Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100423 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 502(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
She’s not motivated by money—that much is glaringly obvious. I doubled the price, threw out a number that’d make most people’s eyes bulge, and she didn’t even flinch—just stared at me with those big blue flames, like I’d offered her pocket change for a candy bar. It’s baffling. Money’s the one thing that always works—cuts through bullshit, bends people to my will.
Not her, apparently.
She isn’t a country bumpkin, though, no question about it. I caught it at that first glance—wide-eyed contempt twisting her face as her eyes accidentally slid towards the weeds growing through the cracks outside the door. I’ll be willing to bet she’s never stepped foot outside a city grid. Probably grew up choking on exhaust fumes, crammed into some overpriced box. All she needs is time before the novelty of a crumbling cottage stops being all quaint and pretty wears off. Girls like her—outsiders who stumble out here—always end up whining about the quiet, the fact that there’s nothing to do, or the way the days stretch into silence. She won’t be any different; I’m ready to bet on it.
But right now?
She’s hooked—clinging to a dream. Or maybe she’s sentimental about losing her grandmother. That’ll change. I just have to be patient. It’ll fade, though—that’s the thing. Grief’s a drug, keeps you high on purpose for a while, but it wears off. She’ll wake up one morning to the creak of that rotting floor, the empty fields, the sheer bloody stillness, and she’ll get restless. The isolation out here—it chews people up, spits them out bored and clawing for a way back to noise, to life.
But when I think about the unreasonable hag that was her grandmother, I recall that Mabel Morrel was even more stubborn and unwilling to sell at the very end than she was when she first arrived.
This girl’s got that same fire in her eyes, that same defiance burning in her gut. It’s why she’s digging her heels in for this pile of junk as if it’s a castle worth defending. I can picture her now, coughing through the dust, her voice sharp with more soft “fucks” as she runs into more buried junk — and there it is again, that flicker in my chest, hot, unfamiliar, and unwanted.
She’s a thorn I didn’t expect.
And I’m certainly not waiting months for the boredom scenario to play out—not a bloody chance. I’ve got no patience for her mourning phase to end, no time to wait for her wallow until she figures out she’s in over her head.
She’s probably naive under all that spit and fire—and that’s going to be my angle.
She doesn’t want cash, fine, but boredom’s a beast I can wield. I can see it now: her pacing that cramped cottage, kicking at the junk, realizing there’s no Starbucks, no plush bars, no pulse to keep her going. She’s not built for this, not long-term. I’ll make damn sure she knows it, too—speed it up, push her to the edge until she’s begging to ditch this place.
Shame she didn’t arrive in the midst of winter. A winter in Hawk’s End will knock any and all sentimentalism out of any greenhorn. Instead, she’s arrived with a hot summer forecasted around the bend.
I nudge the horse into a trot, the manor rises up ahead, its stone walls snagging the last scraps of daylight, shadows clawing across the grass. She’s young and unexpectedly beautiful, sure, with that city-girl innocence hidden under sharp words and a devil-may-care attitude, but I’ve never had to sweat turning a woman’s head. It just happens, like breathing. A look, a word, and they’re tripping over themselves.
I can do charming when I want—flash a grin, let my voice drop low. She’ll feel it; they always do. Hopefully, I won’t have to try too hard. I’ve never really given it a thought before. How hard can it be to seduce and corrupt?
All I have to do is give her a taste of the good stuff, the kind of life I live without blinking, and she’ll start craving it. I’ll take her down to London. That’s the move—chuck her in the helicopter, let her gawk at the skyline while she sips champagne. I’ll drown her in it—the lights, the excitement, the pulse—and this village will start to feel like a fucking graveyard after that.
Perhaps, I’ll invite her to the manor first. Show her a taste of the kind of life she would be missing cooped up in that rotting cottage. She’ll tromp in, boots caked with mud, and see it: the gleam of the chandeliers, the smell of old wood and older money. All within easy reach. All she has to do is give up her silly dream of doing up her decaying property.
I’ll make it all a fantasy she can’t resist until I get her to give in. As soon as she does, then I can put an end to the charade of my undying attraction to her. Hopefully, given her pride, she’ll be too hurt to remain here. It occurs to me though, that one result could be that she might refuse to sell to me out of pure spite. I think on this for a little while and decide that if it comes to that, I’ll throw someone else at her, some smooth-talking lackey in a suit, call it a “business offer” that she won’t pin on me.