Chapter 18
You know, generally speaking, I felt like my life had become a little predictable as of late.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved living with Andy, playing video games, watching movies and eating takeaways, and going out drinking with JJ, but really that’s all I did for fun.
Otherwise I just worked – or tried to get work – or went on underwhelming dates.
Either way, rejection was a recurring theme.
So it’s hard to wrap my head around the way things are all of a sudden.
Pretending to be engaged. To a cowboy, no less.
Him helping me secure a book deal, me helping him buy a house and a business.
We shouldn’t need to go this far, to get what we’ve worked for, but here we are.
Oh, and then there’s the small matter of my best friend, who I have recently decided I’m in love with, tying the knot out of the blue.
I used to lie in bed and wish that life would get a bit more exciting – this was not what I had in mind.
Here I am, in the passenger seat of Jake’s truck (because he’s not going to hire a car for his time here, that wouldn’t be sexy enough, right?), watching the city disappear behind us as we head out into the countryside, to Rosewood.
He offered me a ride – eventually I realised he meant a lift. Don’t ask where my brain went.
‘You okay?’ he asks me.
I suppose we’re too familiar now – on paper, at least – but I do kind of miss him calling me ma’am.
‘Yeah,’ I say, sighing as I look down at my phone.
‘Still blowin’ up?’ he asks.
‘Big time,’ I reply. ‘I can’t complain, my author socials have never been so active, but I might actually have to turn my notifications off. And maybe have someone pre-read my comments, because every now and then one is horrendously mean for no reason.’
‘The internet,’ he says. ‘I don’t really use social media. Never seen the point.’
‘For an author, it’s basically a requirement,’ I reply. ‘Not so much for my day job, my biography work, but if I want to be a successful novelist, then I’m going to need a fan base, one I can connect with.’
‘How did authors cope before?’ he asks. ‘Before social media?’
‘I don’t know, but I bet they never had anyone in the comments telling them they needed Ozempic,’ I reply.
‘I’ll pre-read your comments,’ he suggests. ‘See if anyone dare to say anything bad about me.’
‘No one has anything bad to say about you,’ I reassure him. ‘Anything that isn’t complimentary is just incredibly horny instead.’
He laughs.
‘And this is why I’m not online.’
‘Ugh, I’m not sure I’m cut out for this,’ I reply, allowing myself a little moan. I know, I should be grateful that I’m getting any opportunities at all, even weird ones.
‘You’re doin’ great, Whit,’ he assures me.
The way he says my name – soft, like it feels good between his lips – makes my heart flutter. Honestly, no one could be immune to this man’s charm.
I need to let go of the feeling, to concentrate, because today means business. Today it’s my turn to help Jake, to meet Arty Morgan with him, and sell Jake as the kind of love interest who is in it for keeps.
As we drive into Rosewood, I notice the stables sit off to one side, dark wood and tidy fences, paddocks for the horses.
Then we reach a small building, just behind the stables, that looks like the offices for the business.
Still, it’s incredibly cute and quaint, nothing like a big city office.
But today we’re meeting Arty at the big house, the main building, where he and his family live in a private wing.
‘Alright,’ Jake says, turning to me as he switches off the engine. ‘We go in, we keep it simple. We let him see that we’re a couple in love.’
‘Right,’ I say, nodding too fast. ‘Just two loved-up people, one of whom wants to buy a lodge and a business.’
‘For both of us,’ he adds.
‘Yeah, sorry, for both of us,’ I reply.
Jake pauses, studying me.
‘You sure you’re okay?’
‘I’m fine, but it’s kind of weird, and I don’t want to let you down,’ I tell him.
‘Whit, you could never let me down,’ he replies. ‘I can’t thank you enough for doing this for me.’
It’s such a nice thing. Such a boyfriend thing.
‘We’re gonna be fine,’ he says.
He climbs out, saunters around the truck, and opens my door for me. He even offers me his hand to help me step out. Sure, he’s a gent, but I know he’s only doing it because the truck is a little higher off the ground than a car, but still, I like to lean into the cowboy fantasy just a little.
I step out, smoothing my hair automatically, making sure my outfit is in place and hasn’t drifted up in one place or slipped down in another while I’ve been in the car.
Jake offers me his arm and we walk up to the private residence together. And then we’re inside – no turning back now.
The interior is exactly as intimidating as you’d expect: high ceilings, old portraits of stern-looking men, polished wooden floors that gleam like they’re made of glass.
We’re led down a hallway by a woman in a sharp suit. She doesn’t say much, focusing on the task at hand. I wonder if you don’t have to be stuffy to work here, but it helps.
‘Mr Morgan will see you now,’ she says.
Mr Morgan. Arty Morgan. The only things I know about him, I’ve heard from Jake.
He sounds like a hard man to please, if he’s putting this much energy into who he will let buy the business.
Apparently he’s ‘hands-on’, ‘traditional’ and ‘very particular’.
It’s hard to imagine me being his cup of tea, but I am only here as a prop.
We reach a set of double doors. The woman knocks once, then opens them.
We step into an office that feels like an old-money man’s lair.
Dark wood. Leather chairs. A huge desk. Bookshelves – but not a colourful spine in sight.
A view out on to the gardens that makes my stomach twist because I can see the fountain from here, glittering innocently, like it didn’t try to end me.
Behind the desk sits a man in his late sixties, maybe early seventies, with grey hair and a face that suggests he has never been impressed by anything in his entire life. I hadn’t realised stiff upper lips were a literal thing, but he’s got one.
He looks up. First to Jake, then to me, then back to Jake.
‘Well,’ he says, voice smooth. ‘If it isn’t Rosewood’s very own love story – if you don’t count James and Elizabeth, who were beheaded together here in the 1800s.’
Yeah, I wouldn’t count those.
‘Our first viral love story, I should say,’ Arty continues.
‘Yeah,’ Jake replies. ‘To be honest with you, our friends are getting wed here next week, and we didn’t want to steal their thunder, so we were going to keep it to ourselves, but I don’t know, something about this place feels like home.
I couldn’t think of a better place to get down on one knee and ask Whitney to marry me. ’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Whitney dear,’ Arty tells me. ‘Jake never mentioned you.’
‘Can’t resist keeping her all to myself,’ Jake jokes, charming as ever.
‘You said your friends were getting married here?’ he says.
‘Yes, Andrew and Cordelia,’ I reply.
Or Buzz and Tink if you’re that way inclined – bleurgh!
Jake’s hand tightens around mine. Arty smiles.
‘I’ll admit, when I first met you, Jake, I assumed you were simply a businessman,’ Arty says.
Jake’s expression doesn’t change, but I feel the tension in his grip.
‘And you are,’ Arty continues smoothly, ‘but I didn’t realise you were a family man too. I definitely didn’t think you would be the sort of gent to get down on one knee, so publicly – and here too. You must really feel something for the place.’
‘You know how you just get that feelin’, when something feels right, and you can’t stop yourself?’ Jake replies. ‘I know that I love Whitney, and I know that I love this place, and it was like an instinct.’
Arty nods, like he gets it.
‘Rosewood has always been a place for love stories,’ he says.
‘Weddings, engagements, honeymoons. I’ve seen them all.
There’s something in the air here. Something romantic.
A place like this, it takes a lot of love to keep it going.
You have to love the land, the horses, the old buildings.
And you can’t do it alone; it takes a family.
The love of a family will warm the place from the inside out; it will keep it alive forever. That’s what I want.’
‘That’s what I want too,’ Jake replies, and I know this – he and I – is fake, but I know that he means it.
‘I’m a practical man,’ Arty continues. ‘I like practicality and honesty.’
‘Of course,’ Jake replies, cool as anything.
Arty’s gaze lingers on us both, like he’s weighing us up. Then he stands. He’s not especially tall, but he has presence. The sort of man who commands a room simply by existing in it. He walks around his huge desk and gestures towards the leather sofas.
‘Sit with me,’ he says.
We do.
Arty takes a seat in the armchair, only feet away from us now, talking to us in a more intimate, relaxed setting.
I don’t know if he’s more or less intimidating, without the big desk between us.
It’s like the flex has gone, that big boss vibe, but suddenly he’s so much closer, like it might be easier for him to detect our bullshit.
‘So,’ he says. ‘Tell me. Why do you want Rosewood, Jake? You too, Whitney.’
Jake takes a slow breath.
‘Because it matters,’ he says simply. ‘Because I hear every word you’re saying, about how this place needs love and family, and I want to bring it. My dad lives in a long-term care facility, not too far from here. I want to be close to him. That’s my main reason for moving over from the States.’