My stomach twists, and an uneasy knot forms as I wonder … Did I turn up at the wrong moment? Say something offensive without realising? I haven’t even spoken yet, so how could I have?
I straighten slightly, swallowing down the negative self-talk that makes me want to squirm under his gaze. The old Stormy would have shrunk, folding into a smaller version of herself, bending and twisting to fit the shape of what he wanted. But I won’t anymore.
I have to stick to my plan. A fresh start, a clean slate.
I clear my throat, trying to recover.
"Sorry, I'm Stormy. I'm here to see Grace about the cottage."
I offer a polite smile and extend a hand towards him, but the man simply stares. His forest-green eyes sear into my outstretched fingers, unreadable, unmoving.
But then a voice comes from behind the man and snaps him from his trance. A small middle-aged woman with short brown and silver-streaked hair nudges past him to take my hand instead.
"Excuse my son," she says, casting a sideways glance towards him.
His gaze remains steely, and his eyes linger on me for so long that unease begins to crawl over my skin, raising goosebumps. But just as I suppress ashiver, his eyes flick towards the woman—Grace, I assume. The one I’ve come to meet with.
Without a word, he takes a step back, his gaze lingering once more, just for a moment, before he turns and walks off.
"Just ignore him," she says with a soft sigh, eyes following his retreat, before turning back to me. “He’s just in a mood today.”
Then, as if remembering herself, she offers a gentle smile. “I’m Grace.”
Her grip is gentle as she shakes my hand, then motions for me to follow her inside.
“Sorry about the mess, you caught me in the middle of baking."
She chuckles and steps aside to allow me into her home.
Wiping my dirty shoes on the welcome mat, I follow her in, instantly greeted by the cosy embrace of her home. Soft cream and rich brown tones settle around me, their warmth enriching every corner my eyes touch.
The rustic wooden flooring, clearly worn smooth by countless footsteps, is softened by the rugs that adorn it. They’re threadbare in places, like they’ve witnessed decades of muddy boots and warm dinners.
The scent of baking drifts through the air, mouth-wateringly inviting with a blend of sugar, chocolate, and something buttery that feels like the comfort I’ve only ever been able to dream of. It lingers, wrapping around me like an old blanket. The place breathes warmth, the kind that whispers of home, not just the structure, but the feeling. A feeling I haven’t known in far too long.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I turn to Grace.
"Your home is beautiful," I say. More meaning fills the words than I expected.
"Well, isn’t that kind of you? Thank you, Sweetie," she replies with a warm smile, gesturing for me to step into the open-plan kitchen and living area.
Two large cream sofas sit in the centre, separated by a sturdy oak coffee table. Sunlight spills into the space, filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the rolling fields beyond, casting a golden glow over everything. The view is breathtaking, but it’s the atmosphere of this truly inviting, clearly lived-in home that really pulls me in.
"We’ve been here for just over thirty-four years now," she continues, her voice laced with fondness. "We bought this place when we were young and foolish and instantly fell in love. My dear husband, Frank, God bless his soul, worked tirelessly night and day to renovate it into the home you see now. I’ve never loved a place more. It’s seen a lot of life over the years. We raised our kids here, made a home out of the dust and the noise.”
She gestures toward the kitchen, where I catch a glimpse of a broad back and familiar shoulders bent over the fridge.
“You’ve met my son. The others, Missy and Harper, you’ll run into soon enough. They’re around."
Grace sinks into one of the sofas, and I follow suit, taking the seat opposite her as she pulls open a small drawer inside the coffee table to retrieve a stack of papers.
"I know we went over most of this on the phone, but I just need to go over a few more things with you, and then you can read and sign these, and we can get you settled into your cottage," she explains, placing them neatly in front of me.
After a brief discussion of the tenancy agreement, she sets a pen atop the stack of papers in front of me. Then, as if suddenly realising something, she lets out a quiet sigh and shakes her head.
"Oh, how rude of me! You must have had a long flight, especially with that lovely British accent of yours … I should’ve asked sooner, would you like a drink? Something to eat?"
I smile, "Just a glass of water, if that’s alright?"
