After a few meters, his log cabin—a completely incomplete description of the place, by the way—comes into view, and I let out a contented sigh.
The cabin, a combination of cedar and pristine limestone, is somehow both simple and posh. The design is unique, the architect clearly a fan of both country living and Frank Lloyd Wright, but the building is more modest in size than I would have imagined. My favorite part is the steeply angled roof and paned windows which reveal a cozy living area.
“Wait here,” he says as he parks.
Watching such a refined man drive a big ranch truck amuses me to no end. Seconds later, he opens my door, helping me down.
“Just so you know, it would be my pleasure to help you out of this monstrosity whenever we are driving together. I won’t insist on it, but only because I know you wouldn’t enjoy me insisting on anything.”
I laugh. “It’s nice to know my reputation precedes me.”
“Yes, well…” He ducks his head. “Maybe your reputation overwhelms me.”
“Ay, corazon. Look at that blush,” I say, reaching up to cup his jaw. “You’re like my very own English rose.”
“Shut up,” he says before pulling me in for a hug and a quick kiss. “May I show you my home?”
“Yes, please.”
If I liked the sharp roofline on the outside, I especially love the way it creates high, angled ceilings on the inside.
“You didn’t drywall the interior. I love the exposed limestone and cedar.”
“Wouldn’t be a proper cabin with drywall. Besides, I enjoy natural materials, both inside and out.”
“I thought you said the cabin wasn’t finished?”
Looking around, I can’t see a thing I would change. The home has an entirely open layout with three specific areas. The kitchen off to the side is, again, modest. High-end, but perfectly efficient. The refrigerator, sink, and stove line the wall, with a lovely island with barstools for seating.
The limestone fireplace is flanked by soft, low-slung lounge chairs and a modern wooden coffee table, the perfect space to read and hold conversations. Dark hardwood flooring pulls together the warm, cozy vibe.
Finally, tucked under the multipaned floor-to-ceiling windows is a king-size bed on a simple wooden platform, piled with luxurious bedding and surrounded by lush greenery. It’s a neat visual trick—from the drive you can only see the seating area and kitchen, but the bed is where he has his best view.
“Doesn’t the sun wake you up in the morning?”
“Yes, and that’s the point,” he admits, stubbing his toe along the expensive hardwood. “I love being woken by the sun.”
I gesture outside. “Doesn’t give you much privacy, though.”
“Depends on what you mean by privacy,” he says, shortening thei. “We’re behind a stand of trees and the gate is always locked.”
He walks over to the enormous fancy refrigerator and pulls out two bottles.
“It’s Angkor beer, and it’s everywhere in Cambodia. You can get it here in the States, but it’s not the same,” he says.
He opens the bottles before handing one over, and we each take a sip.
“Is it okay?” he asks, charmingly worried.
I examine the bottle, nodding. “Not going to lie, I wasn’t sure I would like it. But this is tasty.”
“Isn’t it?” he asks, looking pleased with himself.
We stand there drinking beer as he points out the various architectural features of the cabin.
“I was considering creating three to four smaller versions of this cabin on the property as vacation rental income, but I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. The rental economy seems to be imploding a bit.”
“Charlie told me that vacation rentals have always done well out here, way before the vacation rental explosion. No one comes to the Texas Hill Country to stay in a basic roadside motel. Give people something pretty to look at, make it easy to access, and you’re golden.”
