Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I could say that with absolute certainty. It was a love I would hold onto for the rest of my life. I knew that one day, I’d be able to say that I wasn’t in love with him, but I’d always love him.
This infuriating, sexy, annoying, enigmatic man had made such an impact in my life to say that he’d been in it for such a short time. He was forever immortalised in this book, The Trouble with the Duke, and I didn’t regret it for a second.
I’d planned to change my hero, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
I was going to keep my surly, grumpy, black-haired, blue-eyed hero named Mack. It wasn’t the most traditional British name for an aristocrat, but it was one that made sense to me. I knew I’d have to come up with a real name that ‘Mack’ would be a nickname for, maybe a surname, but that was a problem for Future Ellie.
When I was at home.
In London.
With Winston bringing me crows through the window and me calling my brother to save me. With coffee dates with Meg and my agent and my editor and girls’ nights at our favourite restaurants and cold bedsheets with nobody there next to me.
I hugged one knee to my chest and looked at the screen.
Done.
I was done.
The End was here.
For more than just my book.
• • •
“You’re leaving.” Penny poured wine into the glass she’d set in front of me. “I’m kind of used to you being here, not going to lie.”
“Really? It’s not like I’ve frequented this place on a nightly basis.”
“Well, no, but most of the people in this village are arseholes. You’re not.” She screwed the cap back on the bottle and put it in the fridge behind her. “I didn’t need to spend every day with you to know that you’re a good person.”
My lips pulled into a smile. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“Shut up. I didn’t say that.” She sniffed and grabbed a towel to wipe the bar down. “Who else am I going to share my gossip with, huh?”
“I distinctly remember giving you my number in a very awkward situation.”
“Yeah. I lost that.”
I laughed and pulled out my phone. “Put your number in that.”
“You’re not going to avoid me?”
“Of course not. How else will I get my regular dose of village gossip?” I winked, picking up my wine.
“Oh, I see.” She took my phone and tapped on the screen. “I’m only good for gossip.”
“I solemnly swear that I will always write in a sarcastic bartender with a penchant for chewing out total wankers.”
She handed my phone back with a grin. “Sold.”
“Such a cheap date,” I teased, putting my phone on the bar. “Are you serving food yet, or do I have to starve?”
“You have to starve,” Max said smoothly from behind me. “She won’t take a food order until five o’clock on the dot.”
Pen shot him a dark look. “Why don’t you suck a llama?”
“Find me a llama in Windermere and I’ll give it a shot,” he replied, sitting next to me. “Can I have a diet Coke with ice, please?”
“Only because you said please.” She grabbed a Coke glass and the little gun and filled it. “Would you like a slice of lemon, Your Grace?”
“Lime, please.”
“Sorry, I’ve only got lemon.” She dropped a slice of the yellow fruit into the drink before he could say anything and slid it towards him. “Hope you enjoy that.”
Max fought back a smile as she disappeared to the other end of the bar while he looked from my glass to my face. “That’s a big glass of wine. Did you finish your book?”
I glanced down at it, swallowing. “I did. This afternoon.”
“Congrats,” he said, resting his hand on my thigh. “I’m proud of you.”
My attention hovered on his touch for a moment before I raised my gaze and smiled at him. “Thank you. It was a tough book, that’s for sure.”
“Those are the best ones, right?”
“We’ll see. I still have to read through it and do my own edits before I send it to my editor, but I suppose you’re right.” I looked into my wine glass. “I’m going to miss writing in Windermere. It’s so peaceful.”
He smiled over at me. “It’ll be a hit. Stop doubting yourself.”
“Ah, no can do. I’m a writer. Doubting myself is at least fifty percent of my job.”
Penny smirked. “What’s the other fifty percent? Writing?”
I met her gaze. “Thirty percent procrastination with strange quizzes to find out what cheese I am or what fish I’d be, eight percent eating my feelings, five percent napping, five percent watching TV, one percent staring at a blank page, and one percent actually writing.”
Max muttered, adding up all my percentages. “That’s fifty.”
I grimaced, shrugging a shoulder. “On the other hand, there are days I forget to eat because I can’t stop writing, so I suppose it’s all about balance.”