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)
Are they the first faint bruises of shame?
A knock splits the silence, hard and jarring, rattling the door frame like a gunshot. My heart lurches, a wild thud against my ribs, and I freeze, my breath caught in my throat. It comes again, louder, paired with muffled voices—male, rough. Then the metallic clank of something heavy outside. Alarm surges, icy and piercing, yanking me from my hazy thoughts.
Who’s here?
Then more clanging noises and a different male voice.
Shit. What the hell is going on outside?
I’m naked and sticky, and the thought of facing anyone at all twists my gut into knots. I sit bolt upright, wincing as my thighs protest, each movement a sore reminder of Hugh’s victory. Oh God, the way I arched into him. Sluttish doesn’t begin to describe my behavior.
My hands rush to grab a t-shirt and a pair of baggy shorts from the top drawer of my dresser. The fabric feels rough against my tender skin. I shove my tangled hair back, strands clinging to my sweaty neck, and stumble to the door.
My pulse sounds loud, erratic in my ears.
The voices are clearer now—all male, gruff, impatient, mixed with the scrape of boots and the clatter of tools. I crack the door, just an inch, squinting into the morning’s harsh light, and my breath catches. A crew of men, six or seven, in work boots and hi-vis vests, converse surrounded by piles of lumber, and bags of cement. In the background, a generator is humming like a resting beast. One of them, stocky with a graying beard, steps forward, his clipboard clutched tight, his eyes scanning me curiously.
“Miss Hutton,” he notes. “We’re here to do some work on the cottage. We’ve been told to start today.”
What? My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Work? Start today? My brain’s still too sluggish to process this —this invasion of men and materials. It feels like a nightmare I didn’t ask for. “I… what?” I manage, my voice cracking like dry wood.
He frowns, glancing at his clipboard, then back at me, his patience thinning.
“Renovations,” he says, slower, like I’m a recalcitrant, fretful child. “Full overhaul. The crew’s here to get it done quick. You weren’t told?”
I shake my head, confusion swirling with a creeping dread. Hugh. This is him—his money, his control, his way of bending the world to his will. My stomach lurches, a mix of gratitude and fury, because I need the help, God knows I do, but not like this, especially the way it has just been sprung on me.
“Wait,” I say, my voice sharper, trembling. “Just… give me a second.” I shut the door, not caring if it’s rude, and lean against it. My phone. I need my phone. Uh, probably still in the purse I used last night. I find my purse lying on the floor by the door. What a mess I was last night.
I dig my phone out and dial Hugh’s number, the screen blurring as my eyes burn. It rings, but after five rings it goes directly to voicemail. His voice—smooth, clipped, then that fucking delicious accent tells me to leave a message. I try again, then a third time, each unanswered call stoking the panic in my chest. The men are out there, waiting, probably muttering about the crazy American broad wasting their time.
“Fuck you, Hugh, for being so high-minded,” I mutter, tossing the phone on the sofa.
I can’t keep them waiting forever. I find my sneakers and shove my feet into them, my movements frantic. My hair is a wild mess, of course, but what the hell. I open the door again, and the bearded man is still there, his crew looking amused.
“Come in,” I say, my voice flat, and step aside.
They hesitate, then file in, boots tracking dirt across the warped floorboards, their disbelieving eyes scanning the chaos—piles of junk, half-torn drywall, basically the skeleton of my dreams.
I don’t look at them. I don’t want their pity or judgment. “Do… whatever you need to,” I mutter, and slip out.
The air outside is crisp, biting, the kind of spring morning that smells of wet grass and possibility, but I’m too wired to feel it. My sneakers crunch gravel as I march toward the manor, its stone walls looming, sleek and perfect, a mocking contrast to my crumbling wreck.
My thighs ache with every step, each twinge a reminder of Hugh’s fingers digging into my flesh, his lips searing my skin, and the way he stretched me, until I was nothing but hot need. I shove the errant thoughts down hard, but they remain, pulsing, making my cheeks burn as I climb the manor’s steps. I ring the doorbell, and soon enough, the butler appears.
His smile is polite but guarded, like he knows I’m a storm waiting to break. “Miss Hutton,” he says formally.