amazon and maybe half of them are mysteries. If you want to make sure you know when I have a new release in a current series or the start of a new series then visit www.laurapauling.com and sign up for my newsletter.
Blitz-wide giveaway (INT) Ends October 31st – $20 Amazon Gift Card
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My obsession with reading started over 30+ years ago when I went to my first Scholastic Book Fair and found R.L. Stine's Fear Street series. Later, I came across Anne Rice's novels at my public library when I was fourteen when my obsession with vampires started. I was the girl who preferred to be a vampire over a princess any day. My husband says I would leave him a heartbeat for a vampire that looked like Spike or Angel (from Buffy the Vampire Slayer) or Damon Salvatore from The Vampire Diaries. (It's true, though, and he's accepted it.)
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Cute cover!