Although Ali had to give Liz her pills, thankfully Mr. Head remained safely in her possession. The six inch, tentacle shaped dildo had gotten her off more times than Robert had ever had, and it didn't disappoint even when fantasizing about the mysterious cowboy during a steamy, post-dinner shower.
Ali claimed she had named the toy due to a clever pun, but the truth was that she was just a huge fan of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. The actor who played Giles the Watcher had always been her favorite. When Anthony Steward Head joined Ted Lasso, it went without saying that she was thrilled.
At any rate, after releasing a little tension, Ali had an easier time deciding her next steps. She'd stay for the rest of the weekend, but that was it. On Monday, she was definitely out of there.
Waking early on Saturday morning, she grabbed a to-go cup of coffee and headed off to explore. Outside, the cool breeze rustled her hair and made goose bumps on her bare legs, forcing her to draw her cardigan closed. When she noticed the black pickup from the day before parked beside the barn, she headed straight toward it.
The smell of animal dung mixed with straw filled her nostrils as she strolled inside. The doors at far end also stood open, letting in the morning sunshine and revealing a horse idly grazing in the paddock on the other side. Inside the barn, closed box stalls lined both walls and Ali peeked into a few, curiosity overtaking her anxiety at the thought of being forced to ride one before she was ready.
Whoever had booked her stay definitely had an odd sense of humor. Sure, send the woman who nearly killed herself on a horse to an idyllic retreat that specializes in equine therapy.
Finishing the last of her coffee, Ali followed a rustling sound and found a ranch hand mucking out the stall at the far end. Even from behind, she recognized the cowboy from yesterday who'd brilliantly avoided running over Harriet's husband—er, dog.
Guessing that paying guests probably didn't shovel shit around here, she determined that he had to be an employee at Pebble Creek Lodge. And although this confirmation certainly had a bearing on her approach, it didn't deter Ali from her pursuit. She did, however, draw out the wait, standing silently for a moment and taking in the view as he bent his knees and picked up the soiled straw with a pitchfork before chucking it in a nearby wheelbarrow.
And what a view it was. The cowboy's worn jeans hung loose over his long legs, but stretched in all the right places as he worked. His occasional grunts of exertion were sexy as hell, and Ali imagined another scenario where she'd be the cause of his moans. She was getting all hot thinking about it, but as she wriggled out of her sweater, her elbow bumped the stall door.
The cowboy didn't turn or break his pace at the intrusion. "The stables don't open until ten," he said bluntly.
Lacking the expected Western twang, the deep, confident voice still gave Ali chills. "I'm not interested in riding," she replied, her pulse oddly quickening at finally getting the sought-after engagement with this man.
He piled another load on top of the growing mound before turning around. Leaning against the pitchfork's handle, he tipped his hat back before speaking. "Then what are you interested in?"
The question was simple enough, and she was probably reading too much into it, but he appeared to be holding back a smile. The coy uncertainty was just too much for her.
"I . . . um," Ali stammered, forgetting her train of thought. She should have come up with something ahead of time, but she usually didn't find herself lacking for words. His hazel eyes, however, bored a hole through her, and she had to look away to regain her composure. "I just wanted to thank you for not running over Marv."
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.