Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
HUGH
T o say I’m annoyed doesn’t even begin to cover it—it’s a gnawing itch that’s got my stomach in knots. It just won’t go away. No matter what I do.
I sit at the head of the long dining table, the polished mahogany gleaming richly under a good spread: bacon crisp at the edges, eggs soft and golden, toast slathered with butter, coffee steaming in a white porcelain cup.
Everything is exquisitely presented, but I have no appetite.
The staff move as quiet as shadows, careful not to clink a dish or drop a spoon.
They sense it, the storm brewing in me, but it’s not them making my head pound.
It’s her.
I didn’t sleep last night. Not one bit, even though I was bone-tired when I got back from her cottage. I stepped under a hot shower and collapsed into bed, exhausted, yet my shoulders remained tight and my eyes stayed open, fixed on the ceiling.
What a shocker. But that goofy, neurotic slip of a girl with her sharp tongue and dusty hair kept me up. She’s fucking stuck in my mind like a burr I can’t remove. No one’s ever lingered around this long—hours, maybe if they’re really special, then they’re gone, forgotten. But this one?
I lay in the dark for hours and her order, ‘Get out,’ ringing sharp and clear, turning me on like I’ve never been before.
It’s all so ridiculous. To start with, I’ve never had to hatch absurd plans to seduce and ditch a woman just for a patch of land, or twisted myself up like this for a woman.
To top it all, I’m looking forward to the challenge of breaking her.
I should be disgusted with myself for letting her drag me into these childish games.
When I finally gave up the idea of sleep, I had to contend with a painfully hard erection.
I tried to will it away, rolled over, buried my face in the pillow and tried to think of the most boring business deal I could, but her image refused to fade away—strawberry blonde hair dusted with grime, and those startlingly blue eyes glaring, fierce. As alive as flames.
With a groan of defeat, I hauled myself to the bathroom, flicking on the shower. Cold water poured out, sharp against my skin, streaming over my chest, my legs, but it didn’t help—still hard, still throbbing.
I gave in, wrapped my hand around it and stroked, hard and fast. Water dripped off my knuckles, my jaw, as I moved, picturing her—lips parted as she cursed and swore at me while I fucked her.
I saw her sprawled out, legs wide open, her curses loud in my ears.
My grip tightened on my swollen dick as I came hard.
The spray washed away my release as I stood there, breath ragged.
Fuck her. Wanting her is bad enough, but jerking off to her like that is just pathetic.
I went to bed disgusted, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I overslept and missed my morning run.
By the time I woke up, the sun was already in the sky, and it was too late to hit the trails.
Not being able to shake off the excess energy threw me off and left me restless and out of rhythm.
The exact kind of thing I left London to avoid.
I look at my plate, the eggs are cold and untouched. I’ve had enough of sitting around, letting her ruin my morning. I decide to take decisive action. I call out to Bertrand, my butler, and he hurries over.
“Bring me a pen and one of our cards,” I say, my voice flat.
He nods, darts off, and returns with a thick cream card, embossed with the Montrose family crest. I grab a pen and start to scribble an invitation for tea, intending to be as precise and curt as humanly possible:
“Miss…,” I begin but I realize that I do not know her name.
I swear under my breath. How did I let her get under my skin so much, I didn’t even get her name? Swearing under my breath, I send a message to my lawyer. He replies almost instantly.
The granddaughter’s name is Lauren Hutton.
“Lauren,” I taste the name on my tongue.
Despite how uncooperative, objectionable, and stubborn I find her, the name is quite fitting.
American and glamorous. She would be glamorous without her halo of dust and dirt.
Pushing any personal analysis of her out of mind, I fill in her name and continue with my note.
Dear Miss Hutton,
Would you care to join me at Montrose Manor for tea at 4.00 this afternoon? It would be pleasant to officially meet.
Hugh G. Montrose
I reread my note critically. It’s polite enough and doesn’t reek of desperation. I hand it over to Bertrand. “Get this to the occupant in the cottage and wait for her reply. Oh, and get the Chef to come and see me on your way out.”
“Very good, Sir,” he says and leaves immediately. I watch as he goes. It is rare, in fact, I can’t remember ever inviting anyone over for tea. Lauren Hutton will be the first.
The chef, a wiry guy, hovers near the door. “Come in,” I say, and he hurries over.
“We’re having a guest for tea at four this afternoon,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Put together an assortment of sweets and pastries. Pull out all the stops. Impress my guest with your best. Make it all look good and taste even better.”
I can see the confusion on his face at my request, but he nods quickly and goes on his way.
Something tells me her rude and sour personality will be a sucker for sweets and pastries.
Now that the invitation has gone out, I think of what to do to pass the time.
I decide against riding out to check the barn repairs.
Instead, I flip through emails and reports on my phone. I’m wasting time.
I know what I’m waiting for, even if I won’t admit it straight—I’m waiting for Bertrand to come back and tell me that she said, yes, of course she’ll come.
It’s irritating, this eagerness to see her creeping in, but I brush it off.
The sooner I deal with her, drive her out, the sooner I’ll be normal again.
Back to my calm, unbothered, and in-control self.
That’s all this is. A way back to the old status quo.
Oh, and get the cottage back too.