Page 4 of Married to the Scottish Player
Yeah. On the table.
“Huh. Weird.” I let my bag drop to the ground. Maybe the cleaning crew forgot to finish? Or maybe they were super thorough and thought,You know what this rustic, peaceful kitchen needs? A splash of gym rat.
I lift one of the weights and pump it. It’s real. Heavy. Judgy. And so not cottagecore.
I glance around, taking in more clues: A towel draped over the back of the kitchen chair. An open bag of trail mix on the coffee table. A pair of very large, very masculine-looking sneakers next to the couch.
My brain does not compute these details, nor does it raise any solid red flags, so deeply committed am I to the idea that this week will be restful.Chill.
“Maybe the last guest had to check out in a hurry,” I mumble, sweeping the towel off the chair and tossing it near the front door on the off chance the cleaning people drop by. “Maybe the cleaners ran out of time.”
Or didn’t show up at all.
“Not going to worry about it. We are chill.” How often do I get a cottage to myself?
Exactly never.
I live in a postage-stamp-size apartment above a bakery in downtown Star Lake. Whichsoundsadorable until you realize it means waking up to the sound of metal bowls scraping and mixers mixing at 4:30 a.m. each and every morning—and schlepping groceries up two flights of stairs because there is no elevator.
And the fire escape? More rust than escape.
So yeah. I’ve earned this.
I walk into the bathroom to wash my hands and immediately pause at the sight of a designer black toiletry bag on the counter. Not a travel-sized kit. This thing is military grade. Wide open, too—like a guy rummaged through it and couldn’t be bothered to zip it back up. There’s a toothbrush, electric razor, expensive cologne, and—Jesus Christ—a Rolex watch.
“Shit.” I squint, twisting the faucet. “Now I’m going to have to call someone.”
The last thing I want to be is responsible or accused of stealing some random man’s personal belongings—his pricey personal belongings ...
Still, it smells like cedar and eucalyptus in here, and the water pressure is magical, and I’m choosing to believe I’ve simply walked into a cleaning company fuckup.
Nothing more.
I wander into the bedroom next and throw my bag onto the bed—which is somehow already made, with crisp, white sheets that look sunny and bright and crisp. So crisp.
A light breeze wafts through the cracked window at that exact moment, rustling the edge of the curtain, and I tilt my chin up, letting the fresh air hit my skin.
I toe off my shoes.
Stretch.
Take a breath.
Exhale when I sit on the edge of the mattress and bounce lightly—like a kid testing out a trampoline in a backyard and declaring it perfect.
“Ahh.” I flop back and exhale again with the kind of dramatic sigh usually reserved for the first delicious bite of a dessert.
That’s what this feels like: a treat. The room is cozy, clean, and begs me to take the nap I didn’t know I needed.
I tilt my head toward the wall and spot another something out of place: a pair of headphones on the white nightstand. Thick, wireless, obnoxiously high end. They match the black phone charger looped around the base of the lamp, like someone was in the middle of winding it up and packing it away.
“Nope. Not gonna let my brain spiral.” Not when this bed feels like clouds. Not when I haven’t had to answer an email in over an hour. Not when I promised Lucy I would take a week to myself.
The brat is still in Arizona with her new boyfriend. Like, a living, breathing boyfriend. Who’s built like a tank and makes her homemade omelets and listens when she talks. They’re probably hiking in the foothills right now—or kissing during a sunset or buying succulents at a farmers’ market while I’m over here, trying to survive.
Loud sigh.
I roll out of bed and stretch.
