The fireplace alone could sell me on this place. The faint scent of wood lingers in the air, comforting and rich. It’s breathtaking. I might actually enjoy this little six-month stay.
“This is stunning, John,” I say honestly. “Thank you so much for your hospitality.”
He waves his hand like it’s nothing. “Don’t worry about it. Just be at dinner at six.”
“I’ll be there,” I promise.
“It was nice meeting you!” Luke adds before the door closes softly behind them.
I glance around the space again, then snort quietly to myself. When I said cowboy, I meant someone a little rougher. Maybe older. Luke can’t be more than twenty or twenty-one. I’m no cougar. I mean… it’s never been my thing. But also, never say never.
I unpack slowly, laptop on the table, notebooks stacked neatly, pens lined up just so. Clothes folded into drawers. I’ll need to go into town later for groceries. For now, though, the bed looks impossibly comfortable, and jet lag is finally catching up with me.
I set my phone alarm for five-thirty so I won’t miss dinner with the Marshalls. My stomach growls in anticipation. Southern cooking, here I come.
I make sure I’m looking really pretty before heading out of the guesthouse. Not try-hard pretty—just polished enough to make a good impression. This is their home, after all, and I’m the outsider. The tenant. The city girl with suitcases and opinions.
I smooth my jean skirt, tug my old T-shirt into place, the one with the ducks on it because comfort wins over fashionevery single time and lace up my sneakers. Cute enough. Casual enough. Approachable. Hopefully. My stomach growls loudly as I step outside.
Okay, rude.
It’s been hours since I’ve eaten, and suddenly I’m painfully aware of it. I follow the smell drifting through the air as I approach the side door of the main house. Something warm and buttery and definitely southern. Whatever it is, my body is already ready. I knock, and almost immediately, the door opens.
“Hey, honey, come on in,” a woman says with a bright smile. “You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answered a little too quickly. “Very.”
She laughs. “I’m Nancy. The chef.”
Of course she is.
I smile back. “Nice to meet you, Nancy. I’m Layla. I’m renting the guesthouse for the next six months.”
“Oh, John was telling me about that.” She waves a hand like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Well, I hope you enjoy my cookin’. I make dinner for these boys every night. Luke and Cole are hungry men. Always have been.”
I nod as she talks, taking in the warmth of the kitchen, the clatter of pans, the comforting chaos of a family that clearly eats together. And her sweet southern accent.
“I haven’t met Cole,” I say.
She huffs.
“You will,” she replies, her tone noticeably flatter now.
Then she pauses, looks at me more closely, and lowers her voice just a bit. “Listen, darling. Don’t take Cole too personally. He’s not the friendly kind. Changed when his momma died.”
Oh.
My smile softens, and a small frown pulls at my mouth. “I’m sorry,” I say quietly.
Nancy nods once, like she appreciates that. “Now, wash up in the sink right there. Dinner’s almost done, and the dining room’s down the hall to the left. The boys are already in there. We’re having shrimp and grits tonight.”
I step to the sink and turn the water on, my brain snagging hard on her words. Shrimp… and grits? Grits? Oh my God.
My eyes widen as I scrub my hands. I love shrimp. Love it. But grits? And with my shrimp? This feels like a culinary betrayal. I was mentally prepared for fried chicken, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, maybe rolls. Comfort food I understand. This? I don’t want to offend anyone. I really don’t. But this might be… a challenge.
I dry my hands and head into the dining room. John and Luke are already seated.
“Hey, Layla! Hope you’re hungry,” John says.
