Chapter 1
A young woman of about twenty-six stepped out of a taxi. She smiled at the familiar streets and asked the driver to help her with the suitcases from the trunk. For a moment, she glanced at her reflection in the car window. Her violet hair shimmered in the sunlight, shifting from pale pink to deep purple. She checked her phone—no calls. Her grandmother’s neighbor was supposed to meet her, according to the email, but she didn’t have his number. So she simply set off through the places she remembered from childhood.
Her grandmother’s house was nearby, just a few blocks away, and she walked with quiet confidence.
She had the keys. The heavy door resisted as she turned the key several times before it finally gave way with a creak. The scent of an old house hit her immediately—dust, damp, and something faintly moldy. She sneezed once, then again.
“Bless you.”
The voice came from the living room, and she flinched, startled by the unexpected presence.
“Excuse me… who’s there?”
A man stepped into view.
Tall—around 187 cm—with broad shoulders and a naturally athletic build earned not in a gym, but through years of restoring old houses. His dark, slightly curly hair was tousled, and he ran a hand through it absently. His face was sharp and masculine, with a defined jaw accentuated by light stubble. He looked as though he had only just woken up. His eyes—dark brown, almost black—were piercing, slightly narrowed, as if he questioned everything he saw.
His clothes were simple, but striking in their roughness: a grey knitted sweater that fit snugly across his chest and shoulders, dark blue jeans, heavy boots. His hands were large, calloused—hands of someone who worked, not just sketched ideas on paper.
“Purple hair? Seriously?”
“First of all, I asked who you are. And second—that’s none of your business, sir.” Emmie dragged her two suitcases inside and shut the door behind her. “Let me repeat. Who are you, and what are you doing in my house?”
“Hold on a second. It’s not your house yet—it still belongs to your grandmother. And second, I’m Alexander Harper. I’ll have a claim to it too.”
“You’re the neighbor my grandmother mentioned?”
“Good to know your logic works.”
Emmie clenched her fists so tightly her nails dug painfully into her palms.
“You were supposed to meet me.”
“I was. Later. You probably didn’t account for time zones.”
“Oh, damn it!” She stormed into the kitchen, opened a cupboard, grabbed a clean glass, filled it with water, and took several gulps. “So when are you going home?”
“I’m already home. My room is upstairs, on the left. Yours is on the right. The bathroom and toilet are shared—they’re upstairs too.”
“Help me carry my things to my room.”
“I’m not your servant.”
“Please.”
“Fine. If you cook dinner for us tonight.”
“Can’t we just order something?”
“It’s Sunday. Almost everything’s closed. I bought groceries—they’re in the fridge and on the table.”
He handed her a document and left the kitchen.
Emmie stood in the middle of the old kitchen, holding the will, trying not to laugh out loud. Because if she started, she wouldn’t be able to stop—and it would turn into full hysteria.
Outside, typical English rain poured down—so thick it seemed almost horizontal. The cottage, Rose Cottage, smelled of old wood, lavender, and a hint of mildew. A note from the lawyer lay on the table:
“You and Mr. Alexander Harper must reside together in the cottage for 90 days and restore the Tea Room ‘At the Willow.’ Otherwise, the property will be sold.”
“Seriously, Grandma?” Emmie whispered in English, her slight accent slipping through as it always did when she was nervous. “You decided to play matchmaker from beyond the grave?”
The kitchen door slammed. She jumped.
Alex stood in the doorway.
His expression was that of a man who had just bitten into a lemon.
“I’m not agreeing to this nonsense.”
Emmie smiled brightly, though something inside her was already starting to boil.
“Looks like we really are going to live together. Want some tea? Mint, maybe—with a bit of ginger and lemon?”
She winked.
He sighed, ran a hand through his damp hair, and muttered:
“I drink coffee. Black.”
She tilted her head, looking up at him.
“Alright, alright…”
He stepped closer. He smelled of rain, wood, and something distinctly masculine. Their eyes met. For a moment, the kitchen fell too quiet, with only the rain tapping against the windows.
“Ninety days,” he said softly, dangerously. “Try not to get on my nerves.”
A shiver ran down Emmie’s spine. Not from the cold.
“Challenge accepted, Mr. Grumpy.”
◈ ◈ ◈
Emmie stood under the shower, trying not to think about the fact that just beyond the wall—a thin, old wooden wall—was Alex Harper.
The water was hot, almost scalding, but it didn’t help. She could still feel his presence in the house. His low voice murmuring “good night” before going upstairs, the way his damp sweater clung to his shoulders, the way he had looked at her in the kitchen—like he wanted to throw her out and pin her against the wall at the same time.
She closed her eyes and tilted her face into the stream. Calm down, Emmie. It’s just ninety days. You’ve survived worse.
Suddenly, the water turned lukewarm. Then cold.
“What the—” she muttered, twisting the tap harder.
Nothing. The hot water was gone.
She turned off the shower and wrapped herself in a towel—a thin one that barely covered what it needed to. Her hair was wet, droplets trailing down her collarbones and slipping between her breasts.
She opened the bathroom door—
—and walked straight into him.
Alex stood in the narrow hallway, a mug of coffee in his hand. Grey T-shirt, grey sweatpants sitting low on his hips. He was clearly about to take a shower too—his hair slightly tousled.
They froze.
The towel clung to Emmie by a miracle. One wrong move—and that was it. Her skin still steamed from the hot water, her cheeks flushed. Alex’s gaze flicked downward—just for a moment, but long enough for her to notice. His jaw tightened.
“You done?” His voice was lower than usual. Almost rough.
“Ran out of hot water,” Emmie said, trying to sound indifferent, though her heart was pounding somewhere in her throat. “Sorry. I… took a while.”
He stepped closer to let her pass.
The hallway was narrow. Very narrow.
Their bodies almost brushed. She felt the heat of him even through the towel. The scent—man, rain, wood. His gaze lingered on a droplet of water slowly tracing down her neck and disappearing beneath the fabric.
“Careful,” he said quietly, not looking away. “It’s easy to… slip here.”
Emmie lifted her chin and smiled, though her knees trembled.
“Are you talking about the floor, or something else, Mr. Harper?”
His eyes flashed. For a second, it seemed he might step forward, press her against the wall. She could almost feel his hands on her waist, him leaning in—
Alex stepped back abruptly. Took a sip of coffee. His voice turned colder.
“I’ll take a cold shower. I really need one right now.”
He went into the bathroom and shut the door—harder than necessary.
Emmie remained standing in the hallway, clutching the towel to her chest, her heart pounding like it was trying to escape her body.
She let out a quiet laugh, biting her lip.
“Ninety days,” she whispered to herself. “This is going to be a long time.”
From behind the bathroom door, she heard Alex curse softly as the cold water hit him.
Emmie smiled wider and headed to her bedroom, deliberately swaying her hips just a little more than usual.
Let Mr. Grumpy suffer.
