Total pages in book: 30
Estimated words: 27657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 27657 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 138(@200wpm)___ 111(@250wpm)___ 92(@300wpm)
Telling my family had been tricky. They all thought I’d lost the plot, and honestly, I can’t blame them. I’m shy and quiet and careful and this was so unlike me. But…I felt stuck, living at home in the same town I’d always lived in with no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I turned twenty-one last month, and the idea of college has never appealed to me, but I felt like I had no options.
This is my leap of faith. I’m going to fix up this house, even though I have no idea how to do that. Then again, the best way to learn something is to do it, right? This is a new start, a chance to figure out what I want and…to figure out who I am.
Oh, and reunite with Dylan. Harry promised me in the car that he’d call his old friend before I landed. Turns out, Dylan is a contractor. And apparently, I need one of those if I want to renovate an old house.
I can only hope Harry convinces Dylan to help me. If not, I might do something stupid like track him down and beg him in person. May as well keep the streak of bad decisions going, right?
I laugh, earning me a weird look from the person in the aisle seat next to me. Maybe this is the new me—impulsive, excitable, spontaneous. Free. I grin, liking the sound of that, and settle in for the flight.
I manage a measly three hours of sleep, but I suppose it’s better than nothing. I stretch my legs and feel my muscles groan as I step off the plane and onto the tarmac.
It’s sunny but despite the fact it’s August, there’s a bitter breeze that makes me shiver. I wish I’d taken my coat with me instead of packing it in my suitcase, and I hurry inside with the other travelers.
Thankfully, I end up at the start of the border control line and make it through fast, finding my bags already waiting for me on the luggage carousel. I grab them, groaning under their weight, and drag them and myself towards the exit.
There’s a crowd of family members and taxi drivers holding up signs with traveler’s names written on them, and relief floods me as I see a man with a sign reading Dahlia Jenkins.
The driver helps me shove my bags in the back of his car, and I give him my new address, which he types into his GPS. I rest my head against the window as we pull away, excitement drowning out most of the tiredness.
The drive is long but I don’t mind, passing the time staring out the window and taking in my first sight of my new home. We leave the city with its brown brick and bustling streets, and soon we’re surrounded by green fields and rolling hills, taking winding country roads that look like they end up in the middle of nowhere.
The first time I see the name of the tiny town my cottage is on the outskirts of, I nearly jump right out of my seat with excitement, startling the driver and earning me a weird look. I ignore it, refusing to let his judgment dampen my eagerness.
The town itself is tiny, I know as much from my research, but seeing it in person is better than any photo online. It’s mostly houses, cottages, and old brick buildings, with a main street down the center lined with a couple of small shops and one restaurant and bar.
The car pulls off to the right, taking a small street out of the town and up a dirt road.
“Oh my God,” I breathe as I catch sight of my house for the first time.
“This it?” The driver grunts.
“Yes,” I whisper, unbuckling myself and practically diving out of the car in my eagerness to see my home. The driver unloads my stuff from the back and mutters a goodbye that I echo mindlessly before he pulls away.
All my attention is on my cottage. My cottage. Mine. I laugh, grinning so wide my face hurts. This place is my own, and that fills me with pride.
The cottage is old, the white exterior chipping in places, with more than a few tiles missing from the roof. The front garden is overgrown, with weeds blocking the path to the door. I drag my bags over the grass and hunt for the set of keys the realtor told me would be left for me. I find them under a big rock to the left of the door, along with a snail.
The lock is stiff and I jiggle the key a few times before the door finally opens, swinging inwards.
I rush inside, hit by the smell of dust and damp, and run to explore every inch of the place. It’ll need a good clean and a hell of a lot of work, but I expected that. My hands itch to get started already.