Page 4 of Isla

"That's perfectly fine as long as we agree that you'll get back to me on my offer."

"Good. Anything else?"

"When are you planning on having your father's funeral? There are a lot of us here that would like to attend and pay our respects."

"I'm flying his body to London. His burial will be here."

"Oh." My heart breaks. James would hate that.

"If there's nothing else, I need to end our call."

"That's all, thank you." He hangs up before I can give him my information, so I call back and give it to his secretary.

Goddammit. I should have flown to London to talk to him face toface, where I could see his body language and get him to agree to the sale in person. I sigh, jerking my hands through the knots in my hair. There's no time for a pity party when I have so much work to do. With James gone, I'm the only one here besides the kitchen staff–who are now getting paid out of my pocket. Which means I'm the only one working front of house. It’s a bloody nightmare.

Days pass by in a blur. I collapse into my bed at 1 a.m. every morning and head back to work at 10 a.m. to prepare the pub for lunch. As soon as I get word on the sale, I'll hire help, but until I have the signed contract in my hands, I'm not spending a single cent more than I need to. So, for now, it's just little old me. And little old me is fucking exhausted.

I still haven't heardfrom James' son two weeks into this hell. I've called and left messages with his secretary three times, but beyond going to London myself, I'm not sure what more I can do. If I haven't heard from him in two more days, I'm going to close the pub and make the drive down. I'm getting desperate.

A notification startlesme awake at four the following morning, telling me the house has just rented for the next three months. It's a fucking headache, but there's no way I can resist the influx of much-needed cash. I receive a monthly stipend from a trust fund my parents set up before their deaths, but I'm stretching that thin by paying the kitchen staff. Now I have to spend my entire Sunday–my only day off–cleaning a gigantic house for a stranger. Far from the day of rest I had been dreaming about all week.

The Manor House is technically the groundskeeper's house for Amhuinnsuidh Castle. Jack took over the maintenance of the castle when our parents died. I lived with him until I turned eighteen, when I realized I didn’t want him breathing down my neck every time I brought a guy home. Lachlan joined me in the manor house a yearlater when he returned to help Jack with the estate. It was nice having him around—especially his cooking.

I'm seriously regrettingmy decision to rent out the house by the time I finish scrubbing the fifth and final bathroom. It's nearing nine o'clock when I wheel out the last of my odds and ends in an old, beaten-up suitcase. I pick my way down the treacherous path to the cottage with only the light of the moon to guide me. By the time I reach the door, it feels like my shoulder has been ripped from its socket. I jerk up on the door handle and jam my hip into the wooden planks, huffing in frustration. No matter how many times I've tried to fix it, the door insists on being a stubborn asshole. I have to throw my entire body against it before it finally opens. I leave my suitcase in the entry, set my alarm on the way to the bedroom, and throw myself onto the bed, passing out the second my head hits the pillow.

I jerkawake to my alarm blaring under my ear, my cheek sliding over a cold puddle of drool as I slide my hand around the bed, trying to find my phone.

"I'm bloody awake," I mumble, stabbing the off button. The cold morning air sends a shiver down my back as I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sit up. I haven't woken up this early on a Monday in ages. The only saving grace is that I'm headed to the café to pick out some pastries for the new tenant. I'll also be grabbing the largest coffee they offer. Maybe two. I stumble to the bathroom and step into a scalding shower. After scrubbing myself from head to toe, I dry off and pad into the bedroom, grimacing at the state of the clothes overflowing the drawers of the tiny dresser. I pull out the least wrinkled tank top and a pair of jeans. A leather jacket over the top hides most of the creases, and my boots complete the whole 'leave me alone, I'm a bad bitch' vibe I have going on. I stop by the bathroom once more to brush some mascara over my lashes and attempt to wrangle my hair into a braid. I snag my keys from the table by the door and walkup the path toward the garage. My fingertips are freezing as I key in the code to the garage door and watch my pride and joy come into view.

Years ago, Jack had imported a motorcycle. I jumped on the opportunity and upped it to a shipping container, importing the twin of Jack's bike and the car I've wanted since middle school. Her sleek lines give me goosebumps every single time. Nothing compares to the '67 GT500, my very own Eleanor. I sink into the seat and start her up, the sound of the engine roaring through my veins. I open the throttle as wide as I can for the two miles to the café. I pull into the parking lot slowly, trying my best not to disturb any of the customers.Ilove how the car sounds, but that doesn't mean everyone wants to hear it at seven o'clock in the morning.

This café is my favorite place in the entire world. It sits on the edge of a cliff, a gorgeous beach with turquoise blue water off in the distance. Besides the scenery, their food is fantastic. I come here almost daily, primarily because I can barely cook an egg, let alone an entire meal.

"You're up early, Isla," Jan says, greeting me with rosy cheeks and a huge smile.

"Right? It's a miracle," I laugh. "Someone’s renting the Manor House, and I wanted some pastries to give them. Do you care to make me up a box?"

"Of course! Would you like anything to eat for yourself?"

"What kind of question is that?"

"Your usual, then? Morning bun and extra-large iced coffee to go?"

"Yes, please." I run my card through and thank her as she hands me a box, a bag, and my coffee.

"Give me the scoop as soon as you can, okay?" she whispers conspiratorially.

"You got it!" I whisper back, winking at her before I shoulder through the door and walk out into the brisk air. Jan is single, too. But unlike me, her biological clock is ticking. Loudly. It's been sad watching her wait for the right man to walk through the door year in and year out. I wouldn't be surprised if she takes matters into her ownhands soon. Lord knows she has enough people in the community willing to help her care for a baby.

I place the box carefully in the car and sit at one a picnic table with a gorgeous view of the sea while devouring my morning bun and sipping on my coffee. I save the middle for last, licking the cinnamon sugar from my fingers before tossing my trash in the bin and heading home. I open the throttle, the wind whipping my hair free from its braid, enjoying my last moments of freedom before I have to worry about a tenant.

I notice three things as the house comes into view. The first is that the renter must be early because there's a car in the driveway. The second is the group of burly men standing on the front stoop, all staring at my car, their mouths hanging open. The third thing has my tires squealing to a stop in the driveway. I know them.

Glasses Guy, Henry, and Grumpy McGrumperson are standing in front of my house. The same three guys Ialmostconsidered entertaining last summer before I decided it would be way,waytoo much trouble. I fling open my car door, boots crunching in the gravel as I step out. I stare at them, hardly able to believe my eyes.

"Isla?" Henry asks, his voice cracking, eyes wide.

"The three of you rented my house? If I had known it was you, I wouldn't have spent the entire day yesterday spit-shining the fucking floors." I grab the box of pastries from the car and stalk toward them.

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