Right Number, Wrong Girl

This place was grand as fuck.

There was no way I was going to be able to convince these people that I was supposed to be there. I was going to have to have to pack some of my best clothing—I wasn’t sure yoga pants with a chicken print would pass as an appropriate outfit choice.

What was I getting myself into?

I loaded up my email. I hoped it wouldn’t take too long for Camilla to send me over the information for the cottage or the party. I was going to need to study like this was a flipping exam if I was going to pull this off.

Never mind what I was getting myself into, what was Camilla getting herself into? Letting me take control of this.

If I ever needed proof of our friendship, this was it.

She was putting her business into my very messy, very unorganised hands.

And here we always thought I was the reckless friend.

Thankfully, there was an email from Camilla that was forwarded from her usual booking website. Her accompanying message was short but sweet, letting me know that she’d changed the name on the booking and would call Fancy Nancy tomorrow.

I blew out a breath and clicked on the link, then logged into her account with the information she’d given me. Like I didn’t already know it.

Well, I said know.

It was saved in my Google account.

I couldn’t remember my own passwords, never mind Camilla’s, too.

“Oh, this is better,” I muttered, opening the booking page for the cottage she’d rented. She had it for two weeks—God, I hoped I didn’t have to stay that long—and it was much more my speed.

Small but not too small, set away from a main road, with a slate roof, a cottage garden, and a wildlife pond in the back. It overlooked open farmland, and the inside was exactly how you’d expect a small cottage rental to look.

Cute, cosy, kitschy.

It was definitely the kind of place I belonged.

Cavendish House? Not so much.

This was going to be a disaster.

***

It was official.

I hated driving.

I hated driving, I hated cars, I hated buses, taxis, cyclists, and I most definitely hated bloody birds.

In the four-and-a-half hours it’d taken me to drive from my flat in London to this adorable cottage in North Devon, I’d almost been hit by six cyclists, almost driven into the side of a taxi on a blind country lane and had one pigeon smash into my windshield.

My windshield was, thankfully, unharmed by the vicious attack.

I couldn’t say the same for my nerves.

I blew out a long breath as I got out of my car and looked around. The cottage was everything it’d seemed to be in the pictures. The white walls were clean and sharp, and the bright blue window shutters and door contrasted amazingly with both the walls and the vibrant spring colours of the garden.

And it was quiet.

Wow.

There was literally nothing except the sounds of the countryside. Mooing cows seemed to converse with sheep, and birdsong tittered from the trees that towered up into the cloudless blue sky.