‘Ugh, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,’ I reply, allowing myself a little moan. I know, I should be grateful that I’m getting any opportunities at all, even weird ones.
‘You’re doin’ great, Whit,’ he assures me.
The way he says my name – soft, like it feels good between his lips – makes my heart flutter. Honestly, no one could be immune to this man’s charm.
I need to let go of the feeling, to concentrate, because today means business. Today it’s my turn to help Jake, to meet Arty Morgan with him, and sell Jake as the kind of love interest who is in it for keeps.
As we drive into Rosewood, I notice the stables sit off to one side, dark wood and tidy fences, paddocks for the horses. Then we reach a small building, just behind the stables, that looks like the offices for the business. Still, it’s incredibly cute and quaint, nothing like a big city office. But today we’re meeting Arty at the big house, the main building, where he and his family live in a private wing.
‘Alright,’ Jake says, turning to me as he switches off the engine. ‘We go in, we keep it simple. We let him see that we’re a couple in love.’
‘Right,’ I say, nodding too fast. ‘Just two loved-up people, one of whom wants to buy a lodge and a business.’
‘For both of us,’ he adds.
‘Yeah, sorry, for both of us,’ I reply.
Jake pauses, studying me.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine, but it’s kind of weird, and I don’t want to let you down,’ I tell him.
‘Whit, you could never let me down,’ he replies. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me.’
It’s such a nice thing. Such a boyfriend thing.
‘We’re gonna be fine,’ he says.
He climbs out, saunters around the truck, and opens my door for me. He even offers me his hand to help me step out. Sure, he’s a gent, but I know he’s only doing it because the truck is a little higher off the ground than a car, but still, I like to lean into the cowboy fantasy just a little.
I step out, smoothing my hair automatically, making sure my outfit is in place and hasn’t drifted up in one place or slipped down in another while I’ve been in the car.
Jake offers me his arm and we walk up to the private residence together. And then we’re inside – no turning back now.
The interior is exactly as intimidating as you’d expect: high ceilings, old portraits of stern-looking men, polished wooden floors that gleam like they’re made of glass.
We’re led down a hallway by a woman in a sharp suit. She doesn’t say much, focusing on the task at hand. I wonder if you don’t have to be stuffy to work here, but it helps.
‘Mr Morgan will see you now,’ she says.
Mr Morgan. Arty Morgan. The only things I know about him, I’ve heard from Jake. He sounds like a hard man to please, if he’s putting this much energy into who he will let buy the business. Apparently he’s ‘hands-on’, ‘traditional’ and ‘very particular’. It’s hard to imagine me being his cup of tea, but I am only here as a prop.
We reach a set of double doors. The woman knocks once, then opens them.
We step into an office that feels like an old-money man’s lair. Dark wood. Leather chairs. A huge desk. Bookshelves – but not a colourful spine in sight. A view out on to the gardens that makes my stomach twist because I can see the fountain from here, glittering innocently, like it didn’t try to end me.
Behind the desk sits a man in his late sixties, maybe early seventies, with grey hair and a face that suggests he has never been impressed by anything in his entire life. I hadn’t realised stiff upper lips were a literal thing, but he’s got one.
He looks up. First to Jake, then to me, then back to Jake.
‘Well,’ he says, voice smooth. ‘If it isn’t Rosewood’s very own love story – if you don’t count James and Elizabeth, who were beheaded together here in the 1800s.’
Yeah, I wouldn’t count those.
‘Our first viral love story, I should say,’ Arty continues.
‘Yeah,’ Jake replies. ‘To be honest with you, our friends are getting wed here next week, and we didn’t want to steal their thunder, so we were going to keep it to ourselves, but I don’t know, something about this place feels like home. I couldn’t think of a better place to get down on one knee and ask Whitney to marry me.’
