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
Thirty-Seven
LAUREN
With my phone pressed between my ear and my shoulder, I shove clothes into a duffel bag—a few t-shirts, jeans, a sweater that’s too big but warm. Sandy’s voice crackles into my ear, and I can almost see her grinning, and her eyes glinting with that knowing look she always has when she has been proven right.
“I really don’t know how to explain myself to you,” I say, tugging a pair of socks from a drawer. The air is thick with dust even though the workers are working outside, their hammers pounding, their music blaring, their voices loud through the warped walls. I’m fleeing to Hugh’s manor, to a world that feels too big, too shiny, too much like a dream. Dreams break.
Sandy cackles loudly.
“Stop laughing,” I scold, but there’s no heat in my voice, and she pays no heed and carries on laughing gleefully. I sink heavily onto the edge of the bed.
“I knew this was gonna happen,” Sandy crows, her voice smug.
I roll my eyes, even though she can’t see me. “I feel bad,” I admit, “but… I don’t, not really. Like you said, it’s an equal exchange. I enjoyed myself.” God, did I?
“And you’re getting a full renovation out of it. So why should you make this harder than it needs to be?”
I pause, my gaze drifting to the window. “I don’t expect anything from him, Sandy. That’s the key. If I start expecting more, that’s when it gets dangerous.”
“You’re absolutely right,” she says, but there’s a warning in her voice, a thread of worry. “Take what he’s offering, Lauren. He’s got more than enough to give. But when it’s time to end it, end it. Whatever you do, don’t fall in love with him. A man like him is out of our league.”
I cough and shake my head, even as my chest tightens, the memory of Hugh’s gray eyes burning into mine flashing through me. “I’ll never fall in love with him. That’s impossible,” I say, too quick, too firm, like I’m trying to convince myself. “No way. I know he’s out of my league. He’s out of most women’s leagues.”
Sandy’s quiet for a beat, then asks in a sly voice, “How was the sex?”
I flush and I’m back there—on the sofa and the way he fucked me like he’d never stop, like I was everything. “Un-fucking-believable,” I say, my voice a whisper.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she says, her words slow, deliberate. “That’s a very slippery slope you have there. Sex like that with a gorgeous, super-rich Duke—it’s how you fall in love and get your heart broken.”
“No,” I say, pacing the cramped room. “I know what this is, Sandy. I know what he is. His wealth is everywhere—the manor, the staff, the way he snaps his fingers and the world bends to his every whim. It’s a reminder every day that this isn’t real. It’s just a fantasy. I’m just… having fun. This is a vacation, a chance to experience something I’d never get otherwise. I’m not restricting myself, not when it’s this easy, this good.” I pause, my fingers grabbing a half-empty bottle of moisturizer on the dresser, and tossing it into the bag. “That girl in the bathroom—Meredith—she made sure I got the message. Drilled it into my head. I should thank her, honestly.”
“You really think she was his ex-girlfriend?”
“No idea,” I say, zipping the bag decisively. “For all we know she could have been lying. But the way she talked, bitter and broken—she’s definitely someone Hugh slept with, someone who wanted more and got nothing. That’s what happens when you expect things. But I’m going in clear-eyed. I won’t expect a damn thing, so I’ll never be her, never stoop that low.”
I sling the bag over my shoulder, my resolve hardening, and Sandy hums, a sound of agreement, though I know she’s still worried.
I hang up and go outside, the cottage’s chaos fading as I enter the manor’s grounds. The walk to the main house is quick, my heart thudding with a mix of nerves and anticipation. Mrs. O’Brien meets me at the door, her smile polite, and leads me up the sweeping staircase and through the seemingly endless hallway until we reach the west wing. She opens a door, and I step inside, my breath catching, because this room, this suite, is something out of a Brontë novel, a dream woven from velvet and time.
The walls are covered in antique wallpaper featuring roses and gold vines. A magnificent four-poster bed standing on a plush wine-red rug dominates the room. Its mahogany frame is beautifully carved and draped in shimmering silk. On either side of the bed there are bedside tables made from the same wood with wonderful Victorian lamps on them. A chandelier hangs in the middle of the ceiling. Against one wall a vanity with a gilded mirror and a wardrobe tall as a man stands proudly. Heavy drapes, sapphire and thick, frame the tall windows that open to the incredible view outside.