Page 3 of Married to the Scottish Player
I glance at the bottle of wine I forgot to open last night because I passed out fully clothed at 8:30 p.m. Which reminds me: I have to finish doing my laundry!
My phone dings again.
Lucy:
You would be working—but at least you’d be on the lake.
Lucy:
You deserve this. Seriously.
I hesitate. Then pull up the reservation site.
And what do you know? There’s a cancelation. Quaint cottage with a screened-in porch, fireplace, and—my favorite part—a hammock. What? I’m going to sit in that hammock, sway like I don’t have a care in the world though I have a million problems. Relaxing won’t be one.
I book it before I can second-guess myself and text Lucy:Booked the cottage. You’re a terrible influence. Never stop.
Tomorrow, I’m going full cottagecore.
I guess there’s only one thing left to do: Pack snacks. Pack sweaters. Pack bug spray.
And maybe I’ll pack a little less anxiety. Because this week?
I’m not bringing my to-do list. I’m bringing marshmallows and vibes, and I’m not wearing a swimsuit when I sunbathe on the pier.
Who am I?
Chapter 1
Annabelle
I’m approximately three minutes into my lakeside staycation, and I’ve almost nearly been taken out by a low-hanging bird feeder and what I suspect is a pissed-off squirrel with boundary issues. He stares at me and I stare at him before my car coughs one last time as I kill the engine.
But it’s fine.Everything is fine.
Because I, Annabelle Franklin, am doing the damn thing!
I am embracing rest. I am embracing stillness. I am embracing this quaint-ass cottage and the peace that comes along with it.
I step onto the gravel drive but don’t take the time to appreciate the charming view—white shutters, wraparound porch, twinkle lights—because I’m too busy juggling my overnight bag, a cooler full of stress snacks, and my chilled wine, ’causeEat Pray Loveand all that bullshit ...
The gravel crunches beneath my sandals as I approach the porch, key code already pulled up on my phone. I don’t know why I’m walking like I expect a warm welcome. No one is here. It’s me, my small stack of paperback books, and a plan to ignore anyone who thinks they’re going to contact me with feedback about the Fall Festival.
Nope. Not answering.
The keypad on the door beeps twice as I punch in the code. I wait. The lock clicks open.Victory.I push the door open with my hip, step inside, and immediately freeze.
Something is off; I can sense it.
Hmm. Not horror-movie off. Not “there might be a killer hiding behind the heavy living room drapes.” More like ... the cottage smells like aftershave and a hint of a freshly blown-out vanilla candle? Can that be?
I take two cautious steps into the living room, sniffing, scanning the space. Tiptoeing toward the hallway, hyperaware of how creaky the floorboards are, I startle when my overnight bag thumps against the wall.
I peek into the kitchen. There’s a jar of protein powder on the counter. A water bottle with the top off. A spoon and bowl set next to the sink.
And—oh God—there are hand weights on the kitchen table.
Hand weights?
