After forty-five minutes of silence, the truck turns down a gravel road, and I see the historic inn in the distance. I read online that it has twelve rooms and is known for its homemade food and hospitality. My jaw drops at how it looks in person, and I continue staring as we come to a complete stop. The rocking chairs on the large front porch have the perfect view of the surrounding apple orchards.
“Your meeting will be through those doors,” he says, pointing toward the entrance.
“Great. Do I tip you?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “I’m not an Uber.”
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to…”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Do I need to grab my things?”
“I’ll drop your stuff off where you’ll be staying. I’ll be back to take you there once you’re finished inside.”
“Alright. Has anyone ever told you this place looks like it fell straight out of a Hallmark movie?” The hues have me itching to pull out my paints.
“Yeah, just every tourist who’s ever visited.”
My cheeks heat at how stupid he’s made me feel, and I’m ready to escape inside. After this embarrassing exchange, I’d almost prefer him not to talk to me ever again. Thankfully, once I hop out, he drives away without giving me a second glance.
“Asshole,” I whisper under my breath as I nervously walk inside. I’m greeted with the smell of fresh-baked cookies, and I instantly crave a dozen.
I walk through a common area with chairs and a fireplace to the hallway. The bay windows allow the afternoon light to cast a warm glow inside.
As I look around, an older woman with white-gray hair comes toward me from around a counter. She’s got an oven mitt on one hand as she sweeps loose strands with the back of her free one.
“You must be Ms. Benson,” she kindly says. Her warm and inviting demeanor is just like the cozy inn, and I immediately like her.
“Yes, but please call me Oakley.”
“Perfect. I’ve been expecting you, dear. I’m Willa Bennett, the innkeeper and owner you spoke to.” She pulls me in for a hug, and I’m not used to people being this friendly. Especially after the driver basically dumped me at the front door like a soaking wet newspaper.
Willa leads me into a dining area with a large table and chairs that look hand carved. An older man is busy scribbling a mile long to-do list in a moleskin notebook.
“James, this is Oakley.” She grabs his attention, then looks at me. “This is my husband.”
He gives me a warm smile and outstretches his hand to shake mine. “The painter. We’re so happy you’re here. Thank you again for agreeing to do this. Once my wife showed me your portfolio, we knew you were the only one in the world who could do the farm justice. I’m still in shock you were available.”
I blush. “Thank you. I’m very excited to be here.”
That’s an understatement, but I keep that to myself.
“Have a seat. I’m sure you’re tired from flying,” Willa offers, then pulls the oven mitt off her hand. “I just baked some cookies for the guests, would you like a few?”
“That would be incredible,” I admit with a smile. She walks away and quickly returns with a tray of milk and a stacked plate. We each grab one and dig in.
“Your painting supplies arrived early last week, so the boxes are at the cottage waiting for you. We’re looking forward to seeing your vision come to life. Well, when you decide what you’ll paint for us,” Willa says.
When we talked on the phone, they were very clear that I had complete creative control and wanted me to tour the farm to get an idea of its history. That was another reason I accepted the job. Not only are they comping the entire trip, but the piece they’re paying for will also be one of my highest-paid commissions. However, it puts a lot of pressure on me to present something worthy for the occasion.
“Perfect. I’m glad everything arrived okay. I’ve never shipped my supplies across the country before.” I smile, wanting to pop the entire cookie into my mouth, but refrain. Considering this is my first big freelance job, I’m shocked by how smoothly the process has gone so far. I’ve heard a handful of horror stories from friends who were given unrealistic deadlines and underpaid offers as well as worked with unbearable clients. Other than the tight deadline I’ve set for myself, the Bennetts have allowed me to call the shots.
As I take a sip of milk, James speaks up. “We’ve also ensured that you’ll get a proper tour of the farm. You’ll visit different areas over the next few days. We want you to take your time seeing it all and get the full experience of the orchard.”
I let out a relieved breath. Art takes time and shouldn’t be rushed. “Thank you. Really appreciate that. Just from the drive here, I’m already so eager to start painting the trees.”
“We’ve asked our grandson Finn to show you around, and he’ll be your main point of contact. He has expert knowledge of all the different areas of the orchard and is passionate about the farm. You’ll learn a lot from him,” Willa tells me with a smile.
“That sounds perfect,” I explain. “I can’t wait to meet him.”
James grins. “Oh, you already have. He picked you up from the airport.”
My smile drops, and I have to stop the four-letter words from falling out of my mouth. Not excited to be touring the place with a man incapable of holding a conversation.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
CHAPTER TWO
FINN
Once I’m at the cottage, I unload Oakley’s bags while she chats with my grandparents. I wanted to give them privacy and also needed time to clear my head.
When I’m inside, I walk by the six boxes she shipped. They all weigh a ton, just like her suitcases. Not sure why a painter needs this much shit for one project. Seems like overkill to me.
I’m already counting down the days until she leaves so I can go back to focusing on my own shit instead of being her damn babysitter. It’s only been a couple of hours, and her snarky attitude is already making her a major pain in my ass.
After everything is settled, I lock up, then drive the five miles back to the inn. I was gone for thirty minutes, which should have given them plenty of time. However, my grandparents could talk for hours if you let them.
When I walk inside, I find Grandma and Oakley chatting at the dining room table while Grandpa writes in his notebook. Oakley glances over her shoulder, and the smile melts off her face when she sees me.
“Speak of the devil,” Grandpa says.
“Nice to meet you, Finn.” She stresses my name, something I didn’t share with her earlier. Not necessarily on purpose but she never asked.
I grin, but her sarcasm isn’t lost on me. This celebration is important to my family and me. Still, I’m stuck dealing with her because they know I’m as dependable as the old truck I drive.
My younger cousins Silas and Jessa would be more than capable of escorting Little Miss City Girl around, but my grandparents insisted I do it since I know how everything works around here. They want her to get the true orchard experience, but she’s only going to slow me down during a time I’ll be busier than ever getting things ready for the celebration.