Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
HUGH
I come to my surroundings slowly. The world is a blur of muted light and soft edges.
The air is thick with the scent of wood polish and lavender, a smell so familiar it’s almost invisible, but it nags at me, pulling me awake.
I’m not supposed to be here. My body feels leaden, sunk deep into a mattress, but the sheets are cool and crisp against my bare chest. I blink and the ornate plasterwork in the ceiling above me comes into sharp focus.
A dull ache pulses behind my eyes—not a hangover, just a brain-deep headache.
I run a hand over the stubble on my face.
The light’s wrong—too sharp, slicing through a crack in the heavy curtains.
A window must be open somewhere because the city’s hum has already seeped in, a distant drone of traffic I’d kill to silence.
Fuck. I didn’t make it back to Montrose. I’m in my London townhouse.
I feel like I’m wading through mud, but I don’t linger.
Sharp and fast is always best. I swing my legs out of bed, my bare feet smacking the cold hardwood, pajama bottoms hanging loose on my hips, chest bare as I shake off the fog.
I run a hand through my hair, messy from sleep, and just then, a ring of the doorbell cuts through the haze. The sharp sound rattling in my skull.
I head out into the living room, knowing it could only be Athena, but wondering why the fuck she would be calling at this ungodly hour.
I swing the heavy wooden door inward, and find her standing on my doorstep, crisp and composed in the morning light.
As usual, her dark hair is pulled back tight, not a strand out of place, her face is carefully made up.
She’s holding breakfast and coffee in her hand, but this isn’t enough to wave away my annoyance at seeing her here.
Her eyes flick over me, quick and assessing, catching the rumpled pajama bottoms, my bare chest, the mess of my hair.
“What are you doing here?” I bark grumpily.
She gives me a professional smile, just a flicker. It is gone as fast as it came. “I wanted to catch you before you headed back to Montrose,” she says, stepping past me without waiting for an invite.
“I come bearing gifts, but unfortunately, tasks too. I’m sorry.”
Shutting the door behind me I grab the coffee and take a sip as I lead her towards the dining room. “Let’s hear it.”
She pulls a folder from under her arm. It is stuffed with papers, the corners and edges are so crisp, it’s like she’s ironed them. She spreads them across the table, fanning them out like a dealer at a card game.
“They need your signature,” she says, straightening and holding out a pen.
I don’t take it right away, just stare at the papers, wondering why I even came to the city in the first place. Yeah, I remember. The reluctant girl back at the cottage, whom I am trying to seduce in order to buy her property.
Athena coughs politely. She’s watching me now, one brow arched, her usual stiff upper lip, no-nonsense mask tightly in place.
“Are you alright, Sir? I can bring them by the manor later today if you’re not up to doing them now.
I just thought you might want to get them handled before you leave since they’re urgent. ”
“Of course.” I shake my head and take the pen. She’s right. These are urgent. The American woman has scrambled my brain. I need to take a step back.
I drop into the chair closest to me and flip open the first contract.
I give the first page a quick look and the headache recedes to an ignorable dull throb as I drop into the zone.
Work mode activated. Thank God. Reviewing and appending my signature, I move through the contracts with mechanical precision, the pen’s weight familiar in my hand.
Athena stands by my side and watches, giving her input as needed and when asked. As I sign the last document, she breaks the stretch of silence to give me an update.
“They’re setting up your home-working situation at the manor in a few days. I scheduled for them to install the secure lines and the full system. Are you still of a mind to stay longer than the initial three weeks?”
I pause, pen hovering. Three weeks was the plan—rest, come back, then maybe stay longer, but that was before her, before those furious, stubborn eyes told me no in a way I’m not used to hearing. I lean back and run a hand over my jaw, my stubble rough against my palm.
I think of the work she’ll be putting in in the coming weeks to get the cottage to a livable state. For sure, it will take longer than three weeks. Staying longer in Montrose will mean I’ll have more time to wear her down and find the cracks in her armor.
“Yeah,” I say, voice low. “I think I will stay longer.” My eyes flick to my Athena, catching the faint lift of her perfectly plucked brow.
“I’ll adjust the schedule accordingly,” she says, jotting something on her tablet.
I exhale and lean back. My mind is restless now, churning actually. Lauren’s not just a problem. She is a puzzle, one I need to solve before she costs me more than time.
“Athena,” I say, reaching for the breakfast she brought.
I open the package. Blueberry muffins, the ones I like from Knightsbridge.
I take one out and the fruity aroma fills my nostrils.
“I need you to find out about the new owner of Sweetbriar Cottage. Her name's Lauren Hutton. I want to know everything about her. What she likes, where she’s from, what she did for a living before turning up in the middle of nowhere, why she’s really here if it’s not to sell.
You can get some info from Edward to get you started.
Athena’s eyes narrow, just a fraction, but her voice is efficiency itself.
“Yes, Sir,” she says, tapping her tablet again, her fingers a blur. “I’ll have him send what he’s got, and dig for the rest myself. Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
“I want leverage,” I say, biting into the succulent muffin, but the truth is a lot seedier.
I want to know her, what makes her tick, why she’s fighting so hard for a heap of junk that’s barely standing.
I want to know how to get her to scream my name as I fuck her hard.
“Get me the full picture,” I say, my voice tight. “No gaps.”
She nods crisply. If I know her, she’s already halfway into the task in her head. Just then, the doorbell goes, and there is something impatient and entitled about the length of the ring. Irritation flares fast in my chest as I turn to look at Athena. Our eyes meet, and hers are defensive.
“Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell anyone you’re down,” she says. “And it wouldn’t be anyone from the office either—not this early.”
She moves before I can, crossing over to the door with her usual efficiency, heels clicking sharply on the hardwood.
I stay put, grabbing the coffee, forcing a sip—cold now, and bitter as hell after the muffin.
I hear a slight edge in Athena’s voice, clipped words I can’t quite make out, then another set of heels, someone forcing their way in. I pick up the muffin and lift my gaze.
Meredith.
Fuck me. That’s all I need right now.
My ex-girlfriend strides in like she owns the place, her blonde hair sleek and shining, her superbly tailored jacket screaming wealth louder than any words could.
My stomach twists, annoyance spikes so fast it’s almost nausea.
She’s got no right to be here, no reason, and yet here she is, eyes locking on me with that mix of defiance and desperation I know too well.
“Hugh! Hi, I’m sorry for barging in.” Her voice is smooth but rushed, like she’s rehearsed it. “But it’s more or less the only way I can reach you now.”
I don’t move, don’t speak, just scowl at her. How the hell did she know I was here? Are my movements being monitored by everyone now?
“James told me you were at the party last night,” Meredith explains as though she can read the questions off my face. “I didn’t know you were going to be there, or I would have gone too.”
Athena’s already retreating, slipping out of the room with a glance that says, you don’t need me here for this disaster. Meredith steps closer, perching on the chair beside me, too close, her perfume subtle, expensive and exotic, nothing like the dust and earth I keep imagining from that cottage.
“How have you been, Hugh?” she asks softly. “I worry about you, you know. You work too hard.”
“I’m fine,” I reply, looking at the door. “Just stressed as usual.”
She pretends to pout. “You said we could be friends, but you’re not allowing that to happen. Just because our relationship didn’t work doesn’t mean we can’t be on good terms.”
My headache returns. I really can’t do Meredith today. If her mother and mine were not best friends, I wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells like this. I take a quick breath and keep my voice even. “We are friends, Meredith, but we don’t have to hang out all the time.”
Her face falls, just a flicker, but I see it—hurt, maybe, or frustration. I don’t care. I’m truly not in the mood to handle any of this now. “Okay,” she says with a huge smile. “I believe you, but … can I at least come visit you at Montrose? I hear you’re planning to spend quite a while there.”
I immediately shut her down. “You know the rules.” My eyes are hard. “I don’t accept personal visits while I’m there anymore. Not from anyone, I’m afraid—not even you.”
She flinches, a sharp little twitch. Her lips part, glossy and trembling, and I brace for the comeback—Meredith always has one, some clever twist to keep the conversation alive, to keep us alive, even after I buried whatever we had. But nothing comes this time.
“Okay,” she says, her voice sounding small and wounded. She blinks fast, like she’s pushing back tears.
For fucks sake, Meredith, save it for someone who doesn’t know better. I take a bite of the muffin and chew callously.
“Alright,” she whispers. The word sounds like surrender.
Good. She draws a shaky breath, her fingers twisting the edge of her coat.
“I just…” She hesitates, her gaze dropping to the floor, then back up to meet mine, searching for something she can never have.
“I miss you and I just want to see you well, Hugh.” Her voice catches on my name, a plea wrapped in nostalgia.
She steps closer, close enough for me to catch her perfume. I stare at her impassively.
“Keep in touch? Please?” she pleads.
I don’t soften, and my jaw is tight with impatience as I regard her begging, hopeful gaze.
The diamonds on her ears catch the morning light and glint, a reminder of everything she is—everything I now know I don’t want.
I want to tell her to stop being such a drama queen, such a narcissist. She’s not the first woman in the world to be dumped, and just because she misses me doesn’t change the fact that we’re done.
But I don’t. I look at her coldly and let the silence answer, let it carve the distance wider, until her shoulders slump, the fight draining out of her like air from a punctured tire.
Her goodbye is a tap on my shoulder as she used to do when we were together, and then she heads for the door. The door shuts behind her, so quietly I almost don’t hear it.
My mind shifts to Lauren and, annoyingly, the comparison hits, unbidden but clear as day.
Meredith’s is what Lauren’s is not and will never be.
Overindulged, selfish, always draped in the latest designer gear, a polished hedonist chasing the next thrill.
I didn’t mind it once, thought I’d marry her because, hell, why not?
I had to marry someone and produce some heirs to carry the family name and fill Montrose with laughter and life.
We’d known each other forever, moved in the same circles, and she knew all the intricate and subtle rules of our society.
Besides, I didn’t expect any woman to hold my interest, not really.
But spark turned out to be far more important than I had thought.
Everything about her was so shiny, predictable, and boring.
When I returned to the manor, started riding, and training my hawks again, I knew she was totally wrong for me.
I didn’t want endless dinner parties, balls, and holidays in the Med; I wanted to return to the rudimentary.
So I broke it off.
As for Lauren, I know only that she intrigues, attracts and challenges me. I have to admit that I am drawn to her grit. Hauling junk out of that wreck of a cottage, covered in dust, jeans, no luxuries and of course the guts to tell me to go fuck myself.
I admire her.
Athena comes back into the room and looks through the last document I signed. “I just quickly want to confirm if you saw the clause in the San Corp agreement? I’m not sure how you feel about it so I wanted to point it out.”
My chest tightens, frustration flaring as I realize that I have indeed missed it, distracted, too caught up in a woman who shouldn’t matter this much. I hate being sloppy.
“Send all of them to Montrose,” I say, pushing the contracts toward her. “I can’t focus here. I’ll sign them later today, and you can send someone to pick them up.”
Athena nods and gathers the papers. “Yes, Sir.”
“I’ll be leaving now before more people realize I’m in town,” I call out as I head to the bedroom.
After a quick shower, I get dressed in black jeans and a T-shirt and leave the house.
I’m excited to return to the manor, I realize as I head down to the garage.
I choose the Range Rover rather than the Aston Martin.
Tossing my bag in the back, I slide into the driver’s seat and fire it up.
The engine growls to life, and I pull out, the townhouse shrinking in the rearview as I hit the open road.
Music hums through the speakers—something bluesy, raw, matching my mood—and the scenery shifts, London’s gray sprawl eventually giving way to rolling green, hedgerows, sky so wide it feels like breathing for the first time.
As I reach the turning towards Hawk’s End, I realize that I’m still hungry. The little bakery café off the high street does a mean Welsh Rarebit, and I decide on impulse to have one with a poached egg and two of their delicious homemade sausages.
I take a left turn and head for the village. It’s slow here, just how I like it—the distinctive Tudor architecture with white buildings and black beams, a pub with ivy crawling up the walls, old men on benches who nod with easy familiarity.
My family’s been here for generations, Montrose’s shadow long enough to make me a name, but I don’t know these people, not really, and that’s the point. They smile and nod, but they don’t talk to me, don’t crowd me with expectations or questions.
It’s freedom, or close enough.
I park outside the pharmacy, cut the engine, but before I can step out, I receive a call from Edward. About time.