“Where are we going?” Now I’m curious. He hasn’t ever been this confident in our informal competition. The one with no judges, no criteria, and no prize. And yet, the one we’re both very invested in.
“This one’s going to be a complete surprise. And you’re going to love it.” He opens his eyes and looks down at me with so much pride for whatever he has planned, I don’t press to spoil the surprise.
An hour and a half and two Cheerwines later, Beau pulls over on the side of the road.
“Are you ready for this?”
I look around, seeing the field of naked trees around us. And no civilization. What can be out here? But whatever it is, I resolve to pretend to like anything he planned for me, because he’s been so lovely and looks so hopeful. If it’s camping, it’s going to be hard though.
“Being cannibalized on the side of the road?” I can’t resist a joke.
“Your mind is a scary place.”
“My mind. Every woman’s mind. Whatever.” I shrug.
His face falls. “I don’t reckon I can keep being this excited after that bit of reality.”
“I live with it, and I want my non-cannibalism-related surprise.” I slap him lightly and repeatedly on the arm. I came to the wilderness with no internet. And potential cannibals, damn it.
Beau gets a bit of his enthusiasm back, but not back to where he was before I brought up danger. “Look up there, at the top of the hill.” He turns me gently to face the top of that aforementioned hill. “I’m taking you to Biltmore, Baby Girl.”
My face lights up in genuine excitement as I see the outline of the house roof in the distance. I gasp and jump around him a little. “No way! You’re really taking me to Biltmore??”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Biltmore is the vacation home built by a rich Vanderbilt in 1889. It looks like a French château on the outside, and on the inside has the spirit of the richest rich people going on a Grand Tour around Europe and buying up all the art.
It’s beautiful. And I can’t wait to see it.
“You did good, Old MacDonald.” I let him have a few moments of revelry before I drop the axe. “Not to be pedantic, but old George Vanderbiltwasfrom New York. Staten Island to be exact.”
“And he brought his Yankee ass down here to God’s country to build his obnoxiously big house.”
“One of hismanyhouses.”
“Hisbiggesthouse.”
I put my hands on my hips. “Did you read the pamphlet after you made this decision?”
Beau ducks his head down, à la guilty puppy. “Maybe. But it’s still true.”
“It’s the biggest because there’s so much land down here.”
“Do you still want to go to this house?”
I fling my hands up. “Yes. The South is great and George loved it for its natural beauty and hospitable people and artery-clogging delicious food.”
“Very little effort.” He shakes his head in disappointment. “But we’re already here so I’m going to take you and rub it in that this is all in the South.”
“And I will meekly accept all your taunts.” Until we come back down the hill that Biltmore is on. Well, until we get back to somewhere I can catch a ride if he kicks me out of the truck because of the level of sass happening.
“Until we get done with the tour,” he says.
Shit, he knows me already.
I decide silence is the better part of valor, late though the decision may be. Instead, I give him a kiss. This is a fantastic date to take an auctioneer on.
We drive up the hill, past the acres and acres of land the house surrounds itself with to ensure maximum privacy. Thick patches of trees with some wintery green tower over each side of the road, daring us to keep going. But I know what treasures are at the end of those trees, so I’m going to keep going, if it’s all the same to the guardians.
