Page 30 of My Fake Dating with the Grumpiest Highlander
He hung up.
I stare at my phone with murderous intent.
Then I look around me.
The slowly filling buckets.
The dripping ceiling.
My soaked couch.
My books scattered everywhere.
I spend the next few hours in a state of productive trance.
Mop. Wring. Empty the buckets. Repeat.
At one point, I vaguely wonder how much water is still trapped between the bathroom floor and the dining room ceiling…
Eventually, I find a granola bar in one of the cupboards.
I eat it standing there in damp pajamas, in the middle of my living room turned disaster zone.
I cry a little.
Just a little.
Not for long.
Because crying isn’t going to fix my ceiling.
At three in the morning, sitting cross-legged on the wet floor of my living room, I have a revelation:
My life is a disaster.
My cottage is a swamp.
And with my luck, the repairs are going to take weeks.
The village inn is fully booked because of the upcoming Highland Games.
Once again, my life is slipping out of my control.
Exhausted, I collapse onto my couch and close my eyes, surrounded by buckets, soaked towels, and the steady sound of dripping water.
CHAPTER 7
FINN
The Breakfast War Council
(Or How to Get Evicted in Spectacular Fashion)
The radiator in my room lets out its usual whistle, the pink floral wallpaper continues its personal assault on my eyesight, and the mattress possesses the remarkable ability to be both too soft and too hard at the same time.
Welcome to my life in Glenfield.
I drag myself into the shower.
