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)
“Oh no, that’s awful!” she says, her voice warm with concern. “Call Mick, he’s the best and the only one in the village. I’ll text his number. It’ll be fine. Just don’t panic, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say, hanging up as her text pings through. I call Mick, praying he’s free, but his voice comes slurred, thick with liquor.
“Hello?”
“Mick, it’s Lauren, from Sweetbriar Cottage, ” I say, desperate. “Ann gave me your number. My bathroom’s flooding—a pipe burst. Can you come now, please? I beg you.”
He laughs, a sloppy sound. “Love to help, lass, but I’m blind drunk. Pub crawl in town. Can’t even stand, let alone fix a pipe. I can come tomorrow if you want.”
Tomorrow? My house’ll be a lake by then.
“Please,” I beg, but he’s already mumbling his goodbyes.
I hang up, go outside and pace, the cold biting through my jacket. The grounds of Montrose are alive with Hugh’s party—music drifts down to me as more elegant figures in ballgowns and tuxedos glide toward the great doors. I’m underdressed, my skirt and crop top screaming cheap next to their grandeur, but I’m out of options. The water’s spreading, ruining everything I’ve fought so hard for. Hugh, I realize now, my entire soul sinking, is my best and last shot.
I hesitate, stomach churning with dread.
Asking him for help feels like surrendering, like stepping back into his orbit after I swore I’d stay away.
But my cottage—my home—is drowning.
I glance at the manor, its windows blazing, and start walking, self-conscious, but determined to save my home. I don’t have his number, don’t know how to reach him, but I’ll find him. He’s always the center of everything, isn’t he? Surrounded, commanding, impossible to miss. I walk through the manor’s doors, my heart pounding, scanning for the man I swore I’d forget, knowing that he’s my only hope right now.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
HUGH
Itake a sip of whisky and scan the room restlessly.
It’s been a long time since the ballroom hummed with bodies in silk gowns and tailored suits. I’m mid-sentence, nodding to a new client—some tech mogul droning about crypto yields—but my focus is fraying. I’ve been at it for hours, shaking hands, sealing promises, managing billions with a smile, but I can’t help but admit that I’m getting bored. I need my peace and quiet back fast, and I plan to make my excuses soon and head upstairs. This is not my party anyways.
Then I see her.
And my heart stops, a hard thud against my ribs. Is she real? I’ve been seeing her all night—in every shadow, every laugh—her ghost haunting me through the crowd. But there she is, flesh and blood, her hair loose, lips red as sin.
She crashed Victor’s ball.
I stare at her. Fascinated by the way she stands out, like a wildflower in a manicured garden. Every woman is draped in couture and diamonds, but she’s in leather and a miniskirt. Defiant and utterly out of place.
My pulse quickens with curiosity and desire. What’s she doing here? My first thought is the noise—she’s come to complain, to chew me out for the music, the cars clogging her lane. The idea sparks a grin, amusement curling in my chest. She would storm in, all fury and resentment, wouldn’t she?
I excuse myself from the mogul, barely hearing his reply, and weave through the crowd, drawn to her like gravity. Her eyes dart around, wide, nervous, and I slow my steps, drinking her in. She’s a spark of realness in this sea of polish, and I need to know why she’s here.
“Lauren,” I say, reaching her.
Her wild gaze snaps to mine, and for a second, I’m back in the orangery, her lips under mine, soft and fierce. I shake it off. “What’s wrong?”
She hesitates, her fingers twisting the strap of her bag, worry etching her face. “I’m sorry to barge in,” she says, voice almost swallowed by the sound of violins drifting in from the quartet. “I have an emergency. My house—it’s flooding from a burst pipe in the bathroom. I just got home from the pub and found water in the hallway. It’s bad. It’ll ruin everything. I tried calling a plumber, but he’s not free until tomorrow. I can’t wait until then, so I thought… um… do you know anyone who could help? Right now?”
I’m instantly protective, a reflex that catches me off guard. Why do I care this much about her cottage flooding? I should be happy. It’s the best way to get rid of her. But her eyes—pleading, vulnerable—pull me in. “Don’t worry,” I say, firm, stepping closer. “I’ll handle it.”
She blinks, a flicker of relief softening her tension, and I’m struck by her faith in me, how she trusts me. It’s heady. I guide her to a nearby table, my hand hovering at her elbow, not touching but close enough to feel her warmth. She sits, tugging her skirt self-consciously, and I flag down one of my staff—a sharp-eyed server named Thomas.