A jaded executive needs to save a horse and ride a cowboy instead.
* * * * *
When a careless mistake forces Manhattan financier and champion show jumper Alejandra Barros into a posh Colorado rehab facility as a term of keeping her jet-set...
Perplexed, it took him a few seconds to get her meaning. "Oh, the dog. I'm not sure how that warrants thanks. I did what anyone else would have done."
He was totally right and Ali's face flushed. She could feel her cheeks warming by the second. She was also making a complete fool of herself, and for what? A little flirting? This wasn't like her!
"Right," she said. "Well, good driving."
Turning before seeing his response, she high-tailed it out of the barn and didn't stop until she nearly collided with Wylda on the back terrace.
"Morning, my lovely," the young woman greeted her from behind fluorescent green sunglasses. "Missed ya at breakfast, but no worries. Are you up for a day of sun and fun?"
Glancing back at the barn, Ali sighed. She'd already blown one social interaction today, so what did she have to lose?
"Why not?" She let Wylda hook an arm in hers and lead her to the water's edge.
On the pier, colorful lounge chairs were beckoning would-be sun worshippers. A few were already taken, and they settled into the nearest ones. Throwing her cardigan aside and kicking off her sneakers, Ali adjusted the straps of her tank top before leaning back in her chair. Wylda stripped to a barely-there bikini, getting a catcall in return from a pair of men who'd been prepping a sailboat for launch. In response, she promptly flipped them off before plopping stomach-down on her lounger.
As the weather warmed up and hours passed, more and more people ventured outside. Most were Ali's age—in their twenties or thirties—but overall, every age group seemed to be represented. The guests at Pebble Creek were also fairly diverse in their nationalities—she heard several foreign languages she didn't recognize—and there were people of all body types. But one thing appeared to connect them: every person she saw, whether young or old, tall or short, curvy or svelte, had the same carefree attitude that would have made them feel right at home in the Hamptons during a holiday weekend.
Were these people really here to learn to manage their troubles? She watched them sip bottled water while dangling their feet off the pier, laugh heartily during games of disc golf on the lawn, or scream with delight as they jumped into the lake from giant boulders. They looked and sounded more like well-to-do vacationers than patients dealing with depression, addiction, eating disorders, anxiety, or any other ailments, which had supposedly brought them here. How many of them really needed help and how many others were just using the place to hide out from life's realities in a comfortable—almost pampered—environment?
"What did—what's her name—Sheridan? What did she mean by not being able to trust anything you say?" Ali turned to Wylda, remembering the conversation from a day earlier.
"Oh, don't listen to her. She was exaggeratin'. Does that for attention, she does." Wylda flipped onto her back and adjusted her bikini top. "Like what she said about Pete wantin' to do everyone here? Nah. Ain't true. The boy definitely has a type, if ya know what I mean," she said with a wink. "And half the people here most certainly don't fit into it."
Ali obviously wasn't going to get the reason for Wylda's stay at Pebble Creek out of her so easily, so she tried another approach. "What's Sheridan's story, then?"
"Who knows?" Wylda asked, pushing her sunglasses over her forehead and squinting at the bright light. "I've heard she's a Bollywood wash-up, but honestly, I don't think she's anything other than a first-rate bitch."
Ali laughed. She'd already come to the same conclusion. "Then why is she here?"
"I dunno." Wylda shrugged. "To snag husband number three, maybe?"
"Really?" Ali asked. "Here?"
"Absolutely! Mix a bit of vulnerability with a fairy-tale setting and being told to focus on what makes you happy, and bam." Wylda winked again before pulling her shades back down.
Bam, huh? Ali sighed and looked toward the barn again, hoping to catch a glimpse of the cowboy who was quickly turning into her obsession. When he actually appeared with a ladder slung over his shoulder, she nearly fell off her lounger.
"Except for him," Wylda added.
Ali looked back at her. "What?"
"Him." She nodded in the cowboy's direction. "He's like . . . what do you call that stuff they coat frying pans with? Makes them nonstick or some such."
"Teflon?" Ali guessed.
"That's the one. Hank's like human Teflon. No one I've seen has even remotely caught his attention," she said with a wishful sigh. "And believe me, many have tried."
Hank. Now she had a name to put with the face. And what a face it was . . ..
Turning again, Ali stared as he placed the ladder against the gazebo and began climbing. "Maybe he's married," she speculated, feeling a twinge of jealousy at the thought of another lucky woman running her fingers through his hair as they got it on in the hayloft.
"No ring." Wylda uncapped a bottle of water and took a sip. "And he's never mentioned a missus. I don't know what his deal is, but most likely we're just not good enough in his eyes."
Hank removed a Frisbee stuck on the roof of the gazebo and expertly flung it back to one of the players on the lawn. Before climbing back down, his gaze landed straight at Ali. In response, she pivoted forward to the sight of a shirtless man wearing a Cubs baseball cap.
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
