Page 22 of Falling Hard for the Billionaire Cowboy

“Play the music!” I yell to myself, increasing my stereo to full volume.

So, is this what perfect revenge feels like? I muse.

Minutes later, I finally arrive at the back of the ranch.

Yes.

It is the very back–back.

The cottage is tucked away at the very end of the ranch, making it ‘almost’ isolated from the main residence. As I pull up, I'm struck by how well-maintained the area seems. The cottage doesn't look abandoned at all from this distance; instead, it seems like someone has taken the time to regularly check on it.

Wondering if the inside is the same, I drive close to the entrance, and as soon as I step out, I'm hit with a flood of nostalgia. Various memories begin to pop up, like a whack-a-mole game in my mind. I remember camping here in the summer with my parents, the smell of marshmallows roasting over an open fire, and my dad's terrible ghost stories.

A giggle escapes me as I recall the time when I ran away from the main house to this very spot. I was ten, and I'd had a massive argument with my mom over... what was it? Oh right, she wouldn't let me get my ears pierced.

"You're too young," Mom had said, waving the spoon she was using to make something on the stove.

"But all my friends have them!" I'd cried, stomping my foot dramatically.

"When you're older," she'd replied, unmoved by my theatrics.

In a fit of pre-teen rage, I'd packed a backpack with essentials (three candy bars and my favorite stuffed animal) and stormed off to the cottage. I thought I was so clever, so grown-up.

Thirty minutes later, Mom had found me, of course. I can still feel the sharp sting of her hand on my bottom, followed immediately by the ice cream my dad had bribed me with as a peace offering.

I later learned my mom had been the one who bought the ice cream. So, we'd made up, and I'd returned home, not daring to run away ever again.

I let out a deep sigh, the memories fading as I pop open my trunk to grab my luggage.

Thud.

The heavy suitcase hits the ground, and I can only half-drag, half-pull it to the porch. In my mind, I'm wondering how I had managed to carry it back in Redstone. “Probably adrenaline,” I mumble.

Eyeing the door of the cottage, I wonder if Austin might have messed with the lights or the water, or something that was equally petty. "If he has, I swear ..." I mutter, pushing open the door.

To my surprise, everything looks intact as I step inside. The cottage is small, with just two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a combined living room and kitchen area. It smells a bit stuffy, but that’s nothing a good airing out won't fix. I realize with a start that the place is actually well-maintained, no, like - really.

It isn’t the cobweb-covered disaster I'd half-expected.

I know my parents have been gone for years, so it can only be Austin who keeps it up, or has someone do it, of course.

Slowly, I begin to go from place to place, flicking light switches and turning on faucets, testing everything. There is no pettiness (or trucks) involved… no pranks, so, I’m good to go. I'm not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Maybe because I won’t have the chance to prank him back?

Or do I just want to cause trouble?

Well, I’m not answering either of them.

"I pay rent," I say to the empty room, “so it has to be livable at least."

I place my luggage in the middle of the small living room and pull up all the shades, letting in the sunlight.

As I stare at everything in the morning light, there is only one thing on my mind.

I need to make this place my own space

So, I begin to clean, wiping down every surface in the cottage. It's not too bad, just a light layer of dust that comes away easily.

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