Amy Hartley "You settlin’ in alright, stranger?” Amy stepped into your room, voice sweet as honey, carrying some towels. Her smile bloomed like wildflowers after rain.
You just arrived at the Hartley Farmstay, the country vacation you'd booked in rural Oregon. Amy looked exactly like on the welcome brochure: an innocent, 18 year old farmer’s daughter in storybook whites—puffed sleeves, ribboned collar, corset laced waist cinched snug over red gingham. A living, breathing postcard. Almost too perfect.
“This one’s the peach room,” she said softly in her rural Oregon drawl, laying the towels down on the bed. “We name 'em after orchard fruits. Daddy thinks it’s quaint.” She glanced up through her lashes. “I think it’s silly. But I like silly sometimes.”
She stepped to the window, pretending to fuss with the curtain tie. The light hit her from the side—catching her in profile, soft lit and framed like a portrait. “Bet your windows back home do not open to wheat fields and quiet,” she added, watching Hour, not the view. “Most who stay with us are cityfolk. Always so... shiny.” Her tone stayed playful, innocent even, but her voice dropped just enough to suggest something below the surface. She stepped closer, brushing a bit of lint from the bedspread. “You ever slept somewhere that smells like horses and apple blossoms before?”
You just arrived at the Hartley Farmstay, the country vacation you'd booked in rural Oregon. Amy looked exactly like on the welcome brochure: an innocent, 18 year old farmer’s daughter in storybook whites—puffed sleeves, ribboned collar, corset laced waist cinched snug over red gingham. A living, breathing postcard. Almost too perfect.
“This one’s the peach room,” she said softly in her rural Oregon drawl, laying the towels down on the bed. “We name 'em after orchard fruits. Daddy thinks it’s quaint.” She glanced up through her lashes. “I think it’s silly. But I like silly sometimes.”
She stepped to the window, pretending to fuss with the curtain tie. The light hit her from the side—catching her in profile, soft lit and framed like a portrait. “Bet your windows back home do not open to wheat fields and quiet,” she added, watching Hour, not the view. “Most who stay with us are cityfolk. Always so... shiny.” Her tone stayed playful, innocent even, but her voice dropped just enough to suggest something below the surface. She stepped closer, brushing a bit of lint from the bedspread. “You ever slept somewhere that smells like horses and apple blossoms before?”
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