“I bet he’s one of those guys with a hard shell and a soft center,” I rhapsodized to my cat. “Someone who acts tough but has a big heart beneath his armor. A beast just waiting for his beauty!”
Piglet meowed like she agreed—or maybe it was a warning.
Because this is the problem with me.
I think I’m good at reading people when actually what I’m good at is wishful thinking. Letting fantastical notions about guys run away with my brain rather than seeing who they really are. It’s not because I enjoy getting my heart broken—although that’s often the result—but because I’m hopelessly romantic and I don’t know how to pace myself.
There’s even a name for it—emophilia.
Sounds like a disease, right? Like something in your blood? But it’s actually a personality trait, my therapist told me, and it means you fall for people fast, easily, and often. You dish out your deepest, most vulnerable feelings for people like popcorn at the movies.
Here’s my heart, sir. Would you like butter and salt with that?
I’ve been this way as long as I can remember. In elementary school, my best friend Ellie might like a new boy, but I would announce I’d met the boy I was going to marry. In middle school, she’d write down the name of her crush in our secret notebook while I named all the children I was going to have with the cute kid who sat next to me in Life Skills. When we went to the bridal store to find prom dresses, I tried on at least six wedding gowns, because I was positive my boyfriend and I were going to be together forever—even though we’d only been dating a month.
Of course, he broke up with me right before we left for college, and I spent my first month at Michigan State pining for him.
Until I fell head over heels for Andrew from Wisconsin, who was majoring in agribusiness and planned to go home and take over his family’s dairy farm. The rest of freshman year was spent rhapsodizing about our life on the farm, where I’d milk our cows every morning and then come in to whip up waffles from scratch for all the guests staying at our B & B. The fantasy was complete with a Pinterest vision board, and my farm outfits were adorable, as were each of our six farm children and two farm dogs.
Alas, Andrew turned out to be a two-timing jerk, and my golden dreams of gingham dresses and towheaded toddlers on the prairie were crushed alongside my romantic hopes.
But my hopes were resilient, and I’d fallen wildly in love at least three more times during college. In fact, I even got engaged during my senior year—to a graduate student in finance who was heading for a job on Wall Street.
I glanced down at my left hand, where I’d worn a diamond ring for precisely six weeks, which was how long it took for Merrick to change his mind about taking me with him. Ellie and both my older sisters assured me I’d dodged a bullet, since they thought Merrick was possessive, demanding, and full of himself, and while I could see their side of it, I’d always found his confidence attractive.
His cheating, however, was not, and he flat out told me he realized he wasn’t ready to have sex with only one person for the rest of his life, especially not when he was heading for New York City, and there were bound to be a lot of hot models there.
Asshole.
So instead of moving to the Big Apple, I’d moved back home to northern Michigan, adopted a cat, and taken a job working at Cloverleigh Farms.
Which was great—I’d always loved Cloverleigh Farms, which was owned by the Sawyer family. I’d practically grown up there because my father was the CFO, and when I was just four, he’d married the youngest of the five Sawyer sisters—Frannie, my amazing stepmom, who’d raised me.
The inn was beautiful, an elegant, old-fashioned estate with twenty guest rooms, a bar and restaurant, and gorgeous lobby with cathedral ceilings, a wide central staircase, and a giant fireplace that was always ablaze in the winter months, making the place feel warm and cozy.
There was also a winery on the premises, as well as a wedding barn, all nestled among hundreds of acres of vineyards and orchards. The old red horse barn was still there too, and I recalled many a childhood summer afternoon spent playing in there with my sisters while our dad worked.
My official title was Hospitality Specialist, which meant I did a little bit of everything. Over the summer, I’d run weeklong summer camps for kids, organized live music nights on the winery patio, assisted at wine tastings both on and offsite, and helped with weddings whenever my sister Millie needed an extra pair of hands—she was the event coordinator there. I also filled in at the front desk reception quite a bit, and a few times I even tended bar.