“Yeah. We make it a spa.”
I choke on the whiskey sour, sputtering.
Pane sits up and rubs my back in slow, luxurious circles. “You okay?”
His concern is disconcerting. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, waving off his worry and his hand from my back. “For a moment there I thought you wanted to turn my farm into a spa.”
“I do.”
My jaw falls. “Are you out of your mind?”
He sips his drink and frowns. “Not last I looked. However, I did learn how to use a chain saw today from a woman who owns a piggycorn farm. She was also wearing a jean skirt, I might add.”
Pane’s gaze drops to my legs, and he unabashedly studies my thighs.
My neck flushes with heat. “Whoever this mystery woman is, she must be very accomplished to use heavy equipment in such fashionable clothes.”
“Apparently, she’s much more accomplished than I thought.”
He watches me, and my throat shrivels. I manage to squeak out an, “Ah, I see,” while ignoring the Tilt-A-Whirl my stomach is currently riding.
I take a second and allow my gaze to drift around the bar. I’ve been in Sparkle Bar maybe a hundred times, but for the first time, I’m seeing it with new eyes.
The faded outer exterior has seeped inside. The whole bar looks worn, tired—like a seventy-year-old barfly who can’t seem to pull herself away from the sticky countertop. It’s not just the peanut shells on the floor. It’s more than that. It’s an ambience that pervades every nook and cranny. Even if the bar top was polished to gleaming, it would still have a dull coat on it, like all the chairs, tables, walls, and doors do.
It’s like there’s a layer of sadness dusting all of Mystic Meadows.
How have I not seen this until now? It’s like I’ve had scales on my eyes and now they’ve fallen away.
Pane knocks his knuckles on the bar top, bringing us back on topic. “There’s nothing enticing people to Mystic Meadows this time of year—other than the fall leaves, that is—and there should be. Atlanta’s two hours away. We need to tap into that market, convince people that Mystic Meadows is the retreat they’ve been searching for. They can pet piggycorns and relax in luxury.”
“But this is a family destination.”
He lifts a finger. “But it could also be a girls’ weekend.”
I ease back and eye him suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“Your knight in shining armor.”
The words hit me hard because he looks like a knight—sexy, a pouty mouth, a bit of stubble. Rugged but refined.
Yet I don’t need saving. Okay, maybe I do. To clarify, thefarmdoes. Not me. “How are you going to turn the farmhouse into a spa?”
“Here. I did this to one of our hotels, focusing on a luxury-spa experience.”
He pulls out his phone and taps a few buttons, and seconds later, I’m watching a virtual tour of a signature Maddox Hotel, living the experience as two immaculately dressed men in crisp red coats with gold buttons open elaborate, gilded glass doors that lead into a marble-lined grand entrance with smiling attendants. I’m given a tour of suitesaccessorized in rich navy and silver, and finally I’m shown the spa—which is sleek, minimalistic, gorgeous, and finished in pale jade stone.
Oh my gosh.This is where the man comes from? I’msoout of my league.
While I’m mesmerized by the tour, Pane goes over details, walking over the layout of the house and what he can do. After watching the video and listening to him, I admit his plan is pretty mind-blowing. And also terrifying.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if it does?” he counters. “You have a spa during the day, and at night people can walk through the mystic gardens.”
I frown. “Mystic gardens?”
“Your backyard. The way the grass lights up. There, customers will be enchanted by the piggycorns. They’ll also get to relax with a massage and a facial during the day.”
