Jeremiah gestured to the log cabins that peeked out between the towering evergreens as we climbed into the golf cart. From the outside, they were all identical. Quaint structures, like something out ofLittle House on the Prairie, each with a green roof and a front porch with two rocking chairs. I suspected the inside had the same pine bed, dresser, and desk, and the same green curtains.
“Seven of the cabins are full right now. There’s one of your neighbors right now, as a matter of fact,” Jeremiah said, nodding in the direction of a man heading down the path to one of the cabins.
I slipped on my oversized sunglasses before lifting my hand in a wave. The man jerked a shoulder in response. Slowly I lowered my hand. “What’s with him?”
“That’s Caleb. Got here a few days ago. Most guests keep to themselves the first week or so, I’ve noticed. It takes time to reset the nervous system.”
That made sense. The website had made it clear that this wasn’t a dude ranch for family vacations or city slickers looking for a cowboy adventure. It was first and foremost a working ranch, and a wellness retreat on the side. Kind of like the monastery my friend Kimmy went to every February for a two-week electronic detox. They couldn’t even talk there—the monks had taken a vow ofsilence, and the guests were expected to be respectful of it. This wasn’t a vacation. It was an escape. That was why I was here, too, even if my reasons were forced upon me rather than chosen.
“As I was saying,” Jeremiah continued, “you’ll have plenty of time to get to know the other guests. Some are more sociable than others, but you’ll see them at meal times.”
“Oh.” The golf cart bumped over a dip in the dirt road, kicking up red-brown dust, and my stomach lurched with it. “Is there room service?”
His assessing look told me the answer before he spoke, so I wasn’t surprised when he said, “No room service. Let us know if you’re sick and someone will bring you food and get you medical care.”
I nodded uneasily. With the exception of the cowboy who had looked at me a little too long this morning, his forehead furrowed like he was trying to figure out where he knew me from, no one had recognized me yet. That didn’t surprise me. Mercy River was a blue-collar town. I very much doubted the locals spent their free time watching my naked floral arrangement livestreams or thumbing through clothing catalogues.
But the guests…they could be anyone from anywhere. A New York socialite who had seen me with Benny. A Los Angeles photographer. Some random middle-aged man from Chicago who paid my monthly subscription fee.
Still, the odds of someone recognizing me from my modeling work or social media were almost nonexistent. I knew that. But somehow I couldn’t seem to convince my nervous system I was safe. Which was ridiculous because I wasn’t the one in danger. Unlike Benny, I was fastidious when it came to my taxes. The cash he left in the mornings appeared with or without fucking, which made it a gift, not payment. Totally legal.
“The east side of the property is the bunkhouse for the ranch hands and owners’ cabins,” he went on. “Where the road meets in the middle is the lodge. That’s where you’ll find the dining hall, the library, and the game room.”
“What about the spa?”
He gave me that assessing look again. It did not bode well. “The health center is behind the lodge. We have a physical therapist on staff, and a massage therapist, too. The gym has free weights, barbells, and some cardio machines, but it doesn’t get much use. Most people find that after a long day of ranching, lifting heavy objects and putting them down again with no real purpose loses its appeal.”
Okay, the website had definitely oversold the amenities here. “So I guess a facial isn’t going to happen?”
“What’s a facial?” he asked, and I truly could not tell if he was fucking with me.
But that didn’t stop me from fucking with him right back.
“Oh, you haven’t tried it yet? It’s the latest skincare craze. Semen does wonders for skin tone. Tightens everything right up.”
It took him a beat to work through what I meant, but when he did, a mottled red crested his cheeks. “You’re joking. People wouldn’t?—”
“People absolutely would.” I snickered. “Have you met people?”
The flush deepened. I couldn’t help but stare. I had never seen a full-grown man—much less a cowboy—actually blush. I hadn’t blushed in a decade. Nothing fazed me anymore. I took pride in that. But seeing this man who was older than me, rougher than me, turn bright red at a little sexual innuendo made me nostalgic for the little girl I had been before I’d installed a deadbolt on the inside of my bedroom door.
“I’vemetpeople,” he muttered. “Usually I shake their hand. I don’t do…that.”
I burst out laughing. “I think that’s the kind of thing you have to work up to. Consent is important.”
His lips parted and he stared at me as if he were wondering how a person might go about asking for something like that in a spa.
“You know I’m joking, right?” Suddenly I was hyperaware that if the roles were reversed, I would be asking to speak to his manager right about now. Probably. That mustache might slow me down a little.
“What you city folk get up to is none of my business.”
“No one does that for skincare.”I don’t think. “Just sex.”
The look he gave me made it clear he didn’t think that was better. There wasn’t a great way to end this conversation I had trapped us in. This was so unlike me. I didn’t ramble on about kinks for the pleasure of watching someone squirm. I was the queen of small talk! Especially with men. Mostly that meant asking questions and parroting their own words back at them with wide-eyed wonder as if I were awed by their existence and dying to know more, all while perfectly roasting a chicken and stripping my clothes off.
Maybe I could roll myself right out of the golf cart. We couldn’t be going more than five miles an hour.
“I could have gone my whole life without knowing that,” he mused. “I only had another forty years or so to go. Damn shame.”
