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)
Music hums through the speakers—something bluesy, raw, matching my mood—and the scenery shifts, London’s gray sprawl eventually giving way to rolling green, hedgerows, sky so wide it feels like breathing for the first time.
As I reach the turning towards Hawk’s End, I realize that I’m still hungry. The little bakery café off the high street does a mean Welsh Rarebit, and I decide on impulse to have one with a poached egg and two of their delicious homemade sausages.
I take a left turn and head for the village. It’s slow here, just how I like it—the distinctive Tudor architecture with white buildings and black beams, a pub with ivy crawling up the walls, old men on benches who nod with easy familiarity.
My family’s been here for generations, Montrose’s shadow long enough to make me a name, but I don’t know these people, not really, and that’s the point. They smile and nod, but they don’t talk to me, don’t crowd me with expectations or questions.
It’s freedom, or close enough.
I park outside the pharmacy, cut the engine, but before I can step out, I receive a call from Edward. About time.
Chapter
Fourteen
LAUREN
The bicycle wobbles beneath me, and the chain rattles like it’s got a personal grudge against me. It’s broken down twice already—first a mile out, when the pedal jammed, then again near that muddy ditch, where I nearly ate dirt. I’ll admit I swore like a drunken sailor.
My thighs burn with the unaccustomed exercise, and sweat blooms under my arms, but I push on. The road dips toward the village, and finally, I see it—the lovely old shops huddled close, chimneys puffing lazy smoke, the street alive with people, voices, motion.
My chest loosens. I made it. After days buried in that hoarder’s hellhole, this is oxygen, this is life. The bike’s squeaky wheels slow as I coast in, soaking it up. It’s not even market day, and already it is like being inside a painting from another time. Everything is just so wholesome. A van is delivering bread in baskets, a group of women are chatting outside the butchers, and kids are strolling along in their charming school uniforms. Someone has just left his bicycle lying on the ground without fear of it being stolen.
The group of women turn to look at me, and I do what I would never do back in Chicago, I smile broadly at them. They immediately smile back and wave. Yes, I’m alone here, but not invisible, and it feels so damn good.
The bakery is my first destination. After days of eating canned soup, I’m gagging for something delicious. Again, I do what I would never do back home. I lean the bike against a lamppost—no lock, but if nobody is stealing the other good bike who’s stealing this piece of junk? I duck inside. An old-fashioned bell jingles brightly, and the smell of fresh bread and the heat from the ovens envelop me like a warm hug. It’s small and cozy, no fancy display case filled with pretentious desserts, but what’s here is perfect: crusty loaves, golden croissants, scones dotted with currants, all fresh. My stomach growls.
Greedily, I grab a loaf of sourdough, its crust crackling under my fingers, and two pastries—a flaky pain au chocolat and a cinnamon twist that’s practically glowing.
“Those hot-cross buns look amazing,” I say, handing over my cash, my mouth already watering.
“Aye, it’s fresh out of the oven,” the woman says.
“In that case, I’ll have one of those too.”
She packs my stuff for me and I’m out the door, too excited to wait. Outside, I perch on a bench and tear into the cinnamon twist. The first bite’s heaven—sweet, buttery, the dough melting soft with a crunch of sugar that sticks to my lips. I close my eyes, savoring it, the village humming around me, a dog barking somewhere, the sun warm on my face. This is why I came here, isn’t it? Moments like this, where the world feels completely right, where I’m not drowning in deadlines and dirty subways.
I lick my fingers clean, grinning like an idiot, and tuck the rest in my bag, ready for the next stop. The grocery store’s just down the street, its sign faded but welcoming, windows stacked with canned goods and cereal boxes. Inside, it’s narrow shelves are crammed tight, and it smells faintly of lemons and new cardboard. I grab a metal basket and weave through the aisles.
My list is short but urgent—soap, cleaning sprays, a scrub brush, detergent—stuff to tame the cottage’s chaos. Spray paint for the chipped table, gloves for hauling junk. But as I pile bottles in the basket, reality hits: I’m on a damn bicycle. No trunk, no backseat, just a rickety basket up front that’ll hold a packet of sponges and a prayer. My heart sinks a little. I so wanted to make progress today, not limp back half-empty. Sighing, I ditch the heavier stuff and settle for a bottle of dish soap, a packet of nuts, some pieces of sponge, and a travel-sized detergent. My fingers linger on the spray paint before letting it go.