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)
Sure, the yard is a wreck now, but I could make it really mine. I could build something good. The thought settles in me, warm and fragile, rays of hope sneaking in through the ruin around me.
I glance up, past the tangled mess of my yard, and catch sight of the manor again—sleek and magnificent, its stone walls glowing in the late afternoon light, a fairy-tale beast dwarfing my little wreck. My chest tightens, not with defeat, but with something fiercer. Something I’ve never felt before in life. I decide right then, standing in those beginning rays of English sunset, and with my boots sinking in the mud, that I’ll make my cottage as beautiful as that manor, or hell, even better. Not just pretty—breathtaking, alive, mine.
“One more instance where size doesn’t matter,” I mutter to myself, and a dry chuckle slips out. I can almost hear Sandy laughing with me, and it’s enough to prepare me to fight for my plot of chaos.
“I’ll never give you up, Sweetbriar,” I whisper to the wind as it blows in the direction of the manor.
Chapter
Four
HUGH
The rhythmic thud of hooves pounds against the dirt as my horse tears across the field, his mane whipping in the wind. I lean into the gallop, the reins taut in my grip. I’d been out inspecting a barn repair—a busted beam on the far end of the estate, a good excuse to ride. Early evening’s my time, the air is cool with that crisp bite of spring, and the sky is smudged with rich orange and purple. I can feel the tension unravel, the billion-dollar bullshit of London fading as the wind rushes past. It’s just me, the horse, and my land… until my phone buzzed an hour ago.
One of the staff was stammering about someone at the cottage. My jaw clenched. Developers—those Harrington pricks eyeing my patch? I’d spurred the horse faster, hooves kicking up clods of earth, determined to catch them in the act.
Now, as I rein in near the cottage, the horse snorts, tossing its head. I tether it to a gnarled post half-sunk in the overgrown mess. My eyes narrow on the place with disgust—stone walls crumbling, weeds choking the yard, the door ajar like a drunk’s slack jaw. I stride up, boots crunching gravel, and spot it: luggage on the stoop. Pink, scuffed to hell, one wheel busted off.
Not developers, then.
My stomach drops, annoyance flaring hotter than before. Some random squatter, or worse, the American granddaughter—means a person to deal with, and that’s the last damn thing I want out here. I came to escape people, not play neighbor. Fine. I’ll make it fast—throw enough cash in her face to choke on and own the land by dinner. Easy.
I rap my knuckles impatiently on the open door, the wood rattling under the force—once, twice, thrice. No answer. I step inside, the air hitting me like a punch—stale, thick with dust and decay, and the kind of smell that clings to your throat. I look around in amazement. The place is a fucking tomb—piles of junk everywhere, teetering stacks of magazines, chipped teacups, framed photos with such a thick layer of dust on them you can’t see what’s underneath. I knock again, louder, irritation bubbling up.
“Anyone here?” I call, my voice almost lost in the clutter.
Nothing. Then—a groan, low and rough, followed by a soft, “Fuck.” It’s faint, muffled, but there’s a spark in it, a fire that catches me off guard. My pulse kicks up, and I hate it—hate that it’s not just anger now, but something else, something hot and curious twisting in my gut. I want to see who’s behind that voice, see the face that can curse like that and still sound… coy and sexy.
A crash follows—something heavy collapsing, wood splintering, a cloud of dust billowing out from deeper in the mess. I hear coughing, harsh and ragged, and then it’s complete silence. Is she dead? I wonder. A part of me hopes it is the case. Saves me from interacting, but of course, I don’t expect to be this lucky, I never have been.
“Are you okay?” I ask without the least concern in my voice.
I hear her struggle to rise, strawberry blonde hair swishing about and then she stumbles into view, emerging from the wreckage like a ghost shaking off its grave.
She’s brushing dust off her jeans, swiping at her jacket, coughing into her sleeve. The haze clears, and her eyes—big, blue, wide as hell—lock onto me. They widen further, fear flashing in them, and I catch it: she’s spooked. Good. That’ll make this easier, scare her off quickly. She’s younger than I expected, her hair tangled and dusted with grime, but there’s a spark there, a defiance I can feel even through her shock.
“This place is a death trap,” I say, cutting straight to it, my voice cold, hard. Catch her while she is still balanced. Deliberately, I tower in the doorway, arms crossed, the new leather of my riding gear whispering as I shift. “Old and crumbling—barely standing. I tried to get your grandmother to sell for years, more for her safety than anything, but she wouldn’t budge. It’s too much for one person to maintain, all this land.” I jerk my head toward the overgrown sprawl visible from the open kitchen door. “You don’t want this eyesore. I’ll buy it off you—name your price.”