Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115468 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 577(@200wpm)___ 462(@250wpm)___ 385(@300wpm)
“You must just come by that naturally then,” she said on a smile, obviously sensing the tension and working to dispel it.
“You barely know me, Rory,” I said. Her face fell just a fraction and I felt a sharp little internal jab, knowing I’d said that to push her away because I felt attacked for some reason I couldn’t identify.
“No, you’re right, I don’t. I’m sorry if I sounded judgmental—”
“No, I’m sorry.” I gave my head a shake. “That was rude. It’s just…I guess I do feel some pressure to be the so-called perfect son. But I can handle it. Shouldn’t pressure come with privilege? I take it seriously. I want to be a good steward of all that I’ve been entrusted with. I would never try to play this poor little rich boy role. I’m honored to walk in my father’s footsteps. I’m honored to be given the chance to carry on his legacy.”
She nodded and gave me another smile that I swore held a modicum of sadness. “I understand,” she said. “And I don’t disagree. You’re a good person, Gage.”
Something about that rubbed me the wrong way too and I didn’t know what. What was it about this girl that had me all twisted and confused about things I’d been certain about my whole life? I didn’t like it, and yet, I didn’t seem to be able to stay away from her. “It’s just up the road,” I said, pointing out the window and changing the subject.
We drove past the grove of aspens, the sparkle of the lake coming into view as we rounded the bend, the dock that Travis had rebuilt years ago stretching into the water where a white paddle boat was moored.
“It’s beautiful here,” she said as we turned onto the gravel road that led to Haven’s Gate, Plant and Garden Center. The land had once belonged to Travis’s father, Connor Hale, and Travis had given it to Haven to build her business on, a business that was obviously thriving.
The parking lot was mostly full on a Saturday morning, customers pulling wagons loaded with plants and flowers to their cars where they could unload into their trunks.
The number of vehicles in the parking lot wasn’t the only reason I knew Haven’s business was successful though. My own mother had hired her to install a French garden called a parterre that, since the spring ladies’ luncheon where she’d showcased it, had become all the rage among the upper crust of Calliope. I’d heard several women complain to my mother that they hadn’t been able to set an install date for many months into the future.
And now Haven was busy designing water features too.
I pulled in to a spot near the back and Rory and I stepped out of the car, the gravel crunching beneath our feet. As we started walking toward the red barn, a couple of mutts came trotting from inside and Rory stopped, bending forward and patting her hands on her knees as a grin spread across her face. I watched as the pair ran gleefully toward her and she squatted down, dogs colliding with human in a muddled blur of laughter and joyful whines and wagging tails and declarations of “what a good girl.” It was honestly difficult to tell what was coming from where, Rory so easily became a part of the small pack.
After a few minutes, she stood, brushing herself off, the dogs still whining happily and head butting her legs. She looked up at me and I suddenly realized I was smiling so big I could actually feel the breeze on my teeth. “What’s with you and dogs?” I asked as she let out another laugh, scratching the black and white one under her chin as the other one lay down at her feet as though staking claim.
She shrugged. “I love them. I understand them. I don’t know. I just always have. We don’t deserve dogs,” she said on a smile. “But we get them anyway.”
We stood there smiling at each other, the dog she was petting head butting my leg so that I looked down. She was staring up at me, her tongue lolling from her mouth as though she too was grinning.
“Do you like dogs?” Rory asked softly and tentatively as though my answer had the potential to cause her immense grief.
Did I like dogs? For whatever reason, I felt like I owed her a thoughtful response, neither sugar-coated nor flippant. I slowly squatted down the way she had, and looked the dog in the eye, scratching it under its chin. The dog tilted her head, studying me as though attempting to read me, somehow understanding that I wouldn’t necessarily respond with as much enthusiasm as Rory had to an energetic demeanor. “I think so,” I said. “I never had a dog either as a child or as an adult. My father loves animals. We run several foundations that protect wildlife and support rescue organizations, but my parents traveled a lot, and my father worked until all hours, so we never had a family pet. I haven’t had a lot of interaction with them. I don’t…not like dogs.” They seemed like happy creatures. I knew lots of good people who were very attached to their own. I’d been told they were loyal. I scratched the mutt under her chin for a few more minutes and then stood. Both the dogs scampered off, back toward the red barn.