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I can’t do another night of her only talking to the guests.

Mom hasn’t chewed me out over what I said to Ellery that night, which means she didn’t tell her. Luca wouldn’t have wasted any time either. She hasn’t let the wedge between us show, reserving her displeasure for me and me alone, and that’s more than I deserve. She didn’t want my apology this morning, but I haven’t given up thinking of ways I can make up for it.

She hands me the right tools and laughs at Mom’s jokes and tells Jack a story about a festival she went to in New York, and to anyone watching, we seem like two people getting along. I only wish that were true.

By the time the cool twilight is overshadowed by the mountain, Mom shoos us off with a tin of cookies and a schedule for tomorrow. I already know she’s put me and Ellery on at the same time, because that’s what she does.

I walk Ellery home, follow her through the gates of Ravenscrest, over the old plank bridge, and down the street to her apartment.

“Mom’s got you on in the afternoon.” I check the printout. “Two o’clock.”

“I know.” She climbs the stairs, cookies tucked under her arm, and doesn’t look back until she reaches the landing and unlocks her door. “Goodnight, Nick.”

Chapter 21

Ellery

At around six a.m. I gave up on sleep and researched bear attacks, and learned that grizzly claws are two to four inches long and leave marks you could put your thumb in. What I saw was thin. Five clean lines, close together. Like fingers.

I tuck my phone under my pillow and pad across the room to check my door is locked. Twenty minutes later, I check it again.

Nick said bear. Marthe said bear deterrent. Everybody came to the same conclusion. A conclusion that doesn’t at all line up with what I saw.

There’s nowhere to file that, so I stare at the ceiling until it’s time to go sell pie at a festival.

Camper vans and SUVs chug down Main Street searching for parking. Even the lot at the grocery store is full. I never would’ve guessed Ravenslight Creek could get this crowded.

It’s great for the local businesses. They could use the tourist bump. But I’ve started thinking of this town as mine, and today I waited twelve minutes to buy a croissant.

When I arrive at Marthe’s booth, I hang back at the start of the row. Luca and Nick are arranging pies on the table, and his eyes crease a little in the corners, almost smiling as they talk. Marthe slips an apron over his head and ties it too tight around his waist, and he lets her. Luca says something, and she bops him on the forehead with a pie box. I’ve got an album’s worth of Ashford family photos, and not one of them looks like this.

I walk up to the booth as if I just arrived. “Put me in, coach.”

“Thanks, honey.” Marthe drags Luca out by the arm. “We need some things from the car. Nick will get you set up.”

Well, that was subtle. I chew my lip as I watch them disappear into the crowd.

Nick gives me an apron, and I slip it over my head. The ties crisscross at the back, and I’m tangled trying to secure it.

“May I?” he asks.

I turn so he can fix the straps. His fingers brush my neck as he gently moves my hair out of the way, and they’re cool enough that I feel it after they’ve gone. His hands travel down to my waist and stay longer than tying an apron requires and I hold very still until he draws the strings together into a firm bow.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.” His voice is lower than it was.

He shows me where the cashbox is, runs through the goods on offer, and we serve a steady stream of customers until the string lights come on, and Marthe and Luca eventually return.

“At this rate, we’ll be out of pie soon.” Marthe studies the dwindling supply. “Tess is baking some more at the cafe. Can you get them?”

“We’ve got it.” Nick pulls off his apron and pushes Luca out of the booth.

“Anyone would think these arms were made for hauling stuff,” Luca grumbles.

With Nick and Luca gone, I’m on my own while Marthe chats with Mr. Diaz across the aisle, who’s selling homemade cider. I finish packaging up a pie for a customer, wishing them a good evening when I turn to find a tall woman with chin-length black hair, eyeing my movements with the precision of a hawk. Wrapped in a black Arc’teryx jacket and slim-fit cargo pants, she looks like she’s about to commit a heist at a Swiss ski resort.

“So, you’re the new arrival everyone’s talking about.” Her tone is anything but friendly.