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)
Chapter
Forty-Four
HUGH
Standing in Lauren’s cottage kitchen, the delicious scent of tomato sauce and melted mozzarella fills the air, mixing with the faint tang of fresh paint from the newly finished walls feel like a fever dream.
The green pepper I sliced, thin and precise under her watchful eye, is now baked into the pizza, and I’m struck by how much I enjoyed the task, how her laughter, her teasing, “You’re too serious, Hugh,” made my chest feel lighter, fuller, than it has in years.
The counter is cluttered with mixing bowls, a wooden spoon streaked with sauce, and I realize I’ve been here all day, under the guise of overseeing the refrigerator installation, the AC unit, and finally the housekeepers’ deep clean—tasks I’d never bother with personally, tasks I delegated to staff without a second thought before her.
But today, I couldn’t leave, couldn’t walk back to the manor, because every moment away from her feels like a loss, a hollow ache I’m not ready to face. I’ve been stalling, finding excuses. Dust on the sills, a loose tile, anything to stay in her orbit, to keep her close, because the thought of her sleeping here, alone, while I’m in my cold bed, is unbearable.
She’s at the sink now, rinsing a spatula, her braid swaying, her jeans hugging her hips, and I’m worried, a quiet anxiety curling in my gut, that she’ll miss her room in the manor or worse, that this cottage—despite its fresh plaster and gleaming floors—won’t feel right, won’t be enough.
I’m searching for a reason, any reason, to ask her to stay one more night, to keep her in my arms, her breath soft against my chest, her warmth chasing the loneliness from my bones. The distance between our houses is nothing, a short walk across the gravel path, but it’s not the same, not the same as falling asleep together, our legs tangled, our heartbeats falling into a steady rhythm. I don’t know how I’ll sleep tonight, how I’ll face the silence of the manor without her.
When dinner is ready, we move to the dining table, a small oak piece tucked against the cottage’s stone wall. We eat together, the pizza is hot and hearty, each bite bursting with cheese and spice, and we share a bottle of Cabernet, Knox has brought. Its deep, velvety notes warm my throat, loosening the tension in my shoulders.
Afterwards, we settle on the sofa and flip on the TV. She curls into my side, her head resting on my shoulder, her hair smelling of apples and dough. I wrap an arm around her, my fingers tracing slow circles on her arm. The moment is so easy and so right, it hurts.
We laugh, we talk, our voices soft, and somewhere between the wine and the warmth of her body, we drift off, the TV’s drone fading, the world narrowing to the steady rise and fall of her breath.
It’s late, past midnight, when I wake, my neck stiff, the room dark save for the TV’s faint glow casting shadows on the exposed beams overhead. Lauren’s still asleep, her face soft, her lips slightly parted, her body curled against mine, and my heart clenches, because she’s here, but she’s not mine, not really. I know I could stay, could carry her to bed, could wake up with her in this cottage, but a voice in my head—sharp, insistent—tells me I need to detach, to pull back, because I’m in trouble, deep trouble, falling for her in ways I didn’t plan, ways that scare me.
We got too close, living in the manor, sharing meals, nights, secrets, and now, with her in her own space, I have to try, have to let her go, for her sake, for mine, before I lose myself completely. I slide out from under her, careful, slow, and lift her in my arms, her weight warm, familiar, her head lolling against my chest. I carry her to her bedroom, the new oak floor creaking faintly, and tuck her into the bed, pulling the quilt over her, its patchwork soft under my fingers. I lean down, pressing a kiss to her forehead, my lips lingering, her skin warm.
“Goodnight, baby,” I whisper, though she can’t hear me. Then I turn, my chest tight, and walk out, the cottage’s door clicking shut behind me.
The night air is cool and sharp with the scent of newly cut grass. I head back to the manor, my boots crunching on the gravel, each step heavier, sadder than the last. The manor looms, its ancient stone walls and towering chimneys stark against the starry sky, and I feel it—the loneliness, the vast, empty weight of this place without her.
The arched doorway built by my ancestors swallows me.
Once inside, I climb the grand staircase, its marble cold underfoot, and head to my suite. In the bathroom, I strip hastily, the mirror fogging as I turn on the shower and let the hot water pound my body. It washes away the day but not the ache, the image of her asleep, or the feel of her in my arms.