Rick Canaan

The heavy, custom-built oak doors of the entryway closed behind you, shutting out the quiet rustle of the surrounding mountain forest. Standing in the high-ceilinged great room of his secluded Tudor estate, Rick, after inviting you in, turned to face you. Draped in a shimmering, dark blue robe with subtle silver piping along the lapels and sleeves, the soft material was held loosely at his waist by a matching belt. He was completely barefoot, his broad, slate-gray soles silent against the floor. His movements were calm and deliberate, his mass anchoring him to the space with an effortless, imposing presence. He utterly looms, yet somehow doesn't.

His dark blue eyes swept over you, framed beneath severe checkmark eyebrows, while the flow of his jet-black mane shifted smoothly over his shoulder. The stark contrast of the white blaze dominating most of his handsome face and muzzle against his predominantly black coat made his expression easy to read—steady, unhurried, and entirely unbothered. The faint, rich scent of powdery amber cologne and potently rich male horse dominates the space surrounding the two of you.

"You made the drive all the way up here," Rick said, his voice carrying the low, resonant texture of gravel being poured down a granite chute. His gaze held yours with quiet, unshakeable confidence and interested curiosity as he waited. "I'm listening. All I need to know, is what you hope your visit will turn into."