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)
“Your ducklings are on that lake. Aren’t you worried about them? Rosie and the other barn cats are desensitised to our birds, but her cat is not.”
“Oh, he can try. Elvira is a right bitch when she’s got a nest or duckling. How do you think old man Horace learnt to leave them alone?” She raised her eyebrows in question. “There’s not a terrible lot you can do about Winston if he will insist on escaping, but perhaps speaking to Ellie and explaining is better than being rude to her.”
“I don’t owe her an explanation about anything. She’s a guest on my property. It’s not the other way around.”
“And that’s your problem.” She wiggled her finger at me. “You just don’t want to strike up a friendship with her. Admit it.”
I would not.
“She’s young, she’s very pretty, and she’s extremely smart. You’d rather be rude to her so you don’t risk any kind of a relationship with a woman your age.”
“I’m not going over this again. You know my feelings on relationships, and perhaps I don’t want to be friends with her. Has it occurred to you that I simply might not click with her?”
“Max, the last thing you clicked with was a lighter when you lit the barbecue. Leonardo, that’s my sleeve, you little bastard.” She bopped the goat on the nose and freed her sleeve from his teeth in the resulting moment of confusion. “Why didn’t you tell me he was eating my sleeve? Honestly, boy. Let’s go and get some lunch before this little shit eats me to death.”
I dropped my chin to my chest as she strolled out of the barn. Vincent van Goat bleated, getting my attention, and I looked at him. He bleated again as if to say, “At least you aren’t wearing pool noodles on your horns,” and I couldn’t help but sympathise with him.
This was it.
This was my life.
Now I was sympathising with a bloody goat.
CHAPTER SIX
ELLIE
When Inspiration Strikes
Four thousand words.
I wasn’t one to brag, but that was the most I’d written in one day for about six months. There was something about being here that was reinvigorating—I didn’t know if it really was the change of scenery or the fresh air, but it was working.
My brain was kicking into gear again.
I refused to believe that the black-haired arsehole who’d returned my cat to me yesterday was a part of that inspiration.
Sure, my hero definitely now had black hair, but that didn’t mean anything. Lots of people had black hair. And blue eyes. And wore suits. And were a duke.
Maybe not the last part.
Shit.
Fine. It would be easier if I just admitted it to myself that I was writing my exact situation—a struggling writer who stays on a duke’s estate. Except in this version of the story, the writer and the duke would have hot sex all over the place and eventually fall helplessly in love and ride off into the sunset.
I wasn’t entirely sure how that would all go down, but it was more inspiration than I had last week. It was something, and a little bit of something was better than a whole lot of nothing.
With those words on the page, I wanted to explore. I knew the village of Windermere was only a five-minute drive away, and the darkening sky was threatening enough rain that I definitely wasn’t going to walk there.
An umbrella and a coat would have to do.
I backed up my document and closed down my laptop, then got everything together so I could leave. Winston knew the second I tied the laces on my trainers. He appeared out of nowhere and mewled at me, beelining for my feet.
“You’re not coming with me,” I told him, skirting around him.
He responded with a loud shout that put across his feelings on the matter perfectly.
“I said no. You got me in trouble yesterday.” I put my phone in my bag and looked down at him. “You’re on my shit list.”
He followed me to the front door, shouting at me, and I stopped before opening it.
“I said no,” I repeated. “You’re just going to have to deal with it, Winston.” I opened the door and stepped outside to yet more high-pitched shouting from him.
Oh, my God. This cat was insufferable.
“Stop shouting at me!” I said, shoving the door closed. He was still yelling, and he was so loud that I could hear as if there weren’t a barrier of stone and wood between us. “Winston, cut it out!”
He did.
Great.
He was going to poop in my suitcase, wasn’t he?
“Don’t you dare poop in my suitcase!” I shouted through the door.
“Who are you talking to?”
Jolting, I turned around to face Max. “My cat.”
He leaned to the side. “He’s not out again, is he?”
I grimaced. “No. He’s just protesting my leaving.”
“And instead of… leaving… you chose to argue with him?”