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)
“He’s just so delectable, I could pop him between two slices of bread and eat him,” she says with a grin. “And he’s a billionaire.”
I raise a brow, teasing. “Is he the only edible man in town, or is he just extra tasty because his family gave him billions?”
“Oh no. His family was almost bankrupt. Montrose Manor had leaks everywhere, and the east wing had become dangerous because of structural damage. His father even sold off a parcel of land to pay his property taxes. Hugh Montrose is completely self-made. He bought back the land his father sold and restored the manor to its glory days. He’s bloody unbelievable.”
My heart skips a beat. So I misjudged him.
“And yes,” she continues, catching my earlier drift and giggling, “there are other edible men, but none quite like him. Look, you’re new here. Why don’t you come out with me for a drink at the pub? It’s quite alright on Friday and Saturday nights. The drinks are not too pricey, and you’ll be able to meet some of the lads here. None as handsome as the Duke, but us mortals must recognize our limitations and make do.”
“The Duke doesn’t ever go to the pub?” I ask.
She makes a hissing sound. “Of course not. If he ever did, I’d quit working here and find employment there.”
I smile in response because she is such a delight to listen to. Her invite catches me off guard, but I embrace it because I know it comes from a warm and genuine heart. I feel that ache again, the one that’s been quiet since the bakery.
“Yeah, I’d like that,” I say, meaning it, my mood lifting. “Let me know when you’re free.”
“Deal,” Ann says, handing me my receipt, her smile wide.
I head out, the soap, a bag of nuts for my furry little tenant, and a packet of sponge light in my bag, and glance at the Range Rover again. Fortunately, Hugh is nowhere in sight. The hardware store’s not far away, a squat building on its own with a cluttered window displaying hammers, paint cans, rolls of wallpaper, and an ironing board.
Inside, it smells of men’s smells, sawdust and metal, and the shelves are packed with tools I barely understand but apparently will need. I grab a small tube of caulk to urgently seal some cracks I found in the living room wall, a small trowel, and a basic wrench, my budget screaming with every choice. The clerk, a gruff guy with a beard, gives me a catalog for ordering paint and bigger supplies online, jotting down my cottage’s address for delivery.
“It usually takes a few days,” he says. “But I’ll try to hurry the order so it gets to you earlier.”
“I’d appreciate that, thank you.” I nod with relief, especially now that it’s confirmed that I won’t have to bike back and forth with gallons of paint.
By the time I’m done, I see that Hugh’s Range Rover is gone.
“Could’ve at least offered me a ride back,” I mutter to myself, half-joking, half-pissed. “Ass.”
My old bike is waiting, wobblier than ever, and I’m about to head out when my attention is caught by an antique shop across the street, its window glowing with a Tiffany lamp. The light is falling, and the delicate curve of stained glass in blues and greens swirls like a dream. My heart skips. It’s beautiful, way out of my league and surely beyond my budget, but I’m drawn to it like a moth to a flame. I walk to the window, but the price tag is tucked away behind the lamp.
I open the door and step inside the shop, my heart beating fast.
The shop’s a literal cave of treasures—brass clocks, rocking horses, Victorian style dolls and teddy bears, bone China tea sets, and intricately carved furniture. A brass mirror reflects my muddy jeans and flushed cheeks. I weave through the riches and head over to the display in front. My eyes lock on the lamp, its light soft and warm. I want this lamp. I really, really want it. Even if it means slightly blowing my budget, I have to have it.
The owner, a wiry man with glasses, smiles when I ask about it. “It’s a reproduction,” he says, “It’s not an original, but it’s great quality.”
I am so happy to hear this because it means I might be able to afford it.
“How much is it?” I ask nervously.
It was listed for £150.00, but there’s a small crack in one pane—see here?” He points to an area behind the lamp, and I lean in to look at it. The flaw is barely noticeable, a hairline fracture in the green glass. As far as I’m concerned, it’s still perfect, so I have no qualms about pushing for the sale price.
“I’ll let it go for ninety-five,” he says, and I nearly squeal for joy. I can just picture this bringing so much life and color to my little living room.