Chapter One
Anastasia Ashcroft
I stare at the blank sheet of music in front of me as the empty, pristine lines mock me. There’s a melody playing at the fringes of my mind, but when I try to put it on paper, it never seems right.
Three whole days I’ve been in this quaint rental cottage, surrounded by the serene whispers of the forest, and what do I have to show for it? Absolutely nothing.
The antique regulator clock on the wall ticks away, each second a reminder of my failure. I should have composed the foundation of my symphony by now. At the very least, I should have a theme, a motif, anything to build upon. But the page remains stubbornly empty, much like my inspiration.
I know, deep down, that this frantic need for immediate results is precisely why I’m here. My agent practically begged me to take this time off, to escape the pressure of New York’s classical music scene and find my creative spark again.
“You’re burning out, Anastasia,” she’d said, her voice laced with concern. “Take some time. Breathe fresh air. Let the music come to you naturally.”
Naturally. As if anything about my approach to music has ever been natural. I’ve worked tirelessly since I was old enough to hold a flute, perfecting my craft, pushing myself to be the best. It’s what’s expected of an Ashcroft, after all. Excellence is in our blood, as blue as it may be.
I sigh, slamming my composition book with more force than necessary. The sound whispers through the empty cottage, a stark reminder of my solitude. Maybe a good night’s sleep will help. I’ll wake up refreshed, and the symphony will simply flow from my fingertips. It has to.
As I brush my teeth, I give myself a hard look in the antique mirror over the sink. My usually impeccable blonde bun is coming undone, wisps of hair framing my face in a way that would horrify my mother. I look tired. Defeated, even. This isn’t me. I’m Anastasia Ashcroft, for heaven’s sake. I don’t do defeat.
The unmistakable sound of an engine, far too close to be on the main road, catches my attention as I’m about to slip into bed. Headlights sweep across the windows, briefly illuminating the room before plunging it back into relative darkness.
“Impossible,” I whisper. This cottage is supposed to be isolated—my private sanctuary. Terror jolts through me. No one should be out here at this hour.
I grab my phone, heart pounding, and edge into the shadow beside the dresser. The engine cuts off. Silence. Then—footsteps crunching on gravel.
Before I can decide whether to call for help, the front door bursts open with a bang so sharp it makes me jump.
“Fuck!” a man’s voice bellows, followed by the sound of something heavy crashing to the floor. “Could this placebeany darker?”
I freeze, breath caught in my throat. Burglars don’t usually announce themselves—or complain about the lighting.
My fear eases a fraction, confusion edging in to take its place. Straightening slowly, I call out, “Hello? You don’t belong here.”
Whoever he is, and whatever his motive, I snatch a heavy agate bookend from the shelf, pulse pounding. The cold weight of it steadies me—solid, practical, something I cando.
The footsteps pause, then shuffle again, slower this time. I strain to listen. No stealth, no hurry, just heavy boots and a muttered string of complaints. Drunk? Lost? Some delivery gone insanely wrong?
My terror doesn’t vanish, but it shifts—less icy panic, more wary determination.If he meant harm, he wouldn’t be making this much noise.Still, I keep the bookend raised, just in case.
After more cursing under his breath whoever it is has finally found the light switch.
The floorboards creak closer. A back-lit shadow fills the doorway. And then I’m face-to-face with… chaos incarnate.
“Well, well,” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe with an ease that sets my nerves jangling. “Looks like my exile just got a lot more interesting. My manager made this sound like a punishment, but maybe you’re the consolation prize. I’ll have to thank him… in the morning.”
He winks, closing the brown eye before popping it open again and ogling me so dramatically you’d think he was auditioning for a silent film.
I tighten my grip on the bookend but force my voice to stay even. “I beg your pardon, but who are you, and what are you doing in my cottage?”
He has the audacity to laugh. “Yourcottage? Hate to break it to you, princess, but this is my home for the next month. Manager’s orders.”
My fear spikes again—is he serious?—but indignation quickly follows. “That’s impossible. I’ve rented this place for my personal use. There must be some mistake.”
He shrugs, a lazy roll of his shoulders that speaks volumes about his disregard for my distress. “No mistake. Unless you count my entire career as one big mistake, which… fair enough.”
I blink, really looking at him now. There’s something familiar about that maddeningly handsome face, beyond the mismatched eyes and the ridiculous confidence. The wild hair. The smirk. The way he’s holding that flute case like it’s a weapon or a trophy.
Realization slams into me. “Wait a minute. You’re… you’re that ridiculous rock flutist. The one who plays on one foot like some deranged flamingo.”
