The Stubborn Love Series: Books 1-5 Contemporary Romance Series

by Wendy Owens

  I toss the advertisements onto the spare double bed, and once in my pajamas, I flip on the television. I only make it through thirty minutes of a gossip show before drifting off to sleep.

  Chapter Three

  The morning greets me with a headache, and I wish I’d remembered to drink a glass of water after my cocktail. I grab the travel bag that contains my roving pharmacy and toss it on the bed, causing the pamphlets to scatter. I hadn’t even had a chance to glance at them last night before falling asleep.

  Unzipping the bag, I flip through, looking for my cure. Gas pills, water pills, birth control— guess I don’t need to take those anymore—vitamins, and then finally, exactly what I need. I pull out the bottle of Ibuprofen and groan; I think how unfair it is that most people drink half a dozen cocktails without this punishment, but for me it’s two.

  I toss back a couple pills, swallowing hard. As I place the container back in the bag, a flyer catches my eye. My heart stops. I do a double take before leaning down and grasping the unassuming print ad. In bold letters I see the words Mr. Darcy. My heartbeat quickens. I grip it tighter and begin reading the tan, plain, non-assuming ad.

  The Three Horseshoes - A traditional English Coaching Inn, situated in the heart of the South Downs National Park, with an excellent restaurant serving home-cooked, locally sourced food to complement the award-winning ales from Fullers Brewery. We have 2 resident chefs preparing food for our bar menu.

  We have four comfortable well-appointed guest rooms, two en-suite. There is ample free parking with space for motor home stopovers. In the summer you can enjoy our pretty, secluded garden and in the winter our lovely log fires.

  Jane Austen’s house is 3 miles away in the picturesque village of Chawton. Be entranced by walking the grounds where Mr. Darcy was dreamed up.

  This is where I need to be. It is as if a force unknown is trying to send me a message. The idea of walking the grounds Ms. Austen once did has the hair on my arms standing up. This was a strong woman. A woman who never married, yet seemed to find contentment in her life. Maybe I’ve been going about my life all wrong. Perhaps assuming I would find love and a family was my mistake. Whatever clarity I seek, I’m sure it is in Chawton.

  Picking up the phone, I call down to the front desk to let them know I’ll be checking out and a need a cab to take me to Chawton Village. I then begin shoving things wildly into my bag. The excitement courses through my body. I gather up the pamphlets to put them in my bag as well. I hesitate. Pulling open the drawer to the nightstand, I drop them in. After all, I have a plan now; I don’t need those anymore. I’ll leave them for the next lonely soul trying to figure things out.

  A few minutes pass. I throw my hair in a ponytail, put on only the basics when it comes to makeup, and take off for the lobby. My adventure is finally beginning, and I have an amazing feeling about it.

  Chapter Four

  I watch the scenery pass by the window. Big open fields of green, trees older and larger than anything you would ever see in my downtown Chicago neighborhood. The cab driver waves at a passer-by, and immediately, the cozy, friendly feel of this place consumes me. Chicago is often described as a big city that has the feel of a small Midwest town. But here, in this rural paradise, there’s an atmosphere I never imagined existed in the real world.

  Whenever I think of England, London comes to mind. A bustling metropolis with a magnificent history. Crowds shifting through the streets, rushing from point A to point B, living their busy lives, just like home. But here in the English Countryside, there is a magic that’s hard to describe. So far on this cab ride, I’ve seen a horse pulling a wagon, children playing in a field, and a young woman riding a bike down a side street. The last might not seem like that big of a deal, but for Christ’s sake, the bike had a basket on the front of it with a bouquet of flowers poking out. I didn’t realize people lived like this anymore.

  “It’s just up ahead, miss,” the gentleman with olive skin calls back to me from the front seat. After an hour-long ride from London, I’m relieved to hear I’ve finally reached my destination.

  My heart rate picks up. I have no clue who anyone is in this small town, nor do I have a plan as to what I am going to do here. There is nothing to be excited about, nothing for me to be looking forward to; yet I find my adrenaline pumping. The sad part is I’m excited because I have experienced so little in my life. Even the mildest form of anticipation seems to send me into a frenzy.

  As we turn on the old gravel road, the stone building comes into view, and I’m in awe of the charm and classic beauty the place exudes. It’s as if the structure came out of the pages of one of my stories. Over the large, black wooden door is a sign that reads: THE THREE HORSESHOES. Off to one side of the entrance is a bike stand and on the other are some patio tables with outdoor seating.

  Window boxes overflowing with random flowers line the wall of the second story. I hope one of those windows will be to my room. My mind shifts for a moment to a thought that is only just now registering. Panic washes over me as I wonder if there will be only one common bathroom for guests. I’ve always wondered how people are able to share a bathroom, a place where you take care of your most intimate business. Shaking my head, I try to force the thought out of my mind. This trip is not about focusing on the things that give me discomfort, but instead experiencing adventure.

  “Miss,” the driver says to me. “Back where we turned onto this road, if you would have kept going for another two miles, you would have hit the little town of Alton. There’s a market there, and it even has its own steam railway. I suggest visiting during your stay.”

  “Thank you. I’m curious—how far away is Chawton?”

  “Jane Austen fan, huh?” the man remarks, and I’m impressed by his keen observation.

  “How did you know?”

  “Chawton is pretty small—not a lot of other reasons to visit there. You can get exact directions at the inn, but it’s roughly three miles.” The car comes to a stop, and the driver turns to face me. Over his shoulder I can see the meter and hand him the necessary payment.

  He smiles, offers me a business card, and informs me that if I need a ride back to London at some point, he’d be happy to come and fetch me. As I exit the vehicle, the man jumps out, retrieves my bag, and asks if I know when I might be departing.

  I hesitate before saying, “To be honest, I have no idea.”

  This statement results in a puzzled glance. “Well, you know how to reach me. Enjoy your stay.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, watching the driver as he pulls away. I turn and walk in the direction of the inn, dragging my wheeled luggage behind me. I see a sign at the end of the bike rack that reads:

  Bicycles Free to Borrow, property of The Three Horseshoes.

  What a magnificent idea, I think. I smile, and laugh inwardly as I imagine someone trying to ride a bicycle while intoxicated.

  “You find yourself rather amusing, don’t you, dear?” a voice asks from the right of me. I turn and look to find a tall and slender man walking in my direction. He reminds me of Jack’s grandfather. I’d never met the man, but I had seen pictures. Build was where the similarities stopped. This man is missing the hair on the top of his head, but what’s lacking is made up in the form of a full and bushy mustache. It trims his mouth and continues down the lines of his chin.

  “Pardon me?” I ask, soaking in his disheveled appearance.

  “Not exactly ladylike, are you?” The man laughs vigorously before taking my luggage from my hand. I was still processing his statement, looking down at my appearance, bewildered, wondering what on Earth he found so funny.

  “Well, are you coming?” he asks, holding open the large wooden door, my suitcase at his heels, waiting for me to enter.

  “Oh, yeah—” I gulp and move forward, jerking, rushing through the doorway.

  Once I step inside I hear the man enter right behind me, my luggage wheels clanking over the transition. The door closes, and it takes a moment for m
y eyes to adjust to the dim room. Across from where I’m standing is a massive fireplace with two leather high-back chairs positioned in front of it. A dark painting of a countryside is propped on the mantel. To my right are wooden tables and chairs, and against the far wall a handful of booths.

  As my eyes dart around the room, I fixate on the floor for a moment. The planks look like they belong in an old farmhouse from a hundred years ago, wide and riddled with knots.

  “What have you brought us, Abner?” I hear someone call out from behind the bar to my left.

  The man with my suitcase clears his throat. “She was outside, cracking herself up about passing gas.”

  “What?” Initially I gasp, whirling around to stare at the old man. He’s grinning from ear to ear, splitting his face in half.

  “Well, you were,” he insists, staring right back.

  “I was not!” I snap.

  “You weren’t what, passing gas or cracking up?” the faceless man remarks, causing a few people in the room to laugh.

  Now I’m annoyed, and my face is hot. It’s one thing for a crazy old man to make a few annoying comments, but for some bartender to join in for a couple of easy laughs does not fly with me. I turn toward the bar, rushing forward, opening and closing my eyes a few times to adjust them completely to the new lighting.

  “Just who do you think you—” My words freeze in my throat. I know my jaw is hanging low, but my brain can’t seem to communicate with my mouth at this exact moment.

  I have a type; I’ve always had a type. Jack was my type. Tall, strong, dark, clean cut, it’s my type. This guy in front of me, he is nothing like what I look for in a man, but somehow my words halt, and my knees go wobbly. I take a step forward, gripping the bar to steady myself.

  “Are you all right?” His accent isn’t as heavy as everyone else I’ve met here. His sandy hair falls down to his shoulders; a thick layer of stubble covers his strong jaw line. His eyes are blue, his chest broad; the t-shirt under his button-down flannel peeks out. The jersey fabric tight across his obviously firm chest. I wonder what it would feel like to have those strong arms grip me, but I immediately do my best to push the thought from my mind.

  I stare at his full, peachy lips as he speaks again, “Miss, are you okay?” I can see him waving a hand in front of my face. I know I should say something.

  I shake my head. “Huh?” I’m embarrassed again, but continue, “Yes, of course I am. I’m just tired.”

  He laughs a low and sexy growl. I feel my cheeks flush as I realize once again he and several patrons of the bar are laughing at me.

  “Is there a manager here?” I ask, focusing my glare, determined not to drool over this guy any longer.

  “You’re looking at him,” he chimes with a smile, and I notice him looking me up and down. I’m not sure what this means. I’ve never been great at determining when a guy finds me attractive. So I assume he must be looking at me for a much more sinister reason.

  “No,” I insist, shaking my head. “There has to be someone above you.”

  “I don’t think so.” He smiles. “Unless I sold recently and forgot about it.”

  “You own this place?” I see his expression shift from light and jovial to one of annoyance. My tone of disbelief has offended him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” he interjects. “You’re just tired, right?” He is not amused, and I pull my lips in tightly, then sigh. Leave it to me to make an enemy of the guy who owns the place before I even manage to get checked in.

  “Is there any chance you have a room available?” I ask, pulling my shoulders up and trying my best to appear sweet and innocent.

  The man walks away from me; I notice his backside is just as compelling as the front of him. Leaning through a doorway he shouts, “Bea, can you come here for a second?”

  I can hear a bit of huffing coming from an unseen room, followed by some clanging, before an older woman sticks her head out. “What is it?” she asks, staring at the apparent owner.

  “This young woman would like a room.”

  “And what exactly would you like me to do about that, Holden?” the woman snarls in an agitated state.

  “I’m sorry, Bea. I know I put a lot on your plate today, but can you please take care of her?” Now that I’ve heard it, I can’t quit thinking about his name. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone with that name. It seems to suit him, I think.

  He instructs me to follow the fuller-figured woman. Her silver hair twists into a bun on top of her head, and the lines around her eyes show a life full of stories. We climb a narrow and steep staircase to the left of the bar. I can hear her grumbling. I do my best to lift my suitcase up high enough, but it still bangs into every third stair or so.

  A sigh of relief passes through my lips when we reach the top of the stairs, and I’m a little sad I’m so winded, while this Bea woman, who is clearly older than me, seems to be completely unscathed. I follow her to a side table in the hall where she flips through several papers.

  “Now, we’re not too fancy around here—only four bedrooms and the common bath is at the end of the hall.” My heart sinks a little at that confirmation. “My husband, Abner, and I stay out back in the guest house if you need us outside of operating hours.”

  Abner, the man with the mustache, who had carried in my bag. They seem like an odd couple, yet somehow so appropriate for one another. “Holden is in the last room on the left, but he doesn’t always wake up when you knock, so if you need something, you can always get me.”

  “Holden?” I had figured this out, but for some reason I didn’t want her to think I had.

  “The owner, you met him downstairs.”

  I gasp. “Wait, he stays up here?”

  “Well, yes, it’s his inn. Where else would you have him stay?”

  “No, I mean ...” I don’t even know what to say.

  “I know he’s quite fit, is he not?” The woman smiles up at me, pulling out a piece of paper with details printed on it about the inn and the surrounding area. For the first time I see humor on her face, and I think I could like her.

  “I suppose, fit enough, but I also found him quite rude.”

  “Rude?” Bea seems puzzled by my statement. “That isn’t something I hear often about Holden. My Abner, now I hear it all the time about him.”

  “I don’t think accusing me of passing gas is polite or mature,” I say, my face burning from the embarrassment.

  “What?” Bea is suddenly bursting at the seams with boisterous laughter. “Did you happen to say ’Pardon me’ to Abner at any point?”

  “Huh? I mean ...” I think about her question, retracing the conversation. “I suppose I may have.”

  “That’s one of Abner’s favorite jokes when we get Americans.” Bea gasps between laughs.

  “What is?” I feel as though I’m the only one not getting an obvious joke.

  “In Britain, when we say ’pardon me,’ it’s because of flatulence.”

  “Oh!” My embarrassment falls away into laughter as I realize now what she’s saying. Then it goes right back to embarrassment as I think about Holden even jokingly imagining me farting. That is the last thing I want a man like Holden to think about.

  “Don’t worry, dear, you’ll pick up on their humor quickly enough. Now, how many nights will you be staying?” Bea asks me, pulling out a set of keys.

  “I have no idea,” I reply honestly.

  “Are you running from something, sweetheart?” Bea laughs, and though I know to her it is just another joke, her words sting with truth.

  I shake my head. “Just trying for a spontaneous adventure.”

  “I see, well the nightly and weekly rates are all in the info I gave you.” Bea pauses, looking into my eyes as if studying me. Her glance shifts, and I can tell she sees something in me, but I’m just not sure what. She places the keys in my hand, wrapping my fingers around them. She adds, “Why don’t you get settled in, and we can run your payment in th
e bar later this evening? I have a kitchen to get back to.”

  “I’m grateful; thank you,” I say in response and look at the key.

  “Back down the hall, first door at the top of the stairs,” she instructs. The room is the farthest from the bathroom, but also farthest from Holden, which in the moment seems like a good thing.

  I turn and make my way to the door, sliding my key in, and drag my luggage inside, thrusting it up onto the bed. Light drenches the room from the window on the left wall. I’m thrilled to see, just as I had desired, my room is one with the window box of flowers. There’s no dresser—just a small double bed, and nightstands that could double for clothing storage, if needed. On the far wall, opposite the window, is a wardrobe of chestnut colors. Shoved against the wall with the door I’d just entered through is a small desk. It isn’t fancy, but it is functional. I imagine how perfect the room would have been for Jane Austen to create one of her enchanting characters.

  I’m not one to tire, but it seems as though I’ve felt the need to nap every day since leaving on this trip. Perhaps this is the jet lag I’ve heard so much about, but never experienced. Flying overseas is what it took to suck the wind out of my sails apparently. Of course, if I’m being completely honest, I’ve pretty much felt like this since Jack and I split. Kenzie keeps telling me I’m depressed, but I refuse to believe it. I won’t accept that a man could put me in such a state.