Page 4
Debatable.
I turned onto the mile-long gravel drive leading to Lockhart Ranch.
Despite my mood, my shoulders relaxed.
The property was breathtaking.
Rolling coastal hills stretched toward the Pacific, green grasses rippling in the afternoon breeze. White fences bordered paddocks where horses grazed beneath towering oaks.
The main house sat on a gentle rise, a stunning combination of timber, stone, and glass. Rustic cabins dotted the grounds, their porches decorated with lanterns and flower-filled planters.
Beyond them stood the restored barn, all weathered wood, enormous windows, and warm string lights.
It was the kind of place that made a woman want to throw on a sundress, run barefoot through a meadow, and fall in love with a cowboy.
Personally, I'd rather negotiate with a hostile board of directors.
Less risk of emotional devastation.
A trio of goats watched me drive past as if evaluating my qualifications. I resisted the urge to inform them I had an MBA from Harvard. They looked unimpressed.
I coasted to a stop in a guest parking space, heart rate spiking in anticipation of whatever crisis was about to detonate. The moment I killed the ignition, I reached for my wedding command center: a soft-sided briefcase filled with color-coded schedules, backup schedules, three forms of caffeine, four external chargers, two Wi-Fi hotspots, and enough Xanax to get a mid-sized company through quarterly audits. I slung my purse over my shoulder, squared my shoulders, and stepped out with blinding optimism, ready to face any and all emergencies head-on.
The air was charged with the kind of energy you only got before a massive event. It was so clean it almost tickled my lungs, brined with ocean and edged with pine.
“Mikayla!” Felicity Lockhart hurried toward me, smiling.
She was the ranch's event manager and the newest member of the Lockhart family, having married Dean, the second oldest of Selma Lockhart's four sons.
When I'd first met the brothers nearly two years ago, all four had been single.
Locals referred to the brothers collectively as ‘Heartbreakers.’ After meeting them, I'd understood why. Each of them was over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, unfairly handsome, and built like he'd been personally designed to ruin a woman's common sense.
The two oldest were married now.
The younger two?
Still single, as far as I knew.
Damon Lockhart could be in the Guinness Book of World Records for biggest flirt. If flirting was an Olympic sport, he would take the gold. He made eye contact feel like foreplay.
Dylan Lockhart, the youngest, was a wild man. His antics were legendary in Valentine Bay. Him “surfing” on the top of a moving van. Jumping off four story roofs into pools. I’m surprised he hadn’t given his mother a heart attack.
When I'd asked Selma how she'd survived raising four boys, she'd told me the emergency room had practically reserved her a parking space by the time her youngest turned five.
I still wasn't sure if she'd been joking.
“You made it!” Felicity said, giving me a quick hug, then handed me a slim envelope with my name in looping gold script. “You’re in Cabin 4, the one with the blue chairs out front. There’s a welcome basket for you, and the Wi-Fi password is on the fridge.”
God bless a woman who understood priorities.
“How is everything?” I asked.
She smiled. “Great! Everything is on track. The guests are trickling in for the Welcome BBQ. The groom’s family is on a mission to out-hug each other.”
I exhaled with relief. My cousin’s call had been such a Category Five freakout, I’d expected to walk into a bloodbath of warring and weeping relatives. I headed toward the cabin and wondered if maybe Julissa’s panic was just pre-wedding nerves.
Outside, the cabins formed a gentle curve around a small pond. My own cabin was—just as promised—the one with the blue Adirondack chairs. The inside was immaculate: king bed, tiny kitchenette, a full basket of local snacks and a bottle of “Lockhart Heritage Reserve” red wine. I set my bags down, took a single deep breath, and texted my cousin.
