Chapter 43
Chapter
Forty-Three
LAUREN
I wake 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.
I start running towards my gorgeous new lodgings.
I pause at the doorway, my bag at my feet, looking in at a space that is unrecognizable.
The smell of fresh paint lingers. An AC unit, compact and modern, is being fitted in the living room; it’s cool air will cut the summer heat when it comes.
It’s perfect and better than anything I could have dreamed of.
Hugh is standing in the kitchen, his linen shirt rolled to his elbows, his biceps flexing as he directs a worker installing the cream refrigerator I had asked for.
“Thank you, Hugh,” my voice is quiet, heavy with everything I can’t say.
He turns, his gray eyes meeting mine, and smiles, easy, warm. “No problem,” he says, but there’s a flicker in his gaze, something soft, almost reluctant, and I wonder if he feels it too, this shift, this ending to our story.
“I’ll go look upstairs,” I say, and run upstairs to see my bedroom and bathroom.
I clasp my hands together with joy. My bedroom is cozy and pretty, and the new bathroom is sleek and marvelous.
I move to the gold taps and trail my fingers over the gleaming metal and hear voices float up from downstairs.
I look out of the window and see Mrs. O’Brien and two maids from the manor, their arms full of cleaning supplies and buckets. Confused, I traipse downstairs.
“What’s going on?”
Hugh’s leaning against the kitchen counter, his posture casual, but his eyes sharp.
“They’re doing a deep clean,” he says in a matter-of-fact voice.
“With all the construction dust, it’s not livable yet.
They cleaned yesterday, but it was rushed.
I found dust on the sills—not good enough.
You’ll have to stay another night at the manor. ”
I raise an eyebrow, a smile tugging at my lips, because I know him now, know his obsession with perfection, the way he notices every detail, demands excellence in everything, from his horses to his home, but dust on the window sills. Hmmm.
“Dust?” I tease.
He shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye, like he’s pleased I’ve caught him, like he’s stretching this moment, keeping me in his manor a little longer. I laugh, grateful that he even tried to keep me one more day in his home.
Mrs. O’Brien’s girls get to work immediately, scrubbing floors, polishing windows, their sponges squeaking, their voices a soft hum as they erase every trace of construction. Their mission is focused and clear: get the cottage gleaming and pristine to the standard expected by their master.
By evening, all the work is done, the refrigerator is humming, the AC is whispering cool air, and the house is sparkling. I decide to cook for Hugh, a thank-you, a gesture, something to hold onto before I’m alone.
I choose a Chicago-style deep-dish pizza, a taste of home—thick crust, layers of mozzarella, spicy Italian sausage, peppers, and a rich tomato sauce, the kind I grew up eating on Friday nights.
I set up in the kitchen, the new granite counter smooth under my hands, and Hugh settles in on the sofa, a gorgeous marshmallow pink piece I picked out, its color blending with the cottage’s neutral walls.
He’s watching a rugby match on the small TV, and I steal glances, my heart catching at how he looks here, relaxed, like he belongs in my space.
Like he has always been here. I realize without him, the place would be missing something.
He wanders over. “Can I help?” His voice is warm and earnest.
I laugh, shaking my head, because he’s my guest, because this is my gift to him. “No. There is nothing to do,” I say, stirring the sauce, its tangy aroma filling the air, but he insists, his eyes bright, and I finally relent, handing him a cutting board and a green pepper.
“Slice this, thin as you can,” I say.
He takes the task seriously, his hands careful, precise, the knife glinting as he works. I watch him, amused, enchanted, because when he’s so focused, his brow furrows. I can tell his heart is in it, like he’s building something, not just chopping vegetables.
My chest tightens with a pang of longing, because he’s perfect—careful, attentive, warm—and I wish, God, I wish he weren’t a billionaire shadowed by rumors of leaving a trail of broken hearts. I wish he wasn’t a risk I can’t take.
I feel things for him, things I’ve never felt for anyone, things that scare me, because they’re real, and I know better, know I can’t trust this fleeting moment, no matter how much I want to.
I turn back to the dough, kneading it, my hands sinking into its warmth, and tell myself I know better, I know better as if it’s a magic mantra that’ll keep me from falling completely, even as he stands beside me, slicing peppers, his presence a quiet fire I can’t ignore.