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)
She waves me over, pulling me into a hug that feels like it was made years ago.
“You made it!” she shouts over the noise, her blonde curls bouncing.
Her ease loosens the knot in my chest, and I smile, a genuine grin of relief and happiness.
She leads me to a corner table where two guys are sprawled out comfortably, pints in hand.
“Lauren, this is Tom and Jamie,” she says, gesturing to each one.
Tom’s lanky, with sandy hair and a shy grin, his flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows. He looks like how I always imagined a farmer would. Jamie’s broader, dark-eyed, with a stubbled jaw and a deep, strong laugh. They’re nice enough, but my heart sinks, a quiet disappointment I hate admitting. I came here to forget Hugh, to prove he’s not special, but these two… they’re not him. If anything, they make him stand out even more. What a crying shame.
Hugh’s shadow looms in my head—his hard, manly jaw, those piercing eyes—and I’m furious with myself. Why is he still here, ruining my life?
I shove his smirking face away, swearing I won’t think of him tonight. Not once. I force a smile and slide into the seat next to Annabel.
“Hello, I’m Lauren,” I say, and they nod, welcoming, curious.
“Where you from?” Tom asks, leaning forward.
“Chicago,” I say, settling in. “Needed a change, so… here I am.”
“Big move,” Jamie says, raising his pint. “What’s the States like?”
I shrug, keeping it light. “Busy. Loud. Dangerous, you know?” I turn it back on them. “What about here? Village life treating you okay?”
Tom laughs. “It’s spring, so it’s not miserable. Sun’s out, fields are green—can’t complain.”
“Yet,” Jamie adds, grinning. “Wait till winter. I’ve been here all my life, and I will forever hate winter.”
The small talk flows easily—weather, local quirks, the pub’s best ale. I skip booze since I’m driving down unfamiliar country roads, and sip cranberry juice instead. Their uncomplicated banter washes over me. It’s fine, pleasant, but eventually my eyelids grow heavy, the day’s weight creeping in. I’ve been hauling paint cans, scraping walls, rebuilding my life piece by piece, and it’s caught up with me. Mid-sentence, while Tom’s talking about a local festival, I catch myself dozing, my head dipping. Mortified, I snap upright, heat flooding my cheeks.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I mutter, standing quickly. “I’ve been renovating all day, and I’m wiped. I should head back.”
The men look surprised, but I can see understanding in their eyes.
“No worries,” Annabel says, her smile kind. “Get some sleep.”
Tom and Jamie wave me off, no judgment, and I slip out, the pub’s noise fading behind me. The drive home is a blur, my eyes fighting to stay open, but I’m not sleepy—just bored, I realize. The guys were nice, but they didn’t spark anything, and they definitely didn’t pull me out of myself.
The dangerously dark road means I’m wide awake and alert by the time I turn onto my lane, only to find the road to the manor choked with cars. Ferraris, Range Rovers, a sleek limousine gleaming under the light from the manor—Hugh’s home is a magnet, pulling in wealth like moths to a flame. A strange feeling fills my chest. So, he’s thrown a party, grand and dazzling, and I wasn’t invited.
Not that I wanted to be, of course, but the sting’s there, sharp and petty.
I’d noticed the signs earlier. Servers bustling, decorations going up as I got ready, but I’d ignored it, curling my hair with rollers, painting my lips red, promising myself I’d have the night of my life. Now, seeing the glittering party in full swing, I’m annoyed.
“Why is he allowed to block even my damn lane?” I mutter, maneuvering past a Bentley to park.
I step out, the air cool against my skin, and head for my door. At least, I’m home safe. But as I push inside, my foot steps into a puddle of water. I freeze, heart sinking. Oh God, the entryway’s flooded, a dark sheen spreading across the floor.
“What the hell?” I gasp, flicking on the light.
Water glints, pooling toward the hall. Panic claws at me, and I follow the trail, my pulse hammering. It’s coming from the bathroom, the one room I’ve barely touched. I’d started renovating last week, prying up tiles, exposing old pipes, but haven’t finished. I must’ve hit something or loosened a joint when I was hammering. The sink’s base is a mess with water seeping from a cracked copper pipe. The flow is steady and relentless.
I start freaking out. This is the last thing I need. I can’t afford my for whole house to flood. My hands are shaking as I grab my phone. Annabel. She’ll know someone. I dial and start pacing on the one dry patch by the living room door. “Annabel, it’s me,” I blurt when she answers. “My house is flooding—a pipe burst in the bathroom. I think I must have hit it while renovating. Do you know a plumber?”