“My pleasure.”
He gestures toward the front of the door, and I pass another man coming into the lobby, followed by another, and another who is coming up the ramp in front of the lodge in a wheelchair. As I slide into the golf cart, I can’t help but notice more people starting to gather. Rusty catches me staring as he turns on the golf cart.
“It’s a group support meeting,” he says. The golf cart lurches forward, and I instinctively grasp the handhold.
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to sit in on those meetings at some point?”
“That might take some convincing. Not sure the vets will like the paperwork involved, but I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you.”
We drive along the paved drive that connects the main lodge to the caretaker’s house.
“You’ll have good Wi-Fi here,” Rusty says, glancing sideways at me. “And a little peace and quiet.”
“Sounds perfect,” I say, bracing myself for a creaky porch, plaid curtains, and the distinct scent of soap and testosterone.
Instead, we round a bend and the trees part, revealing something I most definitely did not expect. Nestled into the hillside like something out ofArchitectural Digestis a three-story, modern, rustic dream of a house. Massive timber beams frame a glass-walled façade that reflects the sweeping mountains behind it. A wraparound balcony juts from the top floor like a treehouse for billionaires. Below, a sleek lap pool glimmers in the sunlight, flanked by an outdoor spa, a gourmet kitchen with a stone pizza oven, and a fire pit surrounded by Adirondack chairs.
“This … this is what’s called the caretaker’s house?” I ask as I exit the golf cart. “This is incredible.”
“That’s what the original owner, Logan Wolf, called it and where guests stayed when they visited.”
“The original owner was Logan Wolf, the television producer?” I ask.
“Yep, he’s a friend of my other stepson, Duke’s brother, Charlie Steele.”
I grab Rusty’s arm when we get to the top step of the front porch. “Say again?”
“Which part, ma’am?”
“The part where you … I thought you said … Charlie Steele,theCharlie Steele?—”
“Is my brother, yeah,” Duke says.
My eyes flick to Duke. He’s wearing a worn green flannel shirtwith the sleeves rolled up, exposing his muscled forearms. He’s leaning up against the doorframe of the house sipping coffee out of a mug that saysFirst of all, I’m a delight.My pulse skids like a record needle catching the wrong groove.
“Charlie Steele … the man rumored to be the next James Bond?” I ask.
“The same,” Duke says flatly. “Don’t let the movie star stuff fool you. He used to pee on the woodpile behind our childhood home.”
Rusty chuckles and I smile. “I would love to hear some of those stories.”
“Where’s Jameson?” Rusty asks as he leads me into the house.
“Out with Topper,” Duke says, barely moving as I walk past him. “Topper couldn’t wait to introduce him to Allie.”
“Good ol’ Topper, he’s already taken a shine to that cute little lady,” Rusty says.
For some reason, I’m sad to not be greeted by that slobbery torpedo, but I’m thankful Jameson is not licking my toes at the moment. Once inside the house, I have to bite my lip to keep from gaping. The open-concept great room stretches before me, a cathedral of exposed beams and sleek iron fixtures. The towering floor-to-ceiling windows pull in the morning light, spilling golden warmth across polished hardwood floors. Everything is rich but understated—deep leather sofas, a stone fireplace, an industrial chandelier casting a glow over the sleek but welcoming kitchen.
A grand staircase made of reclaimed wood leads up to a lofted second floor, a metal railing giving it a clean, contemporary edge. Even the air smells expensive, a mix of cedar, leather, and something subtly warm, like vanilla and spice.
“Are you all right?” Duke asks, closing the door.
“This is another surprise.”
Rusty heads to the kitchen cabinets and pulls out two coffeemugs.
