Chapter 17 Rowe #2
Two of the most masculine fingers that I’ve recently found myself obsessed with lift. “Whiskey sour and a scotch, neat.”
Isaac nods and begins making the drinks as Pane sits. He smells musky, of scents that I can’t place but want to devour. I inhale to drink in more of him, then look up.
His gaze is unapologetically leveled on me. A shiver shoots down my spine, and my eyes dart away to lock on anything besides his.
“Congratulations,” I murmur.
Isaac sets our drinks in front of us. Pane lifts his to me. “I couldn’t have done it without you. To us.”
I smile as we clink glasses. “To us.” Movement to my right catches my attention, and I watch as Coleman Barrier escorts a very tipsy Hilary from the bar. “So. Did you get everything squared away with Coleman?”
Pane sips his scotch, watching as the couple exits the bar. “Even after all that, he still tried to weasel out of a few things. But I got him. We’ll have everything we need. Plus a new set of boots for me.”
That makes me laugh. “You need them, if you’re going to be working construction.”
He rests an elbow on the table and leans a cheek on his fist. It is literally the most relaxed position I’ve yet to see him in. “About that. I have an idea for the farm.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. We make it a spa.”
I choke on the whiskey sour, sputtering.
Pane sits up and rubs my back in slow, luxurious circles. “You okay?”
His concern is disconcerting. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I tell him, waving off his worry and his hand from my back. “For a moment there I thought you wanted to turn my farm into a spa.”
“I do.”
My jaw falls. “Are you out of your mind?”
He sips his drink and frowns. “Not last I looked. However, I did learn how to use a chain saw today from a woman who owns a piggycorn farm. She was also wearing a jean skirt, I might add.”
Pane’s gaze drops to my legs, and he unabashedly studies my thighs.
My neck flushes with heat. “Whoever this mystery woman is, she must be very accomplished to use heavy equipment in such fashionable clothes.”
“Apparently, she’s much more accomplished than I thought.”
He watches me, and my throat shrivels. I manage to squeak out an, “Ah, I see,” while ignoring the Tilt-A-Whirl my stomach is currently riding.
I take a second and allow my gaze to drift around the bar. I’ve been in Sparkle Bar maybe a hundred times, but for the first time, I’m seeing it with new eyes.
The faded outer exterior has seeped inside.
The whole bar looks worn, tired—like a seventy-year-old barfly who can’t seem to pull herself away from the sticky countertop.
It’s not just the peanut shells on the floor.
It’s more than that. It’s an ambience that pervades every nook and cranny.
Even if the bar top was polished to gleaming, it would still have a dull coat on it, like all the chairs, tables, walls, and doors do.
It’s like there’s a layer of sadness dusting all of Mystic Meadows.
How have I not seen this until now? It’s like I’ve had scales on my eyes and now they’ve fallen away.
Pane knocks his knuckles on the bar top, bringing us back on topic.
“There’s nothing enticing people to Mystic Meadows this time of year—other than the fall leaves, that is—and there should be.
Atlanta’s two hours away. We need to tap into that market, convince people that Mystic Meadows is the retreat they’ve been searching for.
They can pet piggycorns and relax in luxury. ”
“But this is a family destination.”
He lifts a finger. “But it could also be a girls’ weekend.”
I ease back and eye him suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“Your knight in shining armor.”
The words hit me hard because he looks like a knight—sexy, a pouty mouth, a bit of stubble. Rugged but refined.
Yet I don’t need saving. Okay, maybe I do. To clarify, the farm does. Not me. “How are you going to turn the farmhouse into a spa?”
“Here. I did this to one of our hotels, focusing on a luxury-spa experience.”
He pulls out his phone and taps a few buttons, and seconds later, I’m watching a virtual tour of a signature Maddox Hotel, living the experience as two immaculately dressed men in crisp red coats with gold buttons open elaborate, gilded glass doors that lead into a marble-lined grand entrance with smiling attendants.
I’m given a tour of suites accessorized in rich navy and silver, and finally I’m shown the spa—which is sleek, minimalistic, gorgeous, and finished in pale jade stone.
Oh my gosh. This is where the man comes from? I’m so out of my league.
While I’m mesmerized by the tour, Pane goes over details, walking over the layout of the house and what he can do. After watching the video and listening to him, I admit his plan is pretty mind-blowing. And also terrifying.
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“What if it does?” he counters. “You have a spa during the day, and at night people can walk through the mystic gardens.”
I frown. “Mystic gardens?”
“Your backyard. The way the grass lights up. There, customers will be enchanted by the piggycorns. They’ll also get to relax with a massage and a facial during the day.”
“Where am I going to live?”
“Upstairs. The spa will take up the bottom of the house.”
“And you think that you can get the place booked?”
He laughs. “More than book it. We can fill the farm to capacity, and then some. With the right marketing, your small place could become a tourist destination. Just you. Just Wadley Farms. Want to escape? Book a facial. Need to relax? Play with the piggycorns. People pay to play with kittens all the time. They’ll definitely hand over cash to pet horned swine that they’ve never heard of. ”
“I’ve heard of piggycorns,” I reply, feeling insulted that Pane would correctly assume that no one besides a handful of people believe in my favoritest pet on the planet.
“Rowe, you need to accept the fact that you’re one of the only people in the world who knows how special they are.” He lifts his hands as if waving a flag of surrender. “Even though I realize the farm used to be successful and you sold th— Wait. You sold them, didn’t you?”
“We did,” I admit with a hearty sigh. “But people couldn’t breed them because we never sold in pairs, and the piggies don’t mate outside of the farm.
” I use my finger to iron a wrinkle in my skirt.
“They’re funny about that. They’re like animals at a zoo that don’t like to breed in captivity.
Same type of thing. So anyway, what I’m saying is that the ones we sold eventually died, and the magic died, too, so . . .”
“The town died,” he finishes.
“Right, and then magic-less unicorns were born, so the price came down, so people stopped caring about piggycorns. I’ve even posted videos and photos, but no one seems to notice—or they reply that the piggies aren’t real and have fake horns sewn on their heads.
A few folks may visit our town, visit the farm on occasion, but it’s just not enough.
” I shake my head, hoping that I’m making sense.
“When the magic died in Mystic Meadows, it dragged all of us down with it.”
Pane thinks about that and nods. “Then let’s change it.”
Before I can agree, the bartender approaches, wiping down a glass with a rag. “Another round? This one’s on me.”
“Just water,” Pane tells him.
Isaac glances my way.
“Ditto.”
“But thanks for offering the free round.”
Isaac grins. “Anyone who can beat mean old Coleman Barrier deserves to have the red carpet rolled out. Congratulations, by the way.”
“Thank you. Pane Maddox.”
“Isaac Granbury.” They shake hands. “Welcome to Mystic Meadows.”
“Happy to be here.”
I thumb toward Pane. “Don’t believe him. He hates our town.”
“No, I don’t.” Pane glances around. “Everyone’s been really nice.”
“Yeah, Rowe, we’re friendly,” Isaac gently chides. “Listen, man, I don’t know if you like poker, but a few of us have a game once a week on Wednesday nights. You’re welcome to join. We play here.”
“Thanks, I might do that.”
But from the way his mouth is set, I can tell that Pane won’t. This town still isn’t good enough for him.
Isaac sets down our drinks. “See you then. Let me know if you need anything.”
As he wanders off, the jukebox starts up, playing Ray LaMontagne’s “You Are the Best Thing.”
Pane slips off his stool and extends his hand. “Care to dance?”
I stare as if he’s holding out a snake.
“I don’t bite,” he says, annoyed.
“Are you sure?”
A smile twitches on his lips. “Well, I might do other things.”
Like what? Don’t ask, Rowe! He probably means something dirty, something that Clarice Sinclair would approve of. “I don’t think we should.”
He drops his mouth to my ear and whispers in a husky voice, “Why not? If we dance one song and no one joins us, then we’ll stop. But if other couples start, then I get two dances out of you.”
“The Sparkle Bar, contrary to its name, isn’t the type of place where people dance.” I point to the pool tables and dartboard. “It’s more like that.”
He straightens. “So we start a trend.” Pane flexes his fingers. “Don’t be chicken.”
I scoff. “I’m not a chicken.”
“Then prove it.”
I shake my head in annoyance. “Fine. Just one song.”
“Unless—”
“Yeah, yeah, unless others join.”
I down the rest of my water and let Pane take my hand. When he does, fireworks explode up my arm. I grind my teeth to keep from flinching, yet I can’t help but wonder what kind of nuclear-level electric shock that was.
Pane scowls as if he felt it, too. However, that’s also the billionaire’s normal expression, so it’s impossible to know if he experienced what I did.
He leads me to the center of the room and wraps an arm around my waist. He’s so tall that I have to tip my chin way up to make eye contact.
When he pulls me close, his exotic scent hits me hard, and I blurt out, “What are you wearing? I have to know.”
He smirks. “Is that a compliment from little Sunbeam?”
I roll my eyes. “I know how to give a compliment.”
“Apparently. I just heard one from you.”