"Oh my word," Dottie breathes, pressing her face closer to the windshield. "Isn't it just adorable?"
Greg parks next to a row of identical rental cars, already muttering about needing another coffee. As we pile out, stretching cramped muscles, the scent of honeysuckle and freshly cut grass wraps around us.
"Y'all must be the Millers!"
A tiny blond tornado in four-inch heels comes clicking across the gravel drive, brandishing a glittery clipboard. She can't be much taller than me, even with the heels, but her presence fills the entire driveway.
"Welcome to Thistlewood! I'm Kristal, your wedding coordinator slash activities director slash personal fairy godmother for the week!" Her voice hits notes that probably make dogs perk up three counties over. "You're just in time for the drinks and our late lunch—unless you're gluten-free, or spiritually opposed to prosciutto, in which case I can pivot. I'mverynimble."
"Coffee?" Greg asks hopefully.
"Freshly brewed!" Kristal chirps. "And wait until you see the pastry spread! But first, let's get you settled. I have your room keys right here . . ." She starts digging through an enormous tote bag.
"Where are Matt and Sarah?" Dottie asks.
"Oh, they're out on a horseback ride through the vineyard. So romantic!" Kristal sighs dreamily, still rummaging.
Next to me, Caleb snorts. "I would pay actual money to see Matt on a horse."
"You know . . ." I tap my chin thoughtfully, "this reminds me of a certain someone who got all grumpy when Austin offered to teach me how to ride. What was it he said again? Something about keeping me steady with his hands on my—"
"For fuck's sake." Caleb's voice drops low enough that only I can hear, but there's a familiar tension in his jaw that makes me want to push harder. "Are you ever going to let that go?"
"Let me think . . ." I pretend to consider it. "Probably not. Especially since you made up ahay allergyto stop me."
"I was trying to save you from breaking your neck," he mutters as his hand finds my lower back. "Besides, that guy was about as subtle as a brick through a window."
"Oh, and you're the expert on subtle?" I lean into him.
His fingers press into my spine, just for a second. "You're enjoying this way too much."
"Almost as much as you enjoyed glaring holes through Austin's head?" I grin up at him.
"Keep pushing, Shortcake," he whispers in my ear. "See what happens."
"Aha!" Kristal's voice breaks through, making us both jump. She pulls out a set of old-fashioned brass keys. "Here we go! The main house is just gorgeous. Original hardwood floors from 1892, can you believe it? And the antique . . ."
I tune out her gushing, suddenly aware of how completely out of place I am in this pristine setting. While Kristal looks like she was photoshopped into existence, I resemble someone who got dragged backwards through Walmart's clearance rack. My fingers find their way to my hair, trying to subtly pat down what I'm sure has evolved from a messy bun into some kind of abstract blue bird's nest during my car nap. There's a crease on my cheek from Caleb's shoulder, and I don't even want to think about what my mascara situation mightbe right now.
"Here you go, honey." Kristal hands keys to Dottie, who passes them to Greg. "You're in the Magnolia Suite on the first floor. And for you two lovebirds . . ." She holds out another key to Caleb.
"Oh, we're not—" I start, but she's already moving on.
"Now, why don't y'all freshen up before lunch? Sarah's mama will have my head if anyone's late for the first family meal."
The main house is even more impressive inside. High ceilings with exposed beams arch overhead, while vintage Persian rugs soften the wide-plank floors. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm glow over butter-soft leather sofas and hand-carved cherry wood tables, their surfaces dotted with embossed books and delicate silver frames.
"Second floor, end of the hall," Kristal calls after us. "The Sunset Suite!"
Caleb leads the way up the creaking stairs, our footsteps muffled by plush carpeting. "The Sunset Suite?" he mutters. "What's wrong with just calling it Room 4?"
"Don't be such a grump." I trail my hand along the smooth banister. "This place is gorgeous."
"It's a lot." He adjusts the grip on our bags.
We reach the end of the hall, where double doors with brass handles await. Caleb fumbles with the key but finally opens the door.
The room is beautiful. Stunning, even. Whitewashed wood beams cross the ceiling. Gauzy curtains frame French doors leading to a private balcony. There's a cozy reading nook, a vintage vanity, and . . .
