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The kind I’d written about so many times. He could easily fit between the pages of a book and have thousands upon thousands of women fall in love with him with one flick of a page and a mere six-word sentence to the heroine.
He was clean-shaven, and he had a sharp jaw with full lips, a strong nose, and bright blue eyes framed by black eyelashes. His jet-black hair was flopping over his forehead in a messy, dishevelled manner, framing his gorgeous face perfectly.
And he looked very grumpy indeed. He certainly wasn’t pleased about the presence of Sir Winston Purrchill—I was certain of that.
“Um.” I swallowed. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t get out, don’t worry.”
I’d try to, at least.
He nodded, but he didn’t appear to be any happier at my appeasement. “Are you the one who booked this place? The writer?”
“Yes, that’s me. Ellie.”
“The frog is under the hydrangea.”
I turned to the large shrub with an abundance of blue and pink flowerheads and bent down. As he’d said, a frog that was a little too weathered to be consideredgreenanymore was hiding, and I tipped it up to see the old silver key under it.
“Well, that’s not exactly visible like I was told,” I muttered, standing up with it in my hand.
“Yes, my grandmother thinks it’s funny to hide it,” he said dryly. “Enjoy your stay and do please try to keep the cat under control.”
His grandmother?
I spun back to face him, but he’d already jogged off in the opposite direction. If his grandmother was the one who set the key there, did that mean he was the one who owned this place?
If so, he was either The Duke of Windermere or the next in line for the dukedom. He seemed far too young to be the duke, so perhaps he was the heir. Either way, it was a little strange he hadn’t introduced himself.
Then again, hehadgiven me a look that said he thought I was a fool for not finding the frog, so perhaps he was one of those classist aristocrats who didn’t have time for anyone who wasn’t of the same social standing.
I was a little more working-class than upper-class, admittedly.
I sighed and reached over the cat carrier to put the key in the door. It was always the handsome ones who were wankers.
Mind you, real life wasn’t all romance novels where the rich guy fell for the girl who was hard done by. The fantasy was nice, but that was all it was. Afantasy.That was the point in entertainment, after all.
Books were a special kind of escapism. Between the pages, anything was possible. You could climb a mountain barefoot or fly without wings, breathe underwater without gills or dream without sleeping. It was a wonderful, glorious place to be, and I wanted to be back there myself.
Perhaps that was what I needed. I needed to read and lose myself in somebody else’s world, and maybe I’d find myself being able to create my own again.
I pushed the door open and glanced over my shoulder.
Although with a man like that running around, it might not be so tough to find a little romance hero inspiration.
•••
Winston sat in front of me and made his little high-pitched “pay attention to me, human” noise.
I looked down at him. “No. You had meat for breakfast.”
He responded with a half-shout, half-trill that somewhat resembled a human rolling their tongue in an attempt to replicate a cat’s purr.
“No. It’s not my fault you ate it all in one go. If you learnt to pace yourself, maybe you wouldn’t run out of the good stuff so quickly.”
Said the woman who could easily get through a bottle of wine in no time at all.
Winston trilled at me again.
“No. You aren’t having my leftovers. There’s no need to be a brat just because I won’t let you go outside.”
