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Chapter one

Harlow

The pen in my hand is warm from signing books for the last several hours, and the woman across the table is smiling like I just handed her a prize. I smile back. It’s the one I practice in the mirror—half amused, half I’ve got a secret.

“You’re not worried at all?” she asks, clutching the paperback to her chest. “With everything that’s been happening?”

“Worried?” I cap the pen and lean on my elbows, letting the river breeze hit my neck. Maple leaves scrape across the market tables behind us. Someone’s frying cider doughnuts two stalls down, and the smell of sugar keeps cutting through the cold. “I write about people who do worse things before breakfast. A couple of notes don’t move the needle.”

She laughs in relief and moves on. I keep the smile in place until she’s three steps away. Then I let my shoulders drop.

The notes are annoying. That’s the word I keep using with my publicist and Marin from Equinox, since my publisher had her contact me. Annoying, not scary. Someone’s been sending me information from my most recently finished book. Angles and takes that are mine alone, and no one else should have access to yet.

Kelli, my publicist, with her signature tight bun and tighter smile, appears at my elbow, phone already in hand. “He’s here.”

My pulse races for a second, thinking Kelli means the stalker, but she’s way too calm. “Who?”

“The bodyguard the publisher arranged, I’m assuming. He’s by the bridge. Super tall and dressed in flannel. He’s giving off real mountain man vibes.” She tilts her head. “He just said he was from Equinox and here for Harlow. I thought you told them and the publisher that you don’t want a shadow.”

“I don’t.” I stand, gather the last of the bookmarks and pens, and shove them into my tote, which basically carries my life. “I want a quiet cabin, some good wine, and to meet my next deadline. I didn’t agree to a babysitter. When I talked to Marin, she said she’d talk to the guys, not arrange my life.”

“I don’t think you were talking about the same things.” Kelli’s mouth twitches.

I cut through the market instead of around it. The covered bridge is at the far end, half-hidden by the food trucks and the kids with leaf crowns. The air smells like woodsmoke and apples. My boots scuff the boards as I step onto the bridge, and the sound is loud enough to make the man leaning against the railing turn his head.

He doesn’t straighten. He watches me walk the rest of the way.

His flannel is open over a dark thermal, sleeves shoved to his forearms. A thin, pale scar runs along the left side of his jaw. His dark hair is just a little too long for the style. His eyes inventory the surroundings, then land on me and stay there. Nothing about this man screams bodyguard.

“Harlow Reed?” he asks, even though I’m sure he knows the answer.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

One corner of his mouth lifts into something almost like a smile. “Caleb Wolfe. Marin’s very distant cousin. She asked me to drive you up the mountain and make sure the cabin’s good. That’s it.”

“Really?” I stopped a few feet from him. I don’t believe that’s all he’s supposed to do. The publisher would never have contacted a protective agency just to drive me to the cabin. I might make them money, but not enough to worry about getting me from point A to point B. “I can drive myself.”

“Roads are narrow after the turnoff. Truck’s better.” He nods at the black pickup idling at the end of the bridge.

I pick up the lantern—the paper crackles. “I’m not being shadowed. If you’re planning to stand in the corner of every room and glare at the windows, you can tell Marin I said no.”

He takes the lantern out of my hands before I finish the sentence. Doesn’t ask. Just lifts it, checks the weight like he’s confirming it’s empty, and sets it on the rail again. His fingers brush mine as he does. They are warm and calloused, sending a shiver through my body. He doesn’t apologize for the contact.

“Then stay where I can see you,” he says quietly, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

A kid runs past with a caramel apple and nearly clips my tote. Caleb shifts half a step, not quite between us, just enough for the kid to bounce off his arm instead. The kid apologizes. Caleb nods once. When he looks back at me, the almost-smile is gone.

“Car’s this way,” he says.

I follow because the alternative is standing on the bridge arguing while half the market pretends not to listen. The truck is older than it looks from a distance, clean but has seen some things.

He opens the passenger door, and I climb in. The seat’s high enough that my boots don’t quite reach the floor. The cab smells like cedar and coffee and something sharper underneath.

He gets in, starts the engine, and pulls away from the market without another word. The road climbs almost immediately. Maples crowd both sides, leaves already halfway to the ground. Every switchback shows another slice of the river below, then hides it again.

“You always this chatty?” I ask after the third turn.

“I talk when there’s something to talk about.”