A few hours later, I sling my overnight bag onto my shoulder and shut the Bronco’s door. The afternoon light turns everything pink and gold, and the air smells like fresh cut grass. I take a deep breath, and in spite of everything, feel my shoulders unknot.
Beau’s cottage is neatly maintained: close-cropped lawn, squared off box hedges. Since I’m going to be staying here for the next two weeks, I’d like to think it’s because he’s not a total slob, but I’m sure it’s one of the Twelve Oaks’ staff who keeps up with the weeds.
The stable sits on the bluff above, the paddocks spreading down and around until they sweep up next to the cottage. A few horses are still outside, playing and grazing. Honestly? The company is going to suck, but the view is beyond lovely.
I walk around Beau’s truck,
