Millionaire Rents A Lakeside Cottage For A Weekend, Unsuspecting He’d Fall For The Woman Next Door
Secrets and Shadows Under the Sun
After she left, Zaden couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t supposed to care. It was just a weekend, a break, a random cottage on a random lake. But now he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman next door with stubborn eyes and a soft heart.
For the first time in a long time, he didn’t want to leave. The next morning brought a quiet kind of brightness. The storm had passed, leaving the trees dripping and the lake smooth as glass.
Zaden poured himself a cup of coffee and stood by the window, watching a small boat glide across the water in the distance. The only sound was birdsong and the occasional creak of the dock swaying gently with the current.
For a man who lived his life in skyscrapers and stock tickers, the stillness should have been disorienting. It wasn’t. He spotted Celia on her porch, kneeling beside a wooden crate full of glass jars.
Her sweater sleeves were rolled up, and she was carefully tying twine around one of the jar lids. A small flicker of flame danced inside the glass. Without thinking, he stepped outside.
“Morning,” he called over.
She didn’t look up.
“If you’re looking for another cup of cocoa, I’m fresh out.”
He leaned against the railing.
“Actually, I was wondering what you’re doing.”
She tied off another jar before glancing up.
“Batching orders. I’ve got a stall at the weekend market tomorrow. Candles, among other things. I make soaps too, and lotion bars. Locals like the lavender cedarwood.”
He tilted his head.
“That what’s burning in the jar?”
“Citrus basil,” she said. “It’s supposed to lift your mood. Might explain why I haven’t yelled at anyone yet today.”
She gave a small laugh and stood, wiping her hands on her jeans.
“Well, if you’re not scared of a little wax, you’re welcome to help.”
Zaden stepped off his porch with a nod.
“I’ll have you know I once assembled an entire espresso machine without instructions.”
“Wow,” she deadpanned. “You must be very proud.”
He crouched beside her worktable and took one of the jars.
“So what’s the process?”
“You’re too clean,” she said, eyeing his watch. “You’ll get wax on that and cry.”
He slid the timepiece off and tucked it into his pocket.
“There. Now I’m officially one of the people.”
She handed him a wick and a jar.
“Thread it through the center hole in the lid, then keep it steady while I pour.”
As the warm wax filled the glass, their hands brushed. She didn’t pull away. Neither did he.
“You ever sell these in the city?” he asked.
“No. I don’t really have the inventory for big batches. Besides, I like knowing who’s buying them. It’s more personal.”
“I get that,” he said quietly.
She looked at him for a moment, then nodded.
“You don’t seem like the finance guy I expected.”
“You expected someone different?”
“Suit, Bluetooth headset, probably yelling into a phone about projections.”
He smiled faintly.
“I do plenty of that. Just not here.”
She poured another jar.
“So why here?”
He hesitated.
“Needed to breathe.”
She didn’t press. Instead, she handed him another wick and moved on to the next jar. By noon, the table was lined with flickering candles, each one cooling in the shade. Celia wiped her brow with the back of her hand.
“You hungry?” she asked.
“Starving.”
“There’s a food truck parked near the antique shop today. They do smashed burgers and hand-cut fries.”
“Well, now I’m definitely coming.”
They walked into town side by side. He noticed how people greeted her by name, how she paused to ask an elderly man about his wife’s recovery, and how she dropped a five into a teenager’s violin case without saying a word.
She moved through the world like it owed her nothing, but still she gave freely.
“Everyone knows you here,” he said as they reached the truck.
“Perks of staying in one place long enough.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever stayed anywhere longer than six months.”
“That wasn’t work-related?”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
They sat at a picnic table under a patch of shade. The burgers came wrapped in wax paper, still steaming. He took a bite and groaned.
“You okay there?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“That might be the best thing I’ve eaten in a year.”
She popped a fry in her mouth.
“You need better restaurant recommendations.”
“I need this town to come with a brochure,” he said. “You could have warned me it was going to be dangerously charming.”
She leaned back, eyes scanning the lake in the distance.
“It’s not for everyone.”
“I’m not everyone.”
“No,” she said quietly. “You’re not.”
After lunch, they wandered into the antique shop. Celia headed straight for a shelf of old glass bottles, but Zaden’s attention caught on a battered upright piano in the corner. He ran his fingers over the keys, pressing one.
It let out a hollow, slightly off-tune note.
“You play?” she asked.
“Used to.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He sat on the bench and flexed his fingers. Then, slowly, he began to play. The melody was simple, but the sound filled the shop like a secret. When he finished, he found Celia watching him, her expression unreadable.
“What?” he asked.
“I didn’t expect that.”
“Neither did I.”
They walked back with the sun low behind them, casting long shadows across the path. Back at the cottages, she paused at her porch.
“I should get the rest of the labels on before it gets dark.”
“Need help?”
She hesitated.
“I won’t say no.”
They worked into the evening side by side. As she packed the last box, she glanced at him.
“You really planning to leave Sunday?”
“That was the idea.”
She nodded slowly.
“Well, thanks for helping.”
He cleared his throat.
“I could stick around tomorrow. Help with the booth.”
“You, in a public place with people?”
“I’ll try not to panic.”
She studied him.
“Fine. But if you wear anything with a collar, I’m sending you home.”
He grinned.
“Deal.”
As she turned to go, he reached out without thinking and touched her wrist.
“Selia.”
She looked up.
“I’m glad I came here.”
She didn’t say anything, just held his gaze for a long moment before quietly stepping inside. Zaden stood there on the porch long after the door closed, unsure of what had just shifted between them, only that something had, and it was impossible to ignore.
The Saturday market buzzed with energy. Booths lined the lakeside path, draped in linen and dotted with handcrafted signs. The air smelled like honeysuckle and fried dough, and the sun peaked through the tall birch trees like it had been paid to.
Zaden stood behind Celia’s booth, sleeves rolled to his elbows, watching her work. She moved with quiet confidence, arranging her candles in rows by scent, tucking handwritten tags into tiny wooden stands.
Her hair was tied back with a strip of faded denim. There was a smudge of wax on her wrist she hadn’t noticed. He hadn’t meant to get involved, but now he was counting change for an older woman buying three jars of something called “Orange Clove Sunrise.”
“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” Celia said quietly between customers, sorting a stack of craft paper bags under the table.
“I told you I would.”
“Yeah, but I figured the moment someone asked you for exact change, you’d bolt.”
He handed a receipt to a man in a straw hat.
“I’m adaptable.”
“Remains to be seen,” she said.
But her voice was lighter. By late morning, the stand was almost sold out. A few soaps remained and only a handful of candles. Celia tucked a twenty into a metal box and looked at Zaden.
“You didn’t have to stay.”
“I wanted to.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but someone approached the booth. A tall woman in her early forties with sleek hair and an outfit that screamed money without even trying. She wore oversized sunglasses and carried a leather tote.
“Zaden?”
Celia’s head snapped toward him. The woman removed her sunglasses slowly, as if revealing her eyes confirmed her identity. He froze.
“Clara.”
“I thought that was you,” she said with a soft laugh. “I almost didn’t recognize you without a boardroom attached.”
Celia looked between them, her mouth tightening. Zaden stepped around the table.
“What are you doing here?”
“Checking on the property my husband’s firm bought. That old winery up the hill? We’re converting it into some kind of boutique spa.”
She glanced at Celia.
“And you are?”
“Selia,” she said, voice cool. “I make the candles.”
Clara nodded once, then turned back to him.
“So this is what you’re doing now? Candle booths and lakeside strolls?”
“I’m taking a break.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Her gaze flicked over him.
“Well, if you ever get tired of pretending to be someone else, you know where to find us.”
She walked off without another word. Selia didn’t speak for a moment, then she began folding up one of the tablecloths.
“Friend of yours?”
“Not exactly.”
“She called you Zaden.”
He exhaled.
“Yeah.”
She looked at him.
“That’s not what you told me your name was.”
“I didn’t lie,” he said. “I just didn’t want to be found.”
“So you gave me a nickname and let me think you were someone else?”
“I told you I worked in finance.”
She pulled the tablecloth sharply.
“That’s not the same, and you know it.”
“I wasn’t trying to trick you.”
“Then what were you doing?”
“I needed to disappear for a few days,” he said. “I rented the cottage under a different name because I didn’t want anyone from my world to find me.”
“I didn’t expect to meet someone who actually mattered.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“So what now? You go back to that world and leave me here with a nice memory and a few empty candle jars?”
“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not what I want.”
“Then what do you want?”
He took a step closer.
“I want to figure out what this is. You and me. Because I haven’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe ever.”
She stared at him, her hands clenched around the folded linen.
“You should have told me the truth.”
“I know.”
He watched her wrestle with something unspoken, then she shook her head, turned, and walked away. He didn’t follow. That night, the lake was quiet again—too quiet.
Zaden sat on the steps of his rented cottage, staring out at the water. The porch light buzzed faintly overhead, and the sky was a mess of stars.
He’d been surrounded by wealth his entire life: private jets, tailored suits, dinners that cost more than a month’s rent. But none of it had made him feel settled. None of it had made him feel seen—until her.
He stood, walked to the edge of the dock, and stared at the cottage next door. Her windows were dark, closed. He’d never felt the space between two buildings so heavily.
He knew he’d messed up—not by hiding who he was, but by not trusting her with it.
