Chapter 23
Chapter
Twenty-Three
LAUREN
The bathroom’s a wreck, a half-finished battleground of my renovation attempts.
Flaking beige paint clings to the walls, exposing patches of raw plaster where I’ve started scraping.
The sink’s clean—I’ve scrubbed it clean—but the chipped tiles and flickering bulb scream neglect.
I wince, promising myself I’ll tackle it soon, maybe next week, once the hallway and bedroom are done.
For now, I lean into the mirror, my reflection pale and unglamorous under the dim light.
My hair’s still in rollers, a haphazard crown from my attempt an hour ago to give body to my hair.
Ten minutes before I need to be out the door. No time to waste.
I tug the rollers free hastily and wince as a few strands snag.
I run my fingers through the loose waves, letting them fall past my shoulders.
Not bad, I think, shaking my head to give them life.
I’m not chasing anything tonight—no romance, no spark—just a chance to make contact with other humans, but mostly to shed the weight of Hugh’s kiss that still haunts me like a dodgy fever.
I dig into my makeup bag, planning to keep it simple.
A swipe of deep red lipstick, bold but not desperate, stains my lips.
A quick flick of mascara, just enough to open up my eyes, and a light affair with the blusher brush to keep me from looking washed out.
I step back, tilting my head. The mirror’s unkind, the light casting unflattering shadows.
Even so I look… okay. Decent. Like someone who’s got her shit together, even if it’s a lie.
My outfit’s a gamble—a short black skirt, not too daring, paired with thick tights against the spring chill.
A striped crop top under my favorite leather jacket.
I tug at the hem, suddenly worried I’m trying too hard.
I don’t want to look like I’m screaming for attention.
This is Hawk’s End, not Chicago, but the clock is ticking—6:53.
No time to second-guess.
I grab my keys, sling my bag over my shoulder, and head out, not even bothering to lock the door behind me.
The evening’s dim, the sky bruising purple.
Kinda pretty. The rental car’s waiting. It’s bleeding me dry—gas, insurance, repairs.
I know I need a cheaper way to get around.
I should buy a small car. Even if it’s a beat-up old thing.
I’ll start looking around on Monday morning.
The drive to The Fox and Hare is quick; the village’s narrow lanes are quiet under the fading light.
But as I pull up to the pub, my stomach twists.
The place is alive. Voices and laughter spill through the open door, and the yellow lights are warm and inviting against the stone facade.
It’s exactly what I thought I wanted, some other voices to drown out my lustful thoughts, but sitting in the car park of the pub, I suddenly start craving my little cottage, my home, its creaky safety.
I pause, gripping the wheel. When did I start calling it home?
The realization tugs a smile from me, soft and unexpected, like finding a forgotten treasure.
My phone buzzes, snapping me back. Annabel’s name flashes. “Hey,” I answer.
“Where are you?” she asks, her tone bright, music thumping in the background. “We’re about to order drinks!”
“Right outside,” I say, glancing at the pub’s glowing sign.
“Come on in!” she urges. “It’s buzzing tonight.”
“Be there in a sec.”
I hang up, take a deep breath, and step out.
The pub’s heat and smells hit me as I push through the door.
A mix of beer, wood smoke, and chatter wraps around me like a warm cocoon.
Annabel spots me instantly, her face lighting up like we’re old friends, not just two women who bonded over village gossip and groceries.
She waves me over, pulling me into a hug that feels like it was made years ago.
“You made it!” she shouts over the noise, her blonde curls bouncing.
Her ease loosens the knot in my chest, and I smile, a genuine grin of relief and happiness.
She leads me to a corner table where two guys are sprawled out comfortably, pints in hand.
“Lauren, this is Tom and Jamie,” she says, gesturing to each one.
Tom’s lanky, with sandy hair and a shy grin, his flannel shirt is rolled to the elbows.
He looks like how I always imagined a farmer would.
Jamie’s broader, dark-eyed, with a stubbled jaw and a deep, strong laugh.
They’re nice enough, but my heart sinks, a quiet disappointment I hate admitting.
I came here to forget Hugh, to prove he’s not special, but these two…
they’re not him. If anything, they make him stand out even more. What a crying shame.
Hugh’s shadow looms in my head—his hard, manly jaw, those piercing eyes—and I’m furious with myself. Why is he still here, ruining my life?
I shove his smirking face away, swearing I won’t think of him tonight. Not once. I force a smile and slide into the seat next to Annabel.
“Hello, I’m Lauren,” I say, and they nod, welcoming, curious.
“Where you from?” Tom asks, leaning forward.
“Chicago,” I say, settling in. “Needed a change, so… here I am.”
“Big move,” Jamie says, raising his pint. “What’s the States like?”
I shrug, keeping it light. “Busy. Loud. Dangerous, you know?” I turn it back on them. “What about here? Village life treating you okay?”
Tom laughs. “It’s spring, so it’s not miserable. Sun’s out, fields are green—can’t complain.”
“Yet,” Jamie adds, grinning. “Wait till winter. I’ve been here all my life, and I will forever hate winter.”
The small talk flows easily—weather, local quirks, the pub’s best ale.
I skip booze since I’m driving down unfamiliar country roads, and sip cranberry juice instead.
Their uncomplicated banter washes over me.
It’s fine, pleasant, but eventually my eyelids grow heavy, the day’s weight creeping in.
I’ve been hauling paint cans, scraping walls, rebuilding my life piece by piece, and it’s caught up with me.
Mid-sentence, while Tom’s talking about a local festival, I catch myself dozing, my head dipping.
Mortified, I snap upright, heat flooding my cheeks.
“God, I’m so sorry,” I mutter, standing quickly. “I’ve been renovating all day, and I’m wiped. I should head back.”
The men look surprised, but I can see understanding in their eyes.
“No worries,” Annabel says, her smile kind. “Get some sleep.”
Tom and Jamie wave me off, no judgment, and I slip out, the pub’s noise fading behind me. The drive home is a blur, my eyes fighting to stay open, but I’m not sleepy—just bored, I realize. The guys were nice, but they didn’t spark anything, and they definitely didn’t pull me out of myself.
The dangerously dark road means I’m wide awake and alert by the time I turn onto my lane, only to find the road to the manor choked with cars.
Ferraris, Range Rovers, a sleek limousine gleaming under the light from the manor—Hugh’s home is a magnet, pulling in wealth like moths to a flame.
A strange feeling fills my chest. So, he’s thrown a party, grand and dazzling, and I wasn’t invited.
Not that I wanted to be, of course, but the sting’s there, sharp and petty.
I’d noticed the signs earlier. Servers bustling, decorations going up as I got ready, but I’d ignored it, curling my hair with rollers, painting my lips red, promising myself I’d have the night of my life. Now, seeing the glittering party in full swing, I’m annoyed.
“Why is he allowed to block even my damn lane?” I mutter, maneuvering past a Bentley to park.
I step out, the air cool against my skin, and head for my door. At least, I’m home safe. But as I push inside, my foot steps into a puddle of water. I freeze, heart sinking. Oh God, the entryway’s flooded, a dark sheen spreading across the floor.
“What the hell?” I gasp, flicking on the light.
Water glints, pooling toward the hall. Panic claws at me, and I follow the trail, my pulse hammering.
It’s coming from the bathroom, the one room I’ve barely touched.
I’d started renovating last week, prying up tiles, exposing old pipes, but haven’t finished.
I must’ve hit something or loosened a joint when I was hammering.
The sink’s base is a mess with water seeping from a cracked copper pipe. The flow is steady and relentless.
I start freaking out. This is the last thing I need.
I can’t afford my for whole house to flood.
My hands are shaking as I grab my phone.
Annabel. She’ll know someone. I dial and start pacing on the one dry patch by the living room door.
“Annabel, it’s me,” I blurt when she answers.
“My house is flooding—a pipe burst in the bathroom. I think I must have hit it while renovating. Do you know a plumber?”
“Oh no, that’s awful!” she says, her voice warm with concern. “Call Mick, he’s the best and the only one in the village. I’ll text his number. It’ll be fine. Just don’t panic, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say, hanging up as her text pings through. I call Mick, praying he’s free, but his voice comes slurred, thick with liquor.
“Hello?”
“Mick, it’s Lauren, from Sweetbriar Cottage, ” I say, desperate. “Ann gave me your number. My bathroom’s flooding—a pipe burst. Can you come now, please? I beg you.”
He laughs, a sloppy sound. “Love to help, lass, but I’m blind drunk. Pub crawl in town. Can’t even stand, let alone fix a pipe. I can come tomorrow if you want.”
Tomorrow? My house’ll be a lake by then.
“Please,” I beg, but he’s already mumbling his goodbyes.
I hang up, go outside and pace, the cold biting through my jacket.
The grounds of Montrose are alive with Hugh’s party—music drifts down to me as more elegant figures in ballgowns and tuxedos glide toward the great doors.
I’m underdressed, my skirt and crop top screaming cheap next to their grandeur, but I’m out of options.
The water’s spreading, ruining everything I’ve fought so hard for.
Hugh, I realize now, my entire soul sinking, is my best and last shot.
I hesitate, stomach churning with dread.
Asking him for help feels like surrendering, like stepping back into his orbit after I swore I’d stay away.
But my cottage—my home—is drowning.
I glance at the manor, its windows blazing, and start walking, self-conscious, but determined to save my home.
I don’t have his number, don’t know how to reach him, but I’ll find him.
He’s always the center of everything, isn’t he?
Surrounded, commanding, impossible to miss.
I walk through the manor’s doors, my heart pounding, scanning for the man I swore I’d forget, knowing that he’s my only hope right now.