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)
“Shit.” I squint, twisting the faucet. “Now I’m going to have to call someone.”
The last thing I want to be is responsible or accused of stealing some random man’s personal belongings—his pricey personal belongings . . .
Still, it smells like cedar and eucalyptus in here, and the water pressure is magical, and I’m choosing to believe I’ve simply walked into a cleaning company fuckup.
Nothing more.
I wander into the bedroom next and throw my bag onto the bed—which is somehow already made, with crisp, white sheets that look sunny and bright and crisp. So crisp.
A light breeze wafts through the cracked window at that exact moment, rustling the edge of the curtain, and I tilt my chin up, letting the fresh air hit my skin.
I toe off my shoes.
Stretch.
Take a breath.
Exhale when I sit on the edge of the mattress and bounce lightly—like a kid testing out a trampoline in a backyard and declaring it perfect.
“Ahh.” I flop back and exhale again with the kind of dramatic sigh usually reserved for the first delicious bite of a dessert.
That’s what this feels like: a treat. The room is cozy, clean, and begs me to take the nap I didn’t know I needed.
I tilt my head toward the wall and spot another something out of place: a pair of headphones on the white nightstand. Thick, wireless, obnoxiously high end. They match the black phone charger looped around the base of the lamp, like someone was in the middle of winding it up and packing it away.
“Nope. Not gonna let my brain spiral.” Not when this bed feels like clouds. Not when I haven’t had to answer an email in over an hour. Not when I promised Lucy I would take a week to myself.
The brat is still in Arizona with her new boyfriend. Like, a living, breathing boyfriend. Who’s built like a tank and makes her homemade omelets and listens when she talks. They’re probably hiking in the foothills right now—or kissing during a sunset or buying succulents at a farmers’ market while I’m over here, trying to survive.
Loud sigh.
I roll out of bed and stretch.
Touch my toes. Step outside.
The cottage is perched high enough on a slope to give a full view of the lake, the trees, and the dock stretching out over water that glitters like it’s being filtered. I’m not new to views like this—I am a longtime Star Lake resident, after all. But something about this particular view feels shinier. Sparklier. Better. Like the lake went and got itself a makeover while I was busy knee deep in event permits and wrangling lumberjacks for the festival that ended only days ago.
To my left: Nothing. Just trees. A thick, endless sprawl of pine and maple and oak, humming with fall bugs and the faint whisper of wind rustling through branches. Solitude. Bliss.
To my right: Moonrise at Star Lake. A resort that’s been around for eighty years, but I’ve only ever seen it from the water—a twinkly mirage that feels too close but completely out of my reach. A massage there costs more than I make in a week.
The spa has won awards. The cabins have names like Tranquility and Solstice and Daybreak. The lobby and common areas have a signature scent. I know this because my friend Madison Rodriguez has parents who could afford to go there and once bought a bottle of it for their downstairs bathroom.
Music filters across the yard—guitar, acoustic—and there are fairy lights twinkling in at least five separate places on the property.
Magical.
Meanwhile, I’m standing barefoot on a weather-worn dock that smells vaguely like mildew and old sunscreen, clutching a hoodie I bought at a resale shop.
The wind picks up, carrying the faintest trace of lavender and fresh bread—because of course Moonrise would have artisanal things, while I’ve been gnawing on the string cheese I tossed into my cooler, along with leftover granola bars that expired in May.
Still. I’m here.
I’m committed.
This is my week to reset.
I turn, step out of my flip-flops, and make my way back toward the cottage, detouring to the side yard, where the hammock sways between two trees like it’s calling my name. It rocks gently in the breeze, canvas sun bleached and fraying at the edges, but still solid. Trustworthy. A hug from Mother Nature.
I ease into it, careful not to flip myself. The fabric creaks but holds. The sun warms my cheeks. The breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders.
This, I think, is what I came for.
Chapter 2
Maverick
Someone is in my hammock.
Not sitting in it—sleeping in it. Fully, shamelessly sprawled out in the hammock that’s been hung between two trees.
There’s a pink hoodie bunched up like a pillow under her head, one leg kicked out and dangling, a little snore coming out of her mouth that—if I wasn’t so goddamn confused—I might actually find kind of cute.