AN: In case you don't know, I'm American, and a middle-aged lady, so if I screw up something and it doesn't sound authentically English, for the love of god please tell me so I can fix it!

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Chiara looked around and smiled, though there was no one to see it.

It was a beautiful late summer day, and Langton was one of her favorite jobs. The acreage and surrounding wilderness were not her responsibility, but it was a beautiful estate. The trees had been cleared to make room for the house and grounds, but left alone otherwise, and the lush woodland was the English countryside at its best.

Plus, she was wearing her mother's old hat, the one with yellow flowers all over it. There was a photograph of her in it on the mantle at home, and Chiara always felt closer to her when it sat on her head.

She (her father, really) was in charge of the grounds, just the couple of acres surrounding the house, and even that was misleading, because her father rode a power mower to cut the expanse of green, rolling lawn; there was really no tending of that required, except to fertilize once in a while, and keep the deer off.

The front of the house had a circular driveway with a garden and fountain in the middle. There were planting beds on either side of the massive front doors, a formal rose garden in the back on one side, and an extensive kitchen garden area outside what Chiara assumed was the kitchen. Fruit trees were planted, espalier style, along the brick wall that surrounded the garden, and the whole place was just too beautiful to be believed.

The best part, as far as Chiara was concerned, was the fact that no owners or tenants were in residence, which meant she was free to tend what she considered to be her garden in peace, with no stupid opinions about what to plant, when to cut, or any other rubbish.

She had told her father she was going to spend the morning deadheading the numerous rose bushes, then fertilizing them with a combination fertilizer/insecticide. Then one last spray of herbicide to take care of the spots of powdery mildew she'd seen on a few bushes would round out her morning.

She put on her gloves and grabbed her clippers, and the large bin into which she'd put what she cut.

The trick to good deadheading was to keep in mind when you'd next be able to perform the task, so you'd know what to leave so the roses would look their best longest.

Chiara put in her earbuds and went to work, cutting all spent blooms at a low point on the stem, angled toward the middle, just above a bud-eye, the little knob that let her know where the next stem and bloom would appear. She enjoyed the birdsong that surrounded her between the songs on her playlist.

She saw that a bush she thought she'd lost for sure to root and cane rot (it sat in a low area that held too much water) was bouncing back, and she clapped her hands with joy. She'd ruthlessly pruned it down to almost nothing, then lifted it and added drying elements to the soil, along with nutrients and a systemic herbicide.

It was a Double Delight, which produced the most fragrant cream-colored rose with magenta tipped petals, and Chiara had been surprised when it succumbed to disease. It was known for its hardiness, and she'd left it in that spot because she thought it would be able to handle the soil.

In fact, every time they needed new roses, Chiara always chose Double Delight if left to her own devices, a fact her father teased her mercilessly about.

"The world would be a better place if everyone had a Double Delight planted near them," was Chiara's response.

She saw that, in addition to healing, it also had significant new growth, and this fact made her do an impromptu happy dance around the bush.

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Drew woke up with the worst hangover he could ever remember having. How? He'd been coherent when he left the girls. Plus, he remembered every aspect of their time together. How could he feel so awful? He felt like someone was hammering on his head with an anvil. And surely something had crawled in his mouth and died? Every part of his body ached.

Fuck.

He tried opening one eye, and immediately closed it against the horrible brightness of his room. Why? His room had blackout curtains specifically for situations like this.

Oh no, had he gone somewhere else after the redhead-gray and pink sandwich?

He again opened one eye, the effort feeling like he was jacking up a car.

This was not his room. He could feel something unfamiliar and hard against his cheek, and he wasn't covered.

Making a monstrous effort, Drew rolled over on his back.

Oh my god.

Whoever was hammering on his head traded in the anvil for a pile driver and ratcheted up the speed. His stomach lurched from the change in position and produced immediate nausea. And was it possible to die of thirst while having to take a wee?

It came rolling back into his brain when he saw the high ceiling with the pretty, antique light fixture.

He was at his house in Kent. Blessedly alone.

Thank all that was holy.

He reached for his phone and saw that it was dead.

Drew sighed and sat up, waiting for a moment to see if his stomach would accept this new position.

It did, so he risked rising and going in search of a toilet. Sitting up had made his need to wee imperative.

He found one, and let go for what seemed like hours as he leaned on the sink, eyes closed. After, he looked in the mirror and saw that something, probably a button on the naked mattress on his bed, had made an imprint on his face. It looked like he'd been hit in the face with an emoji of some sort. It didn't look good.

In fact, he generally looked like he'd been smashed into, then run over, by a lorry. A big one.

He found that relieving his bladder had made his thirst and headache worse, and he went in search of relief for both.

As he wandered through his beautiful new house, he realized that his situation was actually kind of dire. He was in effect stranded inside this mansion, with no phone, no car, and no food. He went to the state of the art kitchen and quenched his thirst by simply sticking his head under the tap. After a few seconds he realized he had to slow down or his stomach would simply reject the gift of cold water he was giving his body, so he turned the tap, making the flow of water slower, and continued drinking until his thirst was slaked.

For good measure, he thrust his head under the tap and opened it as far as it would go, wetting his hair and neck, hoping it would wake him up and maybe make the headache abate a little.

As he finally lifted his soaked head, a bit of movement caught his eye through the window, and he tried to focus on it. It was a person, but it quickly bounced out of his field of vision.

Drew turned off the tap and went to the French doors, stepping out into the bright glare of the day, and he saw that the moving person he'd seen was a girl, clad in baggy overalls, and wearing a hilarious hat and earbuds, the cord of which disappeared into her pocket. The earbuds explained why she hadn't heard the French doors open.

She appeared to be dancing.

Around a rose bush. At least, Drew thought it was a rose bush. He wasn't much of a horticulturist. Or did he mean botanist? He had no fucking clue.

She was actually not a bad dancer, though Drew couldn't hear the music. He himself, along with the other band members, were not known for their dancing prowess. Her hips swayed back and forth, and her generous bottom moved to and fro as she stepped around the plant.

She finally realized she wasn't alone, and yanked the buds out of her ears she faced him.

"Who the fuck are you?" she asked, eyes flicking behind him to the house.

She turned and looked around, and seemed reassured to hear the sound of the power mower.

"I'm Andrew--" he stopped before saying his last name. "I own this place. Who the fuck are you?"

She pointed at her badge which he could see read "C Cavuto." He couldn't see her face clearly, because of the brim of the hat, but he could see that she had reddish brown hair in a fat braid, and blue eyes that still regarded him with suspicion.

She didn't know who he was.

She didn't know who he was.

Drew couldn't remember when this had last happened to him. He was actually, literally world-famous, as in he was famous all over the world. Everyone knew who he was.

Except this creature in overall shorts who was standing in front of him, funny flowered hat still shading her face.

Cavuto. The name rang a bell.

The gardener.

"I thought the gardener was a man?" Drew squinted, trying to keep the rays of the sun from splintering his hungover, head-achey brain in two.

"He was. He is," the girl corrected. "Bert Cavuto. He's my father. He's round the side, cutting the grass."

"I can hear that," Drew said, probably sounding more cross than he intended.

"Wonderful," the girl answered, making her mouth into a thin line of disapproval. "It's just that you don't appear to be quite yourself at the moment."

Drew considered her words.

"In fact, you really look like five kinds of hammered shit, Mr. Andrew who owns this place," she continued. "Did you need something, or do you just like to spy on people? Because I'm busy, as you can see." She gestured toward the clippers and gloves sitting next to the bin.

"You wouldn't have any paracetamol on you?" Drew asked, leaving his dignity and self-respect in the dust. "It's just that my head hurts that much, yeah?"

What did he care what his gardener thought of him anyway? And she wasn't even his gardener, she was his gardener's daughter.

The girl sighed and crossed her arms.

"I have some," she finally said. She turned and began walking around the house. "Are you coming?" she asked.

Drew didn't answer, but simply followed her. He realized that he could read this girl's mood by her ass, and the way it looked in those overalls as she walked, though stalked might be more accurate. Her rear end conveyed impatience, nervousness, and superciliousness as she led him toward medication for his head, hopefully.