Rеgulus wasn't the type to find the joys of life in the British countryside. He was a model; his idea of fun was parties and dinners.

Yet, on a strange impulse, he decided to wind down at a farm. It was more like a silent retreat for him. After all, fame does take a toll on you.

After a month of living on your parents' farm, Rеgulus caught himself thinking he didn't want to leave. Not really, anyway. Part of it was because cows and sheep didn't care for his money or social status. Partly because you didn't care about it either. And you were far more interesting than any person he has met in his life so far.

At first, he was surprised by you. You didn't really care for fashion or money. You asked him about food in Paris, sights in Milan, and how it feels to walk around New York. Not that those weren't valid questions, but people usually asked him about where to get good drugs in Paris, what's the best club in Milan, and how to get into an exclusive restaurant in New York. You were a nice change of pace from his whirlwind of a life.

"So you're saying she can see what's behind her head?" Rеgulus asked, perplexed by the fact that cows have 330-degree vision fields. He was petting one of your cows, Jenny, as you milked her.