“He wants to hire the firm to decorate his house,” I tell her. “That’s all.”
“Oh.” She deflates the way I did when Slade asked me that question.
Logically, I understand that me deflating like that is crazy. Having a VIP client hire us to do full-service design ought to be a dream come true.
So that’s how I’m going to look at it.
His interest is strictly professional, and that’s just fine. Better, really. Romantic relationships crash and burn, but a good designer-client relationship can last decades.
But that doesn’t exactly explain the way my heart is racing as I pull up to the gates of his family property the next day.
Wild Rose Ranchis burned into the enormous crossbarsabove me. There’s a security code I have to input, and then the wide, huge gates slide open.
Before I can drive in, my phone chimes. It’s a text from Slade.
Slade
Hi Lila, I’m running late. Fence went down in the west pasture and we’re putting it back up. I’m sorry. Be there in about fifteen minutes.
I text back:
You’re the client. I’m here at your pleasure!
Belatedly, I realize just how that sounds.
As I drive through the gates, I follow the GPS navigation to his address, winding across dirt roads. I can see why this place has achieved mythical status in Marble Falls. It’s one of the most beautiful pieces of land I’ve ever seen. Mountains tower in the distance. Wide open pastures unfurl before me in a green carpet, horses grazing in some sections, cattle in another. When I roll down my windows I smell cut grass and rich, loamy soil.
Though I’ve never been here before, there’s something oddly familiar about it, and it occurs to me that I probably have seen this place in movies before.
When I reach Slade’s house, I immediately clock it as a new build. It’s clad in wood and stone on the outside, framed out with huge steel windows. I recognize the work as that of an architecture firm in Bozeman. It’s elegant, subtle, and extremely expensive work.
I’ve never worked on such a high end project before. Or one with such modern bones. Most of my design has been on older, historic houses. This will be an interesting challenge.
As I get out of my car to walk the perimeter of the property, my design-brain is already in overdrive, imagining how to soften some of the harsh edges, add a little color to the neutral palette.
The hoofbeats reach me before I see him, a low, rhythmic percussion quickly getting louder. Then Slade comes over the rise on a massive storm-grey horse, moving at a canter, and my brain does that thing it did the first time I saw him, where it just stops processing for a second.
He looks like something out of a movie.
He’s got his hat pulled low against the wind, a coil of rope looped on the saddle horn. One hand is loose on the reins, the other resting on his thigh, those broad shoulders perfectly still while everything below them moves with the horse.
The horse’s hooves throw up small divots of earth as they slow, and I become aware that I’ve stopped walking entirely and I’m just standing there with my notebook against my chest, watching.
He brings the horse down to a walk with a subtle shift of his weight and a quiet word I can’t hear, and when his eyes find mine he reaches up and tips his hat. He comes off the horse in a single fluid movement and loops the reins around a nearby post. With a pat to the horse’s neck, he strolls towards me.
“I’m sorry again for running late,” he says.
Up close, after the full cinematic experience of him cantering across that pasture, the deep drawl and the green eyes and the square jaw are a lot to absorb at close range.
“It’s nothing.” I wave it away, impressed by how well I’m faking being unaffected and casual. “This is an absolutely beautiful piece of land. The views are incredible. And your house—was it an Ellis & Macklan project?”
“That’s right. My brothers Walker and Tanner used themon their places too. They’re about ten minutes north and east, respectively.”
“Is this your horse?” I ask.
“This is Ghost. My dad’s gelding. I’m not around enough to keep a horse of my own at Wild Rose.”
“May I?” I ask, approaching the gelding.
