The thing is, as you get older, you change—your friendships can’t stay frozen in time like you’re still building dens in the garden together. You grow apart, but then you have to decide if it’s worth the effort to grow back together in a new way.
And we decided our friendship was worth it.
Edward and I are officially moving in together next month. He’s downsizing, because he wants a fresh start with me. Which, in billionaire terms, means swapping a four-story townhouse in Primrose Hill for a three-story townhouse in Primrose Hill. How will we cope?
I cannot wait to make it our own—though I’ll have to show some restraint with the sheer volume of spiritual cleansing paraphernalia I smuggle into the house.
Of course, his mother still isn’t happy. She never will be. But funnily enough, Edward told me that she wasn’t even happy with Millie and that makes me feel a little better. I am civil to her, very polite, but we will never see eye to eye. And that’s okay. I’m not dating her, am I?
Eventually, after some back-and-forth negotiation with Wild Horse, we reach the ridge where Edward is waiting, looking out at the gorgeous sunset.
Edward dismounts his horse gracefully. And yeah, loving that cowboy look on him. He’s even wearing the hat.
I, on the other hand, slide off mine like in a very unladylike manner, hitting the ground with a squelch.
Just as I’m regaining my balance, Wild Horse lets out a guttural noise—a sound that seems to come from the depths of hell itself—and then, right beside me, in an act of pure hostility . . . it shits.
A colossal, steaming, unapologetic pile.
As if to really drive the point home, it turns its head, bares its enormous teeth, and gives me a look that saysYeah, that was personal.
Edward stretches his arms, breathes in the crisp air, and sighs.
“Look at this,” he says, gazing out at the endless rolling hills. “Isn’t it breathtaking?”
I look at the heap of horse shit alarmingly close to my boot.
“Yep. Stunning.”
Edward laughs, turning to me, his eyes soft. He takes my hand, fingers warm against mine. “Do you trust me?” he asks.
“Of course,” I say, smiling up at him.Although no more surprise holidays without consulting me first, please and thank you.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs. “I want to take you to the most breathtaking view in Mongolia.”
“Up the mountain?” I ask nervously, eyeing the steep, rocky incline.
“Yes. Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.” He squeezes my hand reassuringly.
And because Idotrust him, despite the horse shit and the sore thighs and the fact that I’m pretty sure I smell like a barnyard, and because I am still too dazzled by his whole rugged cowboy fantasy aesthetic to argue, I say, “Okay.”
If it were any other man, I might be concerned that leading me up a remote mountain in Outer Mongolia and telling me to close my eyes was a setup for murder.
Hand in hand, he guides me up, steadying me when I stumble, warning me of loose rocks and dips in the path.
After a few minutes, he stops. Turns me gently to face . . . something. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my face.
“Now open them,” he whispers, his breath tickling my ear.
I blink, and the breath leaves my lungs.
Rolling emerald-green hills stretch endlessly into the horizon, tinged gold by the last light of the day. The sky is streaked with deep pink and indigo, a masterpiece painted just for us. And in the middle of it all, rightthere—a perfect little picnic, laid out on a blanket, complete with fruit, bread, and . . .
Dom Pérignon. The good stuff.
I whirl around to face Edward, grinning like a fool. “How the hell did you—”
But my words die in my throat.
