EMILY
WINTER AIR BITES at my cheeks. Sunlight glints off the snow, dazzling white across the open fields that roll toward the distant mountains.
Stoneridge's territory seems to stretch forever.
Amid the endless white blanket of snow are fences and barns and paddocks cut into the land. It looks like an oil painting of the wintry Wild West. A place conjured from myth.
And, like something out of the Wild West, apparently this tour will be on horseback.
When Garrett said "private tour," I didn't think he would mean the two of us riding horses side by side.
If I'd known earlier than when he texted me about it this morning, I'd have been even more excited than I had been all week long, if such a thing is even possible.
I'm aware that spending days in a state of breathless anticipation because you can't wait to see your ex's dad is somewhere on the scale from "not normal" to "deeply problematic," but here we are.
