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I manage a measlythree 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 readingDahlia 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.Mycottage. 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.
There’s a small entryway at the front door that leads to a good-sized living room with a door to the kitchen space. There’s no furniture, obviously, but I’m picturing exactly what kind of chairs I want. The kitchen is sparse, missing all its electrics and sporting a nice big hole where a sink should be. Oh well.
The staircase is intact though, and there’s a cupboard beneath that will be perfect for coats and shoes. The stairs creak under my shoes as I head up them. The bathroom is in better shape, with a working toilet and shower. There’s two bedrooms, one of which I plan to convert into an office to work from.
Sure the cottage is old and a little—well a lot—worse for wear, but I can practically feel the potential emanating from the floorboards. I dance around on the landing, spinning in circles and grinning up at the ceiling.
I nearly fall straight on my ass when a voice calls out from downstairs.
“Hello?”
“Coming!” I shout back, rushing back down. I don’t know who would be here right now, but maybe it’s a curious local coming to see who was insane enough to buy this place. I smile at the thought and skid to a halt at the bottom of the stairs.
My heart nearly falls right out of my damn body.
Because it’s not a curious local or dog walker coming to check out the place at all.
No, standing in my doorway, taking up the entire damn space with his huge shoulders, is Dylan.
“Oh my god,” I stutter before I can catch myself, eyes widening as I take him in. He’s here. Like, really here. Holy shit, he looks even better in person than he does in his photos. Am I drooling? I think I’m drooling.Come on, Dahlia, remember how to act human!
“Dahlia?” Dylan says, dark brows furrowed as he looks me up and down curiously. I swear I feel his gaze like a physical touch on my skin.
“That’s me,” I squeak, feeling my face burn.Act normal!I think desperately, but this man has stolen every logical thought from my head.
“Jesus, last time I saw you, you were…” Dylan shakes his head, his hair falling over his face with the movement. He runs his hand through it, tugging at the strands. Dear god, it should be illegal for that to be so hot. “Now you’re…”
