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)
At the checkout, the cashier, a girl about my age with freckles, a messy ponytail, and bright blue nails, scans my stuff. If I had to guess her personality, I would put her in the extrovert, warm, generous, and super friendly category.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Oh! You’re an American,” she notes, her eyes brimming with curiosity. “Are you here on holiday?”
“No. I’ve come to live in Sweetbriar Cottage.”
She looks at me, her eyes as big as saucers. “So… you must be Mrs. Morrell’s granddaughter.”
I smile. “That’s me.”
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
“Anyway, welcome to the village. People around here are quite helpful if you need anything. Just ask.”
“If I order supplies, will this store deliver them to me?” I ask, hating how limited I feel. “Like, cleaning supplies, paint, that kinda stuff?”
She nods, all business, and grabs a flyer from under the counter. “Sure. We’ve got a website. Free delivery over fifty quid. Just put in your address with a postcode, pick what you need, and Bob’s your uncle. Takes a couple of days usually.” Bob’s your uncle. I’ve never heard that saying before, but it’s cute. I tuck the flyer in my pocket, relief loosening my shoulders. Suddenly she gasps softly as her eyes dart past me.
I turn and follow her gaze… and there he is—Hugh, stepping out of a sleek black Range Rover across the street. My breath catches and my stupid heart does a somersault. He’s almost unrecognizable outside riding clothes. He is wearing black jeans and his black leather jacket hugs his shoulders while aviator sunglasses hide those piercing eyes.
Mesmerized, I watch him, moving like he owns the ground, full of quiet power, and for a second, I can’t look away. The Range Rover gleams, massive, pristine, and a spike of jealousy hits me as I recall the buttery yellow Aston Martin as well. How many cars does he have? I think, picturing my wobbly bike, my dusty cottage, his damn manor looming over it all.
“Would you look at that!” the cashier murmurs, practically vibrating.
This is more than enough to bring me back to my senses.
“Do you know him?” I ask, keeping my voice as casual as I can manage, leaning against the counter, playing it cool.
Her eyes widen and her blue nails flutter. “Everybody knows him. His family’s been here for generations. He’s the Duke of Beauclerk. He lives mostly in London and only really comes to Hawk’s End for short visits. Hugh Montrose is the closest thing to royalty we have. The girls go crazy when he’s around.” She sighs dreamily. “I know you’ve got gorgeous cowboys walking around in America, but he’s what we got. Proper eye candy, isn’t he?”
She looks at me expectantly, and I cough and nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“You’d think he’d be the typical rich titled guy,” she continues, “and take some of those girls throwing themselves at him, but nope. He just minds his own business, rides his horse, flies his hawks and falcons, and keeps to himself.”
I turn my head to look at him, processing, because this is surprising to hear. I, of course, would have thought that he’d be after everything with boobs and a pair of legs he can open, but… he keeps to himself? Maybe that is easy to believe, after all.
Of course, he’d keep to himself when the only thing that interests him is stealing other people’s land. I have a wild desire to scratch the message into that gleaming new car of his: “my cottage is not your birthright.” God, he really brings out the witch in me.
I’m about to return my attention to the cashier when all of a sudden, he looks my way. Through the window, our gazes collide.
Jesus! I freeze in panic, as my stomach lurches and shock roots me to the spot. He takes off his sunglasses, perhaps so that I won’t be even a shadow of a doubt that he is indeed staring straight at me. And then he smiles, a slow, crooked thing, warm enough to burn. My pulse trips, and heat creeps up my neck. It’s such a weird sensation, I can’t tell if I’m pissed or flustered or both.
The cashier, Annabel, her name tag announced it, squeals and grabs my arm. “Oh my God, did you see that? He smiled at me! Oh my God.” Her face is all glee, oblivious to my frozen stare.
I laugh, shaky, channeling my nerves into a grin, grateful for the distraction. “You’re Annabel, right?” I ask, needing to ground myself.
“Yeah, but I hate that name. Everyone just calls me Ann,” she says, still buzzing, her freckles melding into her flush.
“I’m Lauren,” I say. “Is there perchance a hardware store around? I need waterproofing, plumbing supplies, that kinda thing.”
Ann nods, pointing down the street. “Yeah, just past the pub—it’s a big sign, you can’t miss it.” She’s still half-gone, gushing about Hugh—his jawline, his mystery—and I let her ramble, curious despite myself.