They both look up at me and assess me from head to toe, and then share a knowing look, but neither of them says a word. However, when the rest of our sisters sashay their way into the dining room, having just arrived from the apartment they share in town together, they aren’t so subtle in their reaction to my out-of-the-ordinary appearance.

“Holy shit! Rapunzel has let her hair down, put makeup on, and she’s wearing a dress!” Dakota shrieks delightedly from across the room, her high-pitched voice bouncing off the wooden rafters in the high ceiling. “Flynn Rider must be coming after all!”

Juno and Denali each chime in with their two cents, one of them saying Hell must’ve frozen over, and the other claiming a miracle has occurred, and without bothering to look up from the silverware I’m arranging on fancy folded cloth napkins, I hurl a spoon in their direction. I make contact with one of them—I’d guess it’s Juno, the ex-softball player, based on the velocity the same utensil comes flying back at me, nearly missing my nose—but I keep to my task, refusing to let them rile the horses up again.

I’ll be the first to admit dresses aren’t usually my thing. Neither is fixing my rather-long blond hair or applying any makeup other than lip balm, seeing as how I spend most of my time outside of school working with my plants in the greenhouses. I’m usually crawling around, digging in the dirt, and experimenting with organic chemicals…all of which makes none of those things very practical.

In addition, I’m definitely the least frilly, lowest-maintenance of our entire sister clan. This isn’t to say I don’t appreciate fashion or dressing up for a special occasion, because as I stand here with my golden locks cascading silkily down my back and perfectly executed smoky eyes while rocking this side-ruched, black jersey knit dress, heart-and-skull printed tights, and Valentino Rockstud Motorcycle boots that I saved up for nearly six months to buy, it’s evident I do. Very much so.

But that’s just it. If I dressed this way every day, it would take the special out of the occasion, and lose some of its charm.

And my official first date should be both special and charming, despite the fact it’ll start out with us enjoying dinner alongside my entire family and the bunch of strangers staying at the lodge. I only hope they don’t scare him off, causing him to conjure up his own fake illness or another excuse to escape before we get to the actual date part of the evening.

A little before five o’clock, several of the adult guests begin to mosey over from the 4:20 happy hour Doug hosts each day in the welcome bar, each with a drink in hand and a lazy, THC-induced grin spread across their face. The majority of our lodgers during the spring and fall seasons are middle-aged or elderly couples enjoying a quiet getaway, taking advantage of the off-season room rates and the area’s peacefulness before it’s flooded with adventure-seeking tourists. And based on the people filtering into the dining room now, today seems to be no different.

“Good afternoon, Mr. and Mrs. Foster,” I cheerfully greet the first couple to make it over to the tables. “Did you enjoy the horseback riding today?”

The great thing about only having eight cabins at our resort is once I meet a guest, it’s easy to remember their names and the things they share with me during their stay. We embrace the bed and breakfast atmosphere, but the separate cottages give everyone, our family included, plenty of privacy if desired. I don’t work registration personally—my mom takes charge of all of that—but it doesn’t take long after people check-in for us to get to know them.

“It was a little chillier than I expected, but we had a great time.” Mr. Foster pulls the chair out for his wife then sits down next to her. “Thank you for recommending that place. They were top notch.”

“I’m glad to hear it. If you need help with anything else, just let me know.”

Smiling brightly at them one more time before moving to acknowledge the Coleman’s, my eyes snap over to see who’s entering each and every time someone comes through the doorway, impatiently waiting for Beckham to show up. Now that I’m here and it’s time, I just want to get this over with so it can be done and we can be free to go to the movies or wherever he’s planning on taking me.

After exchanging hellos and small talk with three more couples, I introduce myself to some new arrivals—a couple of older gay men, and then Mary and Caleb Elliott, an attractive, thirty-something woman and her son, who I’d guess is around thirteen. It’s as I’m going through my usual welcoming spiel, most of my attention attuned to the kid whose face could light up the darkest of canyons, when the door swings open and he steps inside.

I stop speaking mid-sentence, every thought I have disappearing before it reaches the tip of my tongue as I simply stare at him. The horses have awakened, but they’re no longer running from the nervousness and anxiety in the pit of my stomach. Instead, they’re galloping inside my chest, racing to keep up with my pounding heart, thus warming my body from the inside out.

His shaggy brown hair and scruffy, unshaven face, along with the navy thermal and worn jeans he’s wearing, are imperfectly perfect, and he walks with a confidence that is neither arrogant or haughty, but captivating and irresistible. I’m sure if I dared to glance around the room, others—namely my sisters—would have their hungry eyes fixated on him as well. But I don’t risk tearing my gaze away, because right now, he’s staring directly at me as he strides in my direction.

Somehow, I know he’s going to make this day both special and charming. The only problem is he isn’t my date.

“Hey, stud man. We haven’t even been here an hour and you’ve already got the hot chicks flocking to you. I’m impressed.” Smirking, he ruffles the back of my new friend Caleb’s sandy-colored hair, his twinkling green eyes still locked on mine.

The cute, freckle-faced kid cranes his neck up to look at him with a big, goofy grin. “Well, I learned from the best of the best.”

“That you did, lil’ bro. That you most certainly did,” he repeats lowly, obviously referring to himself. The taunting smirk transforms into a full-blown, I-get-girls-to-drop-their-panties-at-will smile, and I subtly grab ahold of the chair in front of me, steadying myself from whatever craziness is happening inside of me while praying my tights are immune to his allure and stay up on my hips.

Okay, so maybe he’s a wee bit full of himself, but he did call me hot, so I’m willing to forgive a little cockiness.

It’s not until Mary says, “Crew, stop being an arrogant ass and properly introduce yourself to this nice girl. Her family owns the lodge,” that I realize I haven’t spoken a word or stopped staring at him since he walked in. God, I must look like a complete idiot.

Closing my jaw, which had evidently dropped open sometime during my gawking session, I force out the improper thoughts swirling in my head—a rarity for me—and turn on my best hostess face, extending my arm in his direction. “Hi, I’m Hudson Shavell.” Those are the only words I can manage, because when he takes my hand in his, all of the nerve endings in my fingers and my palm fly into hyperdrive, shooting a jolt of energy straight up my arm and throughout the rest of my body.

“Nice to meet ya, Hudson Shavell. I’m Crew Elliott, the arrogant ass for a son,” he jokes, his Southern drawl endearing, while holding onto my hand a few seconds longer than necessary. “I’m glad you got to meet the sweet son first, but don’t let that innocent face fool you; he’s more of a heartbreaker than I could ever dream of being.”