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)
We slip into fluffy robes and return to the bed. In the glowing lamplight, I pull her close, and her body curls into mine. We lie quietly, neither wanting to break the silence. I don’t know what this is, what it means, but with her in my arms, I don’t care—not now.
Chapter
Forty-Three
LAUREN
Iwake up with the morning light filtering through the emerald drapes. My body feels heavy, and when I raise my hand, there is languidness there. There always is in the mornings while I’ve been living at the manor. But today is the day I must leave, and my body is protesting, clinging to the warmth I found in Hugh’s body, to the memories.
It’s late and I know I’ve overslept, deliberately, because getting up means packing, means moving back to my cottage, means stepping away from him. The past three weeks have been a whirlwind, and the main renovations are finally complete—leaky pipes fixed, cracked plaster patched, overgrown weeds cleared, and a small garden bed planted with lavender and roses, their roots now deeply tucked into the rich, dark soil. I’ve learned planting techniques from his farmers—how to space seedlings, how to mulch for winter and I’m excited, truly, I am, to start my own garden, to make that space mine, but my chest aches with a heavy sadness I can’t shake, because leaving this manor, leaving him, feels like I’m losing something important.
Even though I’ll only be down the garden.
We’ve grown so close, maybe too close, our days filled with horse rides across his sprawling fields, the wind sharp and wild, his laugh warm as he taught me to gallop without fear. Every moment, every shared glance, has woven us tighter, until I know, deep in my bones, that I’m falling, that I’m in too deep. Sometimes when I am alone, Meredith’s sharp warning echoes and stings: he’s a womanizer, he breaks hearts.
I remind myself to keep my heart out of this transaction, over and over, because I know charm in a man is always a trap. And more importantly, I know billionaires have options. Many options. They don’t have to settle for an ex-saleswoman from Chicago. Besides, his glamorous world is one where I could never fit in. I would only embarrass him at some state function or other.
Yet the nights… God, the nights spent in his arms, his body warm and solid, his heartbeat lulling me to sleep, have become an addiction. A craving I’m terrified to lose. So, much as I hate it, maybe this distance, this move, is necessary and a good thing. It will be a chance to get my head back on track, to stop this reckless slide into feelings I can’t trust.
A soft knock at the door jolts me, and my heart leaps, thinking it’s Hugh, his gray eyes warm with that teasing smile. I sit up, smooth my hair, and call out.
“Come in,” my voice still husky with sleep.
It’s one of Mrs. O’Brien’s maids, her auburn hair neat, her apron crisp, carrying a tray laden with breakfast—fluffy scrambled eggs, homemade sausages, toast, some kind of yellow cake, a steaming silver pot of coffee, its rich aroma filling the room. I blink, surprised, as she sets it on the bedside table, the cup clinking faintly against its saucer.
“His Lordship’s orders,” she says, her eyes crinkling. “He said you should take your time resting. He’s headed to your cottage to oversee some final touches. They’re installing the new refrigerator and the AC unit this morning. He wanted you to eat first.”
I open my mouth to protest, to say it’s too much, that he’s done enough, but overwhelming gratitude chokes me. Who would have thought? He’s still taking care of me, even now.
“Thank you,” I manage finally.
She nods and slips out, leaving me with the tray and a heart that feels too full, too fragile. I eat slowly, the eggs creamy, the sausages bursting with savory heat, the coffee strong and bitter, grounding me. My mind drifts to the cottage. Hugh is already there, making it perfect for me. I wonder if he’s stalling. Like me, he is reluctant to let our time here end.
Unlikely.
I finish eating and get dressed quickly—jeans, a soft blouse, and my hair pulled into a loose braid. Then I pack my things, each fold a quiet goodbye to this room, this bed, this fleeting dream.
Carrying my bag, I head towards my cottage, my steps slow on the gravel path, the manor’s grandeur fading behind me. I’ll just be next door, I tell myself, only a few feet away, not a real separation, but the thought of sleeping alone, without his warmth, still twists like a knife.
Then my little cottage comes into view, its stone facade warm in the sunlight, its new slate tiles gleaming, and I stop in my tracks. I can’t believe it. Sweetbriar looks amazing. Like something from a fairytale. So cozy and sweet. And just like that, the terrible ache in my heart is somewhat soothed as I focus on the excitement of my own space, my own life.