The land around Chestnut Springs is truly something to behold. I feel like I’ve been transported onto the set of Yellowstone. And I’m downright giddy about it. Goodbye stuffy office, hello endless land.
Does Rhett Eaton look at me like I’m roadkill?
Yes.
But am I excited about getting out of the office and doing something different?
Also, yes.
I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this. I’m going to take the bull by the horns on this assignment. I chuckle at my joke as I reach forward and turn down the volume on The Sadies album I had blasting before Willa called me.
I peer around and slow my SUV to a crawl. My head is on a swivel as the gravel crunches and pops beneath my tires. I swear the view out every window is better than the last. March in Southern Alberta still has some bite. It can be cold and snowy, but then a chinook can roll in, and the air grows warm and soft against your skin. The grass isn’t lush yet. It’s just fields upon fields of this mossy brown color. Like you can see the green lurking beneath, ready to pop. But not quite yet.
For now, there’s something monotone about the gently rolling fields that blend up into the gray peaks to the west. The Rocky Mountains provide a border to the foothills, jutting up all jagged and snow-capped with pristine white peaks.
I’ve spent years gazing out the windows of my dad’s 30th floor windows, wishing I was out there. Imagining spending my summers exploring the mountains and the rustic small towns that lay between them, but being trapped inside his glossy office instead. Or, if I think even further back, stuck inside a pale green room without enough energy to get out of bed.
Is this work assignment ridiculous to the point where I had a hard time keeping a straight face through that meeting?
Absolutely.
But I’m going to make the most of it. If nothing else, I’ll get to stare at the mountains with the wind in my face rather than the smell of burned coffee and those stale croissants that Martha sets out every morning. Or a room that reeks of antiseptic and antibacterial laundry soap. The kind that’s supposed to be scent-free, but when you spend enough time wrapped up in it, you realize it’s really not.
The long driveway stretches ahead of me until it disappears into a copse of closely planted, but leafless poplar trees. The outline of a large house peeks from between their branches.
I pull through, taking in the impressive home before me. Thick logs provide the frame for a house that is curved in a slight crescent shape, wrapping into trees and flowing with the lines of the hills behind it somehow. It’s expansive with massive windows. The bottom retaining wall of the house is covered in a stone facade that swaps into some sort of vinyl siding in a soft sage color. It contrasts perfectly against the warm stained timber and cedar shake roof.
The houses where I grew up were almost at war with the landscape. Fighting it with their sharp corners and harsh tones. This house—big as it is—almost looks like it sprouted up from the ground. Like it’s just part of the scenery, in perfect harmony.
It looks like it belongs here.
Unlike me.
I glance down at my outfit as I step out of my parked car. A black sweater-material skirt, silky tartan button-down, and a pair of brown heeled loafers with a pretty brogue toe are probably a ridiculous choice for the setting.
Even though this outfit slays.
I’ve grown so accustomed to getting dressed up every day, and I take so much pleasure in choosing pieces that make me feel more confident, that I didn’t even consider how hilarious I might look pulling up wearing what I’m wearing.
But actually, I know nothing about what I’m supposed to be doing. When Rhett scribbled his address on the piece of paper, he pressed the pen so hard that it indented the pages beneath.
And then he stormed out without another word.
A smile teased my dad’s lips as we all sat staring at Rhett Eaton’s broad shoulders and long hair. But definitely not his ass.
I’m a professional, after all.
“Off to a good start,” my dad joked once Rhett was out of earshot.
So, that was the extent of my instructions. An address. That and, “Fix this, Summer. I believe in you.”
Oh, and, “Don’t let that fucker charm his way into your bed.”
I smiled and said, “What about his bed?”
“You’ll be the death of me, girl,” he groaned as he waltzed out of the boardroom, looking like the Cheshire Cat.
And that was that. Full trust that throwing me into the life of my childhood crush will be just fine. Though he probably doesn’t even remember that.