Treyton’s ridge.
I knew it was his because Evelyn from the bookstore had told me twice, and because Treyton had told me once, and because if I'd somehow missed both of those, the dog who didn't belong to me had spent fifteen minutes yesterday lying on my bed like he was checking the mattress for a friend.
I liked the dog. So far, I liked the dog more than I liked the man, which was a healthy and wise response from a woman on a deadline.
I'd been sketching since five. I had the one of the glacier lily from yesterday on the kitchen table, plus three new thumbnails: a paintbrush, a columbine, and a tiny alpine forget-me-not I'd found by the porch step. The forget-me-not was the one I kept coming back to. It was so small I might have missed it. The kind of flower that didn't want to be a flower out loud.
I told her I was going to call her Piper. She didn't object.
By eight, my stomach started growling, so I drove into town.
The Switchback Café sat in the center of Hollow Peak, and my mouth started to water before I made it three steps inside. Cinnamon. Butter. Something yeasty that meant the cinnamon rolls were homemade, not the kind that came out of a freezer.
“Sit anywhere,” called a voice from behind the counter. “I'll be over.”
I claimed a two-top by the window and counted six other people in the café: three men at the counter who looked like they'd been there since the lights came on, a couple at a table by the door sharing a plate of pancakes, and a woman in a thick jacket reading the local paper. I loved this place already.
The woman behind the counter came over with a coffee pot and an apron streaked with flour. She was somewhere on the friendly side of sixty with her hair pulled back in a silver braid. She poured without asking.
“You're the artist in town for the summer.”
“That’s right. I’m an artist-in-residence.” I offered a smile that wasn’t reciprocated.
“And you’re staying up at Berg's place.”
“In one of the cabins.”
“Well, I’m Mae and this is my café. The rolls are the rolls. The Magic Latte is the Magic Latte. Order one of each and you'll be a regular by Friday.”
“What's in the Magic Latte?”
“I can’t tell you, it's magic.” One brow arched. “Order it or don't, sweetheart. I've got bread in the oven.”
“I’ll take one of each.”
“That’ll be right out.”
She was gone before I could ask anything else. The three men at the counter were not, technically, watching me, but I'd grown up in a town small enough to be able to tell the difference betweennot watchingandnot wanting to be caught watching.And they were being pretty obvious aboutnot watching me.
The Magic Latte came first. It was the color of caramel, and it smelled like vanilla and something else I couldn't name. Cardamom? Maybe honey. I took a sip and made a sound out loud. The three men at the counter nodded in unison.
“Told you it was magic,” Mae called.
“You did.”
The cinnamon roll arrived a minute later. It filled an entire plate, and the icing was still warm. I wolfed down half of it, and then, because I was a professional and a working artist, I pulled out my sketchbook and started drawing the cinnamon roll.
Mae came back a few minutes later with the coffee pot. “You're drawing my food.”
“It's a beautiful roll.”
“It's just a roll.” She refilled my mug. “Evelyn called over from the bookstore and told me to be nice to you.”
My pencil paused on the page. “You've been very nice.”
“No, I haven't. I've been efficient. There's a difference.” She tilted her head toward the door. “How was the welcome wagon?”
“The welcome wagon?”
