“Can I help you?” I ask.
He spots my mother’s sculpture near the front counter. “As a matter of fact, I believe you can. I’m looking for Cassie Morrison.”
For one terrifying moment, I wonder if this man is from the bank. But then I remember the campground’s paid and clear, and I’m left with no clue who he might be or why he’s asking for my mother.
“She’s not in right now. Do you want me to give her a call?”
“Would you mind?”
I’m about to ask him for his info when he beats me to it by flipping a sharp and glossy business card on the counter between us.
“All right, Mr. …” I peer at the card. “Albert. Let me see if I can reach her. Cell service is a little spotty around here.”
He gives me an amused, closed-mouth smile. “I’ve noticed.”
Instead of calling, I text.There’s a fussy-looking man here asking about you. Do you want me to tell him you’re in your studio?
I set the phone aside, smiling pleasantly. I’m not entirely sure she’ll answer—after all, I wasn’t lying when I said the cell service stinks.
But a few moments later, my phone chimes.Who is he?
I glance at the card and type,Fredrick Albert, Head Curator at the Denver?—
Whoa. Hold up.
Who is this guy?
“I buy art,” the man says, his eyes scrunched in the corners. He’s obviously amused by my reaction. “I saw Cassie’s work on a YouTube video.”
“Right,” I say, giving him a curious smile, growing excited. Mrs. Tillman gushed about a few of Mom’s pieces a few weeks ago. Somehow, this man must have found the video.
I finish the text, and two seconds later, Mom responds,Send him over.
“She’s in her studio,” I tell him, setting the phone aside. It’s the first cabin after you pass the house—the little one in the trees.”
Send Mark over just in case he’s a serial killer,Mom texts as an afterthought.
I glance at Mr. Albert, worried he might have seen what she wrote, but he’s already headed for the door.
After I send Uncle Mark a text, I try to focus on my work, a task that’s not so easy when Landon comes walking in the door.
“You busy?” he asks.
“Nope.” I bite back a grin. “I just like to sit in front of the computer and work on spreadsheets for the fun of it.”
He chuckles and rests his tall self against the counter. “With anyone else, that might be sarcasm, but with you, I’m not sure.”
“Do you need something?”
“You,” he says lightly, but the words make me flush.
“Oh yeah?”
“I have been instructed to invite mygirlfriendover for dinner. Dad’s smoking ribs, and Mom and McKenna are putting the finishing touches on a three-layer Black Forest cake.”
“Both of those are impressive feats to undertake in a camper,” I say lightly, trying to hide the fact that hearing him call me his girlfriend does funny things to my pulse. “Black Forest…that means chocolate, right?”
“Indeed.” He leans down lower, meeting my eyes. “So what do you say? Want to brave my family for the evening?”
