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)
She crosses her arms, clearly not planning on going anywhere. “I brought groceries.”
“So? What’s your point?” I run a hand over my face. I don’t want to be mean. I really don’t. But every nerve in my body is screaming Get the hell out, and I’m one second away from losing it.
“I’m not saying I don’t sympathize,” I tell her. “But I’ve already peed here, so—”
“Wow.”
“Technically makes it mine.”
She glares.
I glare back.
We’re officially in a silent, rage-fueled standoff. Two strangers. One cottage. A single bathroom.
This will end in murder—or marriage—and I’m not sure I’m equipped for either.
“Okay,” I bite out, arms crossed. “Fine. You know what? Go stay at the resort next door. They’ve got rooms. Robes. Probably fresh-baked cookies in the lobby. Sounds like your vibe.”
Her mouth drops open. “Are you serious?”
“Deadly.”
“Oh my gawd.” She snorts. “If I could afford that place, don’t you think I would’ve booked it to begin with? You think I chose a cottage because I hate massages and getting pampered?”
“If you stay, you’d be squatting in my cottage like a raccoon.”
“I paid for this week.”
“So did I!”
“Then maybe we should call the host and let them figure it out!” she snaps, waving her phone in the air like it’s a sword and this is a duel.
“By all means.” I point at the couch. “Feel free to call. But do it outside. I don’t want your bad-decision energy in my living space.”
She blinks. “Your living space?”
“Yes.”
“You mean the space I’m currently occupying because my groceries are in that fridge and my shampoo is in the shower?”
My eyes go wide at her audacity. “Lady, did you not see my shit on the counter? The gym bag? The knee brace on the table? The man-sized shoes by the damn door?”
She flails an arm, sputtering. “Okay! I don’t know—thought maybe the last guest left in a hurry or something! Like, for an emergency? I assumed the cleaning crew—”
“The cleaning crew?”
“Yeah! Maybe they forgot to toss your giant dude stuff!”
Dude stuff? I stare at her.
She waves her phone again. “Calling the host.”
“Great.” Fantastic.
She rolls her eyes at me, phone pressed to her ear. “Hope they tell you to pack your eucalyptus shampoo and hit the road.”
“Hope they tell you to go back to wherever you learned to trespass.”
When she smirks, I realize she’s enjoying this far too much. Which is infuriating.
Because unfortunately for me?
I’m enjoying it too. Leaning against the counter, I cross my arms and watch intently to make sure she knows I’m listening.
“Hello, my name is Annabelle Franklin, and I booked a rental on your website last minute,” she says, voice dripping with sweetness, like she’s standing on their porch with homemade pie. “I’m currently booked at”—she pauses, walks to the counter, and grabs the printed information sheet—“Pine Hollow Road, cabin twelve. And I have a few concerns.”
I arch a brow. Concerns?
This oughta be good.
I settle in to listen.
“First of all”—she goes on and begins pacing—“the property appears to be double-booked. I arrived this afternoon, entered the door code sent to me via your app, and was greeted by someone else’s belongings—duffel bag, man-sized shoes, and an alarming amount of protein powder.”
She shoots me a glare and mouths alarming again.
“He claims he booked through StayCation,” she continues. “Which may be true, but that doesn’t make this situation any less infuriating. Also, he’s shirtless and wrapped in a towel. And while I would love to relocate to the resort next door, as he so kindly suggested, I unfortunately did not bring my black Amex card. So unless you’d like to comp me a room with a lake view, I’m going to need someone to sort this mess out.”
I laugh.
She holds up a finger, telling me to hush. Like she’s in charge here. “Anyway. We’d appreciate if someone could call us back immediately. This is urgent, I cannot stay with this man.” She ends the message with a polite “Um, thanks so much” and hangs up.
Then she turns to me. “Well?”
“Well what?”
She tosses her phone onto the coffee table and nudges mine. “Aren’t you going to call your booking company?”
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Why not?”
“Because now I’m emotionally invested in your meltdown, Annabelle Franklin. This is urgent,” I mock under my breath. “I cannot stay with this man. You make it sound like I’m a wanted felon.”
Her hands go to her hips. “I don’t know that you’re not.”
Arms still crossed, I study her face. “Look at me. Do I not look familiar to you?”
She squints, eyes narrowing. “Should I know you? Are you, like, TikTok famous? Oh God—please tell me you’re not one of those bodybuilding influencers.”
“What? No. Jesus.” As if.
“Because honestly, that would explain the delusional confidence.”
I sigh and drop onto the arm of the couch, elbow resting on my knee. “I’m on the football team.”
She raises a brow.