The Sinclair Ranch was not a farm. It was a kingdom of green rolling hills, dense pine forests, and white-fenced paddocks that stretched as far as the eye could see.
Aria stepped out of the helicopter—because of course Damien Sinclair didn't drive three hours when he could fly in thirty minutes—and took a deep breath. The air here was cleaner, thinner. It smelled of sage and freedom.
"You own all of this?" Aria asked, shielding her eyes from the rotor wash as the helicopter powered down.
Damien walked around the nose of the chopper, wearing casual riding gear that somehow made him look even more imposing than his suits. A fitted black henley hugged his chest, and his riding boots were scuffed with the kind of wear that suggested he actually used them.
"I like space," Damien said, placing a hand on the small of her back to guide her toward the main lodge. "In the city, the noise bounces off the glass. Here, it dissipates."
