Chapter 1 Annabelle
Annabelle
I’m approximately three minutes into my lakeside staycation, and I’ve almost nearly been taken out by a low-hanging bird feeder and what I suspect is a pissed-off squirrel with boundary issues. He stares at me and I stare at him before my car coughs one last time as I kill the engine.
But it’s fine. Everything is fine.
Because I, Annabelle Franklin, am doing the damn thing!
I am embracing rest. I am embracing stillness. I am embracing this quaint-ass cottage and the peace that comes along with it.
I step onto the gravel drive but don’t take the time to appreciate the charming view—white shutters, wraparound porch, twinkle lights—because I’m too busy juggling my overnight bag, a cooler full of stress snacks, and my chilled wine, ’cause Eat Pray Love and all that bullshit . . .
The gravel crunches beneath my sandals as I approach the porch, key code already pulled up on my phone.
I don’t know why I’m walking like I expect a warm welcome.
No one is here. It’s me, my small stack of paperback books, and a plan to ignore anyone who thinks they’re going to contact me with feedback about the Fall Festival.
Nope. Not answering.
The keypad on the door beeps twice as I punch in the code. I wait. The lock clicks open. Victory. I push the door open with my hip, step inside, and immediately freeze.
Something is off; I can sense it.
Hmm. Not horror-movie off. Not “there might be a killer hiding behind the heavy living room drapes.” More like . . . the cottage smells like aftershave and a hint of a freshly blown-out vanilla candle? Can that be?
I take two cautious steps into the living room, sniffing, scanning the space. Tiptoeing toward the hallway, hyperaware of how creaky the floorboards are, I startle when my overnight bag thumps against the wall.
I peek into the kitchen. There’s a jar of protein powder on the counter. A water bottle with the top off. A spoon and bowl set next to the sink.
And—oh God—there are hand weights on the kitchen table.
Hand weights?
Yeah. On the table.
“Huh. Weird.” I let my bag drop to the ground. Maybe the cleaning crew forgot to finish? Or maybe they were super thorough and thought, You know what this rustic, peaceful kitchen needs? A splash of gym rat.
I lift one of the weights and pump it. It’s real. Heavy. Judgy. And so not cottagecore.
I glance around, taking in more clues: A towel draped over the back of the kitchen chair. An open bag of trail mix on the coffee table. A pair of very large, very masculine-looking sneakers next to the couch.
My brain does not compute these details, nor does it raise any solid red flags, so deeply committed am I to the idea that this week will be restful. Chill.
“Maybe the last guest had to check out in a hurry,” I mumble, sweeping the towel off the chair and tossing it near the front door on the off chance the cleaning people drop by. “Maybe the cleaners ran out of time.”
Or didn’t show up at all.
“Not going to worry about it. We are chill.” How often do I get a cottage to myself?
Exactly never.
I live in a postage-stamp-size apartment above a bakery in downtown Star Lake.
Which sounds adorable until you realize it means waking up to the sound of metal bowls scraping and mixers mixing at 4:30 a.m. each and every morning—and schlepping groceries up two flights of stairs because there is no elevator.
And the fire escape? More rust than escape.
So yeah. I’ve earned this.
I walk into the bathroom to wash my hands and immediately pause at the sight of a designer black toiletry bag on the counter.
Not a travel-sized kit. This thing is military grade.
Wide open, too—like a guy rummaged through it and couldn’t be bothered to zip it back up.
There’s a toothbrush, electric razor, expensive cologne, and—Jesus Christ—a Rolex watch.
“Shit.” I squint, twisting the faucet. “Now I’m going to have to call someone.”
The last thing I want to be is responsible or accused of stealing some random man’s personal belongings—his pricey personal belongings . . .
Still, it smells like cedar and eucalyptus in here, and the water pressure is magical, and I’m choosing to believe I’ve simply walked into a cleaning company fuckup.
Nothing more.
I wander into the bedroom next and throw my bag onto the bed—which is somehow already made, with crisp, white sheets that look sunny and bright and crisp. So crisp.
A light breeze wafts through the cracked window at that exact moment, rustling the edge of the curtain, and I tilt my chin up, letting the fresh air hit my skin.
I toe off my shoes.
Stretch.
Take a breath.
Exhale when I sit on the edge of the mattress and bounce lightly—like a kid testing out a trampoline in a backyard and declaring it perfect.
“Ahh.” I flop back and exhale again with the kind of dramatic sigh usually reserved for the first delicious bite of a dessert.
That’s what this feels like: a treat. The room is cozy, clean, and begs me to take the nap I didn’t know I needed.
I tilt my head toward the wall and spot another something out of place: a pair of headphones on the white nightstand. Thick, wireless, obnoxiously high end. They match the black phone charger looped around the base of the lamp, like someone was in the middle of winding it up and packing it away.
“Nope. Not gonna let my brain spiral.” Not when this bed feels like clouds. Not when I haven’t had to answer an email in over an hour. Not when I promised Lucy I would take a week to myself.
The brat is still in Arizona with her new boyfriend.
Like, a living, breathing boyfriend. Who’s built like a tank and makes her homemade omelets and listens when she talks.
They’re probably hiking in the foothills right now—or kissing during a sunset or buying succulents at a farmers’ market while I’m over here, trying to survive.
Loud sigh.
I roll out of bed and stretch.
Touch my toes. Step outside.
The cottage is perched high enough on a slope to give a full view of the lake, the trees, and the dock stretching out over water that glitters like it’s being filtered.
I’m not new to views like this—I am a longtime Star Lake resident, after all.
But something about this particular view feels shinier.
Sparklier. Better. Like the lake went and got itself a makeover while I was busy knee deep in event permits and wrangling lumberjacks for the festival that ended only days ago.
To my left: Nothing. Just trees. A thick, endless sprawl of pine and maple and oak, humming with fall bugs and the faint whisper of wind rustling through branches. Solitude. Bliss.
To my right: Moonrise at Star Lake. A resort that’s been around for eighty years, but I’ve only ever seen it from the water—a twinkly mirage that feels too close but completely out of my reach. A massage there costs more than I make in a week.
The spa has won awards. The cabins have names like Tranquility and Solstice and Daybreak. The lobby and common areas have a signature scent. I know this because my friend Madison Rodriguez has parents who could afford to go there and once bought a bottle of it for their downstairs bathroom.
Music filters across the yard—guitar, acoustic—and there are fairy lights twinkling in at least five separate places on the property.
Magical.
Meanwhile, I’m standing barefoot on a weather-worn dock that smells vaguely like mildew and old sunscreen, clutching a hoodie I bought at a resale shop.
The wind picks up, carrying the faintest trace of lavender and fresh bread—because of course Moonrise would have artisanal things, while I’ve been gnawing on the string cheese I tossed into my cooler, along with leftover granola bars that expired in May.
Still. I’m here.
I’m committed.
This is my week to reset.
I turn, step out of my flip-flops, and make my way back toward the cottage, detouring to the side yard, where the hammock sways between two trees like it’s calling my name.
It rocks gently in the breeze, canvas sun bleached and fraying at the edges, but still solid. Trustworthy. A hug from Mother Nature.
I ease into it, careful not to flip myself. The fabric creaks but holds. The sun warms my cheeks. The breeze lifts my hair off my shoulders.
This, I think, is what I came for.