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)
“Why don’t you just take the jet?” I ask curiously. “You can leave whenever you want with that option, and you won’t have all the hassle of flying commercial.”
“Waste of resources,” she says. “I have booked a seat in First class, and the check-in will be speedy. I’m fine.”
“As you wish, Mama,” I concede and drop into the chair across from her. A maid—a new girl, all nervous hands—sets a cup in front of me and pours steaming black coffee into it. I nod at her, and she scurries off. “But what’s the rush? Stay a few more days. You know I like having you here.”
She laughs lightly, brushes crumbs from her fingers, and lifts her cup of tea. “That’s sweet of you to say, my darling, but I’ve been closeted here for the last three months, and that is quite enough. This house is too quiet. When you’re not here, I feel like a demented ghost wandering around aimlessly by myself. Ever since your father… the memories… it’s all a bit much. Anyway, I’m a city girl at heart. I need the noise, the bustle. Paris calls. I’ve been here long enough.”
I sip my coffee. It’s exactly how I like it: bitter and scalding hot. “Fair enough. What about the Sweetbriar Cottage? Any news?”
She sets her teacup down, the porcelain clinking softly against the saucer. “The dreadful woman’s granddaughter is American, I hear. But no word from her yet. Still, the fact that she hasn’t turned up is good news. Perhaps she’s not interested in the property, and she’ll accept your offer. We can live in hope.”
I lean back, jaw tightening. “Hope? No, that’s not how I run things. I want that land, and I’m going to get it by hook or by crook. It’s a fucking disgrace, just sitting there rotting—ruins the view, drags the look of the whole estate down. You know how stunning it could be if I got my hands on it. And no neighbors for miles—complete privacy. I’m not waiting. I’m going to hire someone to work on it.”
“Preston’s firm will be able to sort it all out for you. They’re awfully clever. The fly in the ointment is those ghastly developers, The Harrington Group. They’re always trying to buy up chunks of the countryside, and Mrs. O’Brien tells me they’ve been sniffing around. If that girl hears from them first and falls for their cunning sales pitch, it’ll be lost for good. You’ll never pry it back from those frightful foreign vultures.”
My grip tightens on the cup, heat seeping into my palm. The Harrington group represents unlimited Qatari money. Those bastards are responsible for most of Canary Wharf’s vulgar glass and metal towers and the tackiest resorts around the world. The thought of them sinking their greedy claws into the land next to mine makes me want to punch something.
“They’ll completely devastate the area if she sells to them,” I growl.
My mother nods sagely and sips her tea. “Indeed. You’ll have to move fast. If I hear anything more about the elusive granddaughter, I’ll let you know, of course.”
I’m already halfway out the room, fishing my phone from my pocket. The hall echoes with my steps—polished wood, portraits of hundreds of years’ worth of ancestors staring down at me. I dial my lawyer, Edward, pacing as it rings. He picks up on the second ring.
“Why the delay?’ I ask. “Haven’t you found her yet?’
“Rest assured, there’s no delay, Sir. Everything is under control. We’ve got her details, and we’ll send them over in the next hour so you can reach out and make an offer.”
“Alright,” I reply, somewhat consoled. “I’ll expect these details today?”
“We’ll do our very best, Sir.”
Chapter
Three
LAUREN
The pilot’s voice crackles over the intercom, a delightful British drawl cutting through the hum of the plane. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just landed at Birmingham International Airport. Local time is 2:17 p.m. Welcome to England.”
He informs us about the weather and finishes with the ‘thanks for flying with us’ spiel, but through it all, I’m almost afraid to breathe. Eventually, the plane lands and taxis to a halt, and the cabin erupts in movement—seatbelts clicking, overhead bins snapping open—but I just sit there, frozen, my hands clenched around the armrests. My stomach is a knot, twisting tighter.
This is it. I’m here.
My adventure starts right here and now.
I shuffle off the jetway with my carry-on, a small, green, beat-up suitcase. It rolls behind me, its wheels clattering against the tiled floor. The airport is gray and sterile, smelling of coffee and disinfectant. Voices bouncing off the walls in accents and languages I have never heard of. Outside the glass walls, the skies are gray and it’s raining steadily. I’m jet-lagged, my eyes feel gritty, and my legs are stiff from six hours crammed in economy, but there’s a buzz under my skin—nerves, yeah, but the excitement too.