Chapter 1
Shrimp and Grits?
Layla
Well, I’ll say one thing, Tennessee air is a lot different than Seattle’s, and the scenery? Absolutely grade A. The air feels warmer, thicker somehow, like it’s wrapping around me instead of cutting straight through my jacket the way it does back home. And the green. God, everything is so green. This is going to be the perfect place for me to write my southern-charm romance novel. The kind with small towns, slow mornings, and men who look good in worn denim.
Maybe there will even be a cute cowboy here at this horse ranch I’m staying at to give me a little writing encouragement. I mean… a girl can dream.
The Uber takes a right turn onto a long gravel driveway, and I lean forward in my seat as a massive, black steel archway comes into view.
Marshall Horse Ranch.Well. That’s promising.
The crunch of gravel under the tires is oddly satisfying as the ranch opens up in front of me. It’s beautiful—really beautiful. The mountains in the distance rise softly against the sky, hazy and blue like they’re painted straight into the horizon. Flowers bloom along the edges of the drive, trees heavy with fresh green leaves, a smoky mist hanging low like the mountains are guarding a secret. Wow.
The main house comes into view next, large and elegant without being showy. The kind of place that feels lived-in and loved, not staged for a magazine. And then I look to the right and spot it, the tiny guesthouse I’ll be staying in. Nestled right in the center of nature. Surrounded by horses and open space and quiet. It’s perfect. The car rolls to a stop.
“This is it, ma’am,” the Uber driver says.
“Thank you!” I reply quickly, already reaching for the door. “I’ll just grab my things from the trunk.”
I hop out, immediately regretting my shoe choice as my cute pumps sink slightly into the gravel. Of course. City girl mistake number one. I steady myself and tug two suitcases from the trunk, along with my carry-on, mentally reminding myself that this stay is temporary. Six months. That’s it.
Totally manageable.
As I struggle to wrangle all three bags toward the front steps of the massive home, the door opens and an older man comes shuffling out.
“Well, you must be Layla!”
His voice is warm and welcoming, and he’s already reaching for one of my suitcases.
“Let me help you out, darlin’.”
“Oh my goodness,” I laugh softly. “Well, thank you.”
And the southern charm is hitting. He’s really adorable. Flannel shirt, small in stature but a little heavy-set, kind eyes crinkling at the corners. Not that I’m one to judge, I’m definitely a bigger girl myself. Still, I can’t help the rush of relief that hits me. It’s kind of a if you know you know thing.
Thank God he’s nice. I am not built for rude people. Honestly, I’m awkward even with nice ones.
“We’re really excited to have you here,” he says as he lifts my suitcase like it weighs nothing. “I’m John.”
A younger man comes jogging out the door behind him. “Hey, Dad—oh! Is this our tenant?”
“This is Luke,” John says proudly. “My youngest.”
I nod politely. “Hi, Luke. I’m Layla.”
We start down a small path toward the guesthouse, the gravel giving way to packed dirt and grass. Everything smells like earth and wood and sunshine.
“We’ll have dinner at six,” John says easily. “Just walk on over around that time. We’d love for you to join us.”
“Oh wow, that’s okay, you don’t have to—”
“Oh hush,” he interrupts gently. “I insist.”
I smile despite feeling pushed to do dinner with a group of people I don’t even know but who can turn down a southern gentleman?
He unlocks the door to my short-term home, and the second I step inside, my breath catches. This place is stunning. Wood-paneled walls, warm lighting, cozy and cabin-like. I’m not thrilled about the deer heads mounted on the wall, but everything else? Absolutely perfect.
