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)
I look at my plate, the eggs are cold and untouched. I’ve had enough of sitting around, letting her ruin my morning. I decide to take decisive action. I call out to Bertrand, my butler, and he hurries over.
“Bring me a pen and one of our cards,” I say, my voice flat.
He nods, darts off, and returns with a thick cream card, embossed with the Montrose family crest. I grab a pen and start to scribble an invitation for tea, intending to be as precise and curt as humanly possible:
“Miss…,” I begin but I realize that I do not know her name.
I swear under my breath. How did I let her get under my skin so much, I didn’t even get her name? Swearing under my breath, I send a message to my lawyer. He replies almost instantly.
The granddaughter’s name is Lauren Hutton.
“Lauren,” I taste the name on my tongue. Despite how uncooperative, objectionable, and stubborn I find her, the name is quite fitting. American and glamorous. She would be glamorous without her halo of dust and dirt. Pushing any personal analysis of her out of mind, I fill in her name and continue with my note.
Dear Miss Hutton,
Would you care to join me at Montrose Manor for tea at 4.00 this afternoon? It would be pleasant to officially meet.
Hugh G. Montrose
I reread my note critically. It’s polite enough and doesn’t reek of desperation. I hand it over to Bertrand. “Get this to the occupant in the cottage and wait for her reply. Oh, and get the Chef to come and see me on your way out.”
“Very good, Sir,” he says and leaves immediately. I watch as he goes. It is rare, in fact, I can’t remember ever inviting anyone over for tea. Lauren Hutton will be the first.
The chef, a wiry guy, hovers near the door. “Come in,” I say, and he hurries over.
“We’re having a guest for tea at four this afternoon,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Put together an assortment of sweets and pastries. Pull out all the stops. Impress my guest with your best. Make it all look good and taste even better.”
I can see the confusion on his face at my request, but he nods quickly and goes on his way. Something tells me her rude and sour personality will be a sucker for sweets and pastries. Now that the invitation has gone out, I think of what to do to pass the time. I decide against riding out to check the barn repairs. Instead, I flip through emails and reports on my phone. I’m wasting time.
I know what I’m waiting for, even if I won’t admit it straight—I’m waiting for Bertrand to come back and tell me that she said, yes, of course she’ll come. It’s irritating, this eagerness to see her creeping in, but I brush it off. The sooner I deal with her, drive her out, the sooner I’ll be normal again. Back to my calm, unbothered, and in-control self.
That’s all this is. A way back to the old status quo.
Oh, and get the cottage back too.
Chapter
Ten
LAUREN
Idon’t wake up to a rat scurrying across my face, which my mother had made me half-expect, but I jolt awake with a crushing need to breathe. It’s as if the musty air has turned to mud in my lungs. My eyes snap open wide, and panic slams hard into my chest. My heart is hammering as I kick free and sit up on the creaky sofa.
Nothing’s wrong.
Not really, except, I’m in the middle of nowhere, drowning in a hoarder’s hellhole, and I’m losing it, full-on unraveling. Around me, the cluttered cottage is dark with the junk piles leaning like they’re about to collapse. I scramble out of the sofa, legs still wobbly, and force myself to calm down. I can still feel the dream on my skin.
“Stop overreacting, you’re fine. Everything’s fine.”
I shake my head and wonder what the hell is wrong with me. I’m having full-on dreams about fucking the neighbor I hate and waking up with mini panic attacks for no reason.
“You’re just in a cramped cottage,” I tell myself. “It’s not haunted, there are no rats, and it’s not a death trap. Outside is land and scenery that could be a Microsoft wallpaper. You have nothing to be worried about. This is what is called an adventure.”
I run around throwing open every window in the room, shoving hard against the sticky hinges. I just need to make this space my own. After that, I’m pretty sure I’ll feel immensely comfortable. After that, I’ll clear the overgrown weeds, start a garden, and grow tulips and roses…
“Be excited about that and stop overreacting.”
Shutting my eyes, I lean forward to sniff the morning breeze, and cold air rushes in—fresh, damp, earthy.
“Nice,” I force myself to say even though my eyes are watery. “Very nice.”