Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68864 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 344(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
It’s a legend of a story that will be told to future generations. Mely, who is now Lowe’s wife, had blown into town from the big city of New York, having just bought the Mainer House. It had been in the Mainer family forever and a day, but they’d decided to sell it as their life was out on their big farm. Lowe was attached to the house, and in order to thwart that damn Yankee’s idea to refurbish it into something monstrous, he painted it neon pink. Judge Bowen didn’t take kindly to that and ordered him to not only fix it but to make other repairs as Mely saw fit. Of course, after some fighting back and forth, they ultimately fell in love, got married, and now live there.
As we head out into the country on darkened roads, conversation comes easy. Sam tells me he’s already restocked Chesty’s for the weekend crowd. I mention Muriel’s endless Post-it Notes and her insistence on a nightly report of how many biscuits we sold so she can ensure people like them under my watch.
The headlights sweep across the dark road, catching the edges of split-rail fences and sleepy pastures. The world outside the truck turns darker, the town giving way to open country where the only light comes from the moon and stars. No porch lights, no headlights. The road narrows, swallowed by trees arching like the frame of a cathedral.
After several turns, I squint at him. “You’re not taking me deep into the woods to murder me, are you?”
He smirks, then looks over at me. “Not tonight.”
“Good to know,” I say lightly, though my pulse does a funny little skip when we turn onto a long gravel drive flanked by oak trees. The headlights sweep across branches that meet overhead, swallowing light in trembling patches. The truck rolls forward until the trees open to a wide clearing—and I gasp.
Ahead of us, a house glows in the dark like a fairy tale come to life. The front is a mix of pale brick and stone, all steep gables and dormer windows, with black-framed glass. A massive Japanese maple shades the front lawn, and the long wraparound drive curves toward a line of wooden garage doors, four of them in all. Soft uplighting washes the façade in gold, outlining the graceful roofline and copper gutters that gleam like new pennies.
“Whoa …” I breathe, turning to him. “What is this place?”
He shifts the truck into park and gives a small, cryptic smile. “You’ll see.”
I turn to stare again, because holy hell. This isn’t a fixer-upper—it’s a magazine spread.
“Are you doing construction or something on the side?” I ask as he gets out.
“Or something,” he says, rounding the front of the truck to open my door.
I step out into air that smells of night-blooming jasmine, trying to keep my jaw from dropping. The front steps are lit by lanterns and every window glows from within.
He leads the way up the path, gravel crunching beneath our feet. “You ready?”
“For what?” I whisper.
He grins, fitting a key into the door. “The surprise.”
The lock clicks and as he pushes it open, the soft beep of a security system cuts off with a few taps.
“Sam,” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder. “We’re trespassing.”
He steps aside, gesturing me in with a sweep of his arm. “We’re not.”
“What do you mean we’re not?”
“I mean…” His eyes are steady and bright. “It’s mine.”
I blink at him, sure I’ve misheard. “Yours?”
He nods, the faintest twitch of amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Did you win the lottery?”
“Sometimes it feels that way.”
I step past him into the foyer, and my jaw slackens.
The air smells of new wood and expensive soap. Warm light pools across honey-toned floors, spilling from recessed fixtures set into coffered ceilings. The entry opens to a massive great room, all clean lines and soft edges—a stone fireplace on one end, a wall of glass doors overlooking a deep porch on the other. The space is anchored by a curved ivory sofa and a marble coffee table that probably costs more than my car.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Sam, this is… insane.”
He smiles, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Come on. I’ll give you the tour.”
I follow him speechlessly as we move through the house. Every room looks like it stepped out of an architectural dream. The kitchen gleams—a cathedral of white cabinets and marble, pendant lights hanging over a massive island veined with gray stone. Brass fixtures, double ovens, a range hood that looks like a sculpture. It’s not sterile but rather warm, intentional. Like someone built this to be lived in, but still made it look like it came straight out of a dream.
I trail my fingers along the countertop. “You seriously own this?”
“Yup.”
“Did you rob a bank?”
“Not recently,” he deadpans, and I laugh despite my disbelief.