Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89519 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 298(@300wpm)
Her reply comes in instantly.
Lucy:
No! It’s self-care. You’re treating yourself. Like a mini-retreat!
I glance down at my to-do list.
I glance at the pile of forms on my kitchen table.
I glance at the bottle of wine I forgot to open last night because I passed out fully clothed at 8:30 p.m. Which reminds me: I have to finish doing my laundry!
My phone dings again.
Lucy:
You would be working—but at least you’d be on the lake.
Lucy:
You deserve this. Seriously.
I hesitate. Then pull up the reservation site.
And what do you know? There’s a cancelation. Quaint cottage with a screened-in porch, fireplace, and—my favorite part—a hammock. What? I’m going to sit in that hammock, sway like I don’t have a care in the world though I have a million problems. Relaxing won’t be one.
I book it before I can second-guess myself and text Lucy: Booked the cottage. You’re a terrible influence. Never stop.
Tomorrow, I’m going full cottagecore.
I guess there’s only one thing left to do: Pack snacks. Pack sweaters. Pack bug spray.
And maybe I’ll pack a little less anxiety. Because this week?
I’m not bringing my to-do list. I’m bringing marshmallows and vibes, and I’m not wearing a swimsuit when I sunbathe on the pier.
Who am I?
Chapter 1
Annabelle
I’m approximately three minutes into my lakeside staycation, and I’ve almost nearly been taken out by a low-hanging bird feeder and what I suspect is a pissed-off squirrel with boundary issues. He stares at me and I stare at him before my car coughs one last time as I kill the engine.
But it’s fine. Everything is fine.
Because I, Annabelle Franklin, am doing the damn thing!
I am embracing rest. I am embracing stillness. I am embracing this quaint-ass cottage and the peace that comes along with it.
I step onto the gravel drive but don’t take the time to appreciate the charming view—white shutters, wraparound porch, twinkle lights—because I’m too busy juggling my overnight bag, a cooler full of stress snacks, and my chilled wine, ’cause Eat Pray Love and all that bullshit . . .
The gravel crunches beneath my sandals as I approach the porch, key code already pulled up on my phone. I don’t know why I’m walking like I expect a warm welcome. No one is here. It’s me, my small stack of paperback books, and a plan to ignore anyone who thinks they’re going to contact me with feedback about the Fall Festival.
Nope. Not answering.
The keypad on the door beeps twice as I punch in the code. I wait. The lock clicks open. Victory. I push the door open with my hip, step inside, and immediately freeze.
Something is off; I can sense it.
Hmm. Not horror-movie off. Not “there might be a killer hiding behind the heavy living room drapes.” More like . . . the cottage smells like aftershave and a hint of a freshly blown-out vanilla candle? Can that be?
I take two cautious steps into the living room, sniffing, scanning the space. Tiptoeing toward the hallway, hyperaware of how creaky the floorboards are, I startle when my overnight bag thumps against the wall.
I peek into the kitchen. There’s a jar of protein powder on the counter. A water bottle with the top off. A spoon and bowl set next to the sink.
And—oh God—there are hand weights on the kitchen table.
Hand weights?
Yeah. On the table.
“Huh. Weird.” I let my bag drop to the ground. Maybe the cleaning crew forgot to finish? Or maybe they were super thorough and thought, You know what this rustic, peaceful kitchen needs? A splash of gym rat.
I lift one of the weights and pump it. It’s real. Heavy. Judgy. And so not cottagecore.
I glance around, taking in more clues: A towel draped over the back of the kitchen chair. An open bag of trail mix on the coffee table. A pair of very large, very masculine-looking sneakers next to the couch.
My brain does not compute these details, nor does it raise any solid red flags, so deeply committed am I to the idea that this week will be restful. Chill.
“Maybe the last guest had to check out in a hurry,” I mumble, sweeping the towel off the chair and tossing it near the front door on the off chance the cleaning people drop by. “Maybe the cleaners ran out of time.”
Or didn’t show up at all.
“Not going to worry about it. We are chill.” How often do I get a cottage to myself?
Exactly never.
I live in a postage-stamp-size apartment above a bakery in downtown Star Lake. Which sounds adorable until you realize it means waking up to the sound of metal bowls scraping and mixers mixing at 4:30 a.m. each and every morning—and schlepping groceries up two flights of stairs because there is no elevator.
And the fire escape? More rust than escape.
So yeah. I’ve earned this.
I walk into the bathroom to wash my hands and immediately pause at the sight of a designer black toiletry bag on the counter. Not a travel-sized kit. This thing is military grade. Wide open, too—like a guy rummaged through it and couldn’t be bothered to zip it back up. There’s a toothbrush, electric razor, expensive cologne, and—Jesus Christ—a Rolex watch.