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)
“Mhmm.” He sipped his coffee again, eyeing me judgementally. “You won’t. You’re a workaholic. That’s why your brain is telling you to calm the eff down.”
I stared at him.
“Go on a retreat,” he said, setting the mug down. “If nothing else, you’ll get away from the mundanity of your life and shake things up. Surely, it’s better than staring at your bloody laptop every second of the day, hoping for inspiration to strike. Just do it, Ellie. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“You’ve said that now, haven’t you?”
“Famous last words, baby. Famous last words.”
CHAPTER TWO
ELLIE
Life on the Lake
Greygarth Lodge was everything I’d hoped it would be.
The beautiful, two-story stone house overlooked the lake with large windows that, from the outside, seemed to span from floor to ceiling at the front of it. It was almost rustic with its grey stone exterior and slate roofing that had a deep green moss growing over it, and the little mahogany door that was tucked under a stone awning was the thing of dreams.
All right.
Maybe getting away wasn’t the worst idea in the world, and I hadn’t even opened the front door yet.
I set Winston’s cat carrier down on the doorstep and peered out at the lake. It was huge, and there was a dock that stretched out into the middle of it. Little row boats were docked against it, and I smiled at the idea that someone used them.
Did anyone use them?
I didn’t know much about the estate I was staying on. All I knew was that it belonged to The Duke of Windermere and that Greygarth Lodge—the woefully undernamed property I’d booked for the next month or so—was a part of it.
I didn’t really care. I’d decided that I was going to keep Winston locked up like a little zoo animal, since he insisted on behaving like one, and hope like hell that this getaway would stoke some kind of writing fire in me.
It’d been two weeks since my brother had reminded me that I’d never taken a break since I’d started writing, and that was eight years ago. Eight years, twelve books, and not a single break that wasn’t a wedding for people who’d already divorced.
It was fun being almost thirty. And by fun, I meant it was hard to be a single twenty-eight-year-old woman who was watching all her school friends breaking up with their husbands.
So… not really all that fun.
I took a deep breath and slowly let it back out. This was home for the next month, and I was going to make the most of it.
Sir Winston Purrchill meowed from inside his cruel prison and pawed at the door. There wasn’t a chance in hell I was letting the little sod loose out here, and before he had any kind of freedom, I was going to make sure every single window was bolted shut inside so he couldn’t escape.
“No,” I told him, looking around for the green frog ornament I was told held the key. “You are not getting out to terrorise the local wildlife population. I don’t have Kevin a phone call away to come and save my bum if a crow breaks loose again.”
“Yes, I would prefer if he didn’t. We have some rare birds around here that wouldn’t take too kindly to being mauled by a cat.”
I turned towards the voice and paused. The guy who was standing in front of me was wearing a white t-shirt and sweat shorts. I assumed he’d been running given that he was wearing tightly knotted trainers and was clutching a half-empty water bottle.
Not to mention his t-shirt was sticking to his stomach and becoming quite see-through.
I never thought I’d swoon over a sweaty man, but here I was. Swooning. And swallowing an awkward little lump in my throat.
I cast my gaze over his face. He was handsome.
Romance novel handsome.
The kind I’d written about so many times. He could easily fit between the pages of a book and have thousands upon thousands of women fall in love with him with one flick of a page and a mere six-word sentence to the heroine.
He was clean-shaven, and he had a sharp jaw with full lips, a strong nose, and bright blue eyes framed by black eyelashes. His jet-black hair was flopping over his forehead in a messy, dishevelled manner, framing his gorgeous face perfectly.
And he looked very grumpy indeed. He certainly wasn’t pleased about the presence of Sir Winston Purrchill—I was certain of that.
“Um.” I swallowed. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get out, don’t worry.”
I’d try to, at least.
He nodded, but he didn’t appear to be any happier at my appeasement. “Are you the one who booked this place? The writer?”
“Yes, that’s me. Ellie.”
“The frog is under the hydrangea.”
I turned to the large shrub with an abundance of blue and pink flowerheads and bent down. As he’d said, a frog that was a little too weathered to be considered green anymore was hiding, and I tipped it up to see the old silver key under it.