PROLOGUE
Ashlyn
My phone rings in my hand, and I answer with a smile as I lift it to my ear.
“Hey. I thought I was the one who was always late,” I tease with a laugh. “I’m outside. Are you almost here?”
“I’m sorry, Ash,” Ivy says, her voice tinged with frustration. “I’m stuck at an open house. The alarm won’t set, and I can’t leave until it’s sorted.”
“Oh,” I murmur, my smile slipping away.
“I’m trying to get there, I swear. I’m just waiting to hear back from the engineer.”
“So… there’s still a chance?” I ask hopefully.
“I’m doing everything I can, I promise. I feel awful. I know you were only doing this for me.”
She sounds genuinely upset that she’s not here, and I can’t help but feel bad for her.
“I’ll save you a spot. Just let me know how things go.”
“I will. And Ash? I really am sorry.”
“Stop apologizing. It’s not like this is your fault. If you can’t make it, I’ll just fill you in on everything I learn.”
She laughs. “Oh, no! Now Idefinitelyhope I make it. I’d rather not risk food poisoning.”
“Hey!” I protest. “I’m notthatbad!”
She laughs again. “Keep telling yourself that.”
I could argue, but honestly, she’s not wrong.
“I’ve got to go,” she says hurriedly. “I’m getting another call.”
“Okay. I’ll speak to you later.” I end the call, slipping my phone into my purse.
With a steadying breath, I turn and push open the door toStonewood Kitchen, a culinary school in Prescott, a town about thirty minutes from Hope Creek, that offers cooking classes for beginners. Ivy had been wanting to sign up for a session for ages. And while I probablydoneed lessons, cooking has never exactly been my idea of fun.
Still, I caved after she pestered me non-stop. And now? It looks like I’m doing it alone.
“Hi there,” says the smiling woman behind the reception desk. “Can I help you?”
I return the smile. “Yes, I’m booked in for the 7:30 beginners class. Ashlyn Brookes. My friend’s running late. Actually, she might not make it at all.”
She glances at the screen in front of her and nods. “Ivy James, right?”
I nod. “That’s her.”
“No problem. If she turns up, I’ll send her in. The class is just through that door.” She gestures to the left.
“Thanks,” I say, heading in the direction she pointed.
As I step through the door, I pause to look around. The space is bright and well arranged, with six double workstations set in a semi-circle facing a larger central station, likely where theinstructor teaches. Each station has two tabletop hobs, a shared sink, and a selection of high-end utensils neatly arranged on the counter.
A few people are already here, most of them paired up, and judging by the easy chatter and shared glances, I’m guessing this place is a popular date night spot. Not that I’d know. It's been so long since my last date, I think I’ve forgotten what to do.
I spot two empty stations and head toward one, tucking my purse beneath the counter. There’s a white apron folded on top, and I slip it over my head.
