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My eyes are glued to the windows as we head through the main gate. Gas lamps flicker from stone pillars, licks of light against the growing darkness. We emerge from a copse of trees, and I almost gasp when the resort comes into view. Several buildings dot the hill ahead: an enormous blue barn, a stable, a giant cedar shake house with wide porches. We pass a creek and a large, neat garden. A few adorable stone cottages with cedar shake roofs.
The grounds are immaculate with neatly mowed expansive lawns. The towering trees are eerily beautiful in their bare winter state. A garden stretches as far as the eye can see to our right, bisected by straight lines of something leafy and green. Kale, maybe?
The car keeps going. Past the sign that says Main House Stay Right. Past a handful of riders on gleaming chestnut horses. More cottages and a large guesthouse with white shutters and an arbor covered in naked vines I imagine bloom into something beautiful and fragrant in the summer.
We finally turn onto a gravel drive marked Private.
More gas lamps.
More trees.
A house materializes from the darkness, and my heart stops. It’s gorgeous, big without being obnoxious. Same stone, cedar shake, and white shutters I saw before, but different, somehow. More custom, perhaps, with sweeping rooflines and an almost Cape Cod vibe. Ivy creeps up the wall beside the massive front doors, and the windows glow warmly.
My hand shakes when I reach for my bag. I’m here, and I really am doing this.
I dig my phone out of the front pocket and quickly check my texts and calls. My door opens, and I startle at the sudden sound.
“Hey, honey,” a voice says, and I turn to see Hank, his handsome face creased in a very convincing smile.
He’s wearing a blue-and-white check button-up and jeans, and oh my God, did he get hotter since Vegas, or did he get hotter since Vegas?
“Hi,” I breathe. “Hey.”
Hank holds out his hand. I take it and climb out of the car, wobbling a little in my heels on the gravel. I didn’t wear anything too aggressive—just some suede booties—but even so, I can’t seem to find my balance.
Ever the excellent fake boyfriend, Hank puts a hand on my hip to steady me.
“How much did you drink on the flight?”
I grin, reveling in the way my entire body ignites at his touch. “Just a glass of bubbly. Although I definitely wanted more.”
“I did send the good stuff.”
“Are you always so thoughtful?”
His eyes—something about them changes. They get softer. “When my girl is involved? Absolutely.”
I glance at the driver, who’s busy unloading my suitcase from the trunk and bringing it inside the house. Hank and I have already come to the unspoken agreement that our Bridgerton ploy begins now. And damn, is he already good at it.
I won’t be beat.
Putting a hand on Hank’s chest, I tilt my head up for a kiss. “It’s so good to see you, baby.”
“Very good,” he replies, curling an arm around my waist and pulling me against him. He’s hard. He rolls his pelvis into mine. The heaviness between my legs flares to new life, the air around us crackling with electricity as Hank leans down and presses his lips to mine.
My toes curl inside my boots. The kiss is familiar and fiery, our mouths moving in expert tandem.
“Inside. Now,” he growls. Then he holds out a hand to the driver, who’s just emerging from the front door. “Christopher, thank you for your help tonight. You did an excellent job transporting some very precious cargo. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Christopher takes his hand and gives it a good shake, smiling at Hank’s praise. “My pleasure, Mr. Beauregard.”
“C’mon, just because I was gone for ten months doesn’t mean we’re strangers again. You can still call me Hank.”
“Right. I wasn’t sure if you were a guest, or my boss . . .”
Hank laughs, even though I see something unpleasant flicker across his face. “These days, who knows? Either way, let’s stick with Hank. Mr. Beauregard is my oldest brother.”
“Got it.” Christopher ducks his head in my direction. “Good evening, Miss Carter. Hank.”
“I can already tell the service at this place is insanely great,” I say to Hank as we climb the front steps.
Hank opens the font door wider, allowing me to enter first. “Of course it is. I literally wrote the handbook on guest relations last year. We had a few bumps implementing it, but overall, I’m pretty damn proud of the staff.”
The first thing I notice when I step inside the house is how immaculate it is. It’s an open floor plan, with the entrance hall leading directly into a soaring living area. I can see a little of everything: the furniture, the art, the drapes, all of it done in pristine shades of white, gray, and slate blue.
