CHAPTER ONE
Josie
It’s beenyears since I was last here.
I haven’t seenhomeand Silver Peak for ages.
But I’ve barely stepped through the doors of my family’s inn before my phone buzzes with a text from Maya Patel.
>> Get your ass to Stella’s Market. It’s karaoke night there! No excuses xx
I barely have time to even drop my suitcase by the door before she’s calling me, her voice full of the kind of bossy affection only a best friend can get away with.
“Don’t even think about hiding behind jet lag, Josie Dawson,” she says, like she can hear the protest forming on my lips. “You’ve been gone two years, and I’ve been waiting to sing off-key ABBA with you since the day you left for culinary school.”
“All right, all right.” I chuckle and roll my eyes. “I guess I can sleep tomorrow, right?”
“Good, because I’m outside. You remember my jeep, right?”
Knowing I don’t have long, I throw on a sweater and give my sister, Dee, a hasty wave. “Tell Mom I’ll be back later!”
Before I know it, we’re weaving through the colorful chaos of Stella’s Market, the whole place alive with live music, twinkling lights, and the sweet, familiar scent of kettle corn and pine.
Stalls sell everything from hand-poured candles to crocheted beanies shaped like strawberries. Food trucks line the main stretch with smoke curling up from grills and cider kettles steaming in the chilly spring air.
“Okay, this hasdefinitelygotten cuter since I left,” I murmur, dodging a corgi in a tiny flannel jacket.
Maya laughs beside me. “Silver Peak has to overcompensate for its complete lack of nightlife. And we take that job very seriously.”
A familiar voice cuts through the crowd. “Is that Josie Dawson I see, or a ghost of failed karaoke nights past?”
I turn to see Mrs. Carmichael waving from behind a booth stacked high with soaps shaped like woodland creatures. She’s wrapped in a purple shawl and wearing her signature glittery reading glasses.
“Hey, Mrs. C!” I call back. “Still making squirrel-shaped soap, I see.”
She winks. “Only because the raccoon ones were too risqué for the PTA.”
I laugh and blow her a kiss before moving on.
“Josie!” a gravelly voice calls. Old Man Delaney waves his cane in the air like a signal flare. “You’re back!” he says, walking over. “Heard you were some hot shot city chef now. Tell me this, do you know how to make a decent pot roast, or are you one of the foam-on-a-plate types?”
I grin. “Give me a Dutch oven and a six-hour timer and I’ll change your life.”
He snorts. “Good. Maybe you can teach the café down the block what seasoning is.”
Maya loops her arm through mine. “Come on, food snob, we have drinks to sample and songs to ruin.”
We sample warm apple tarts, sip spiced alcoholic drinks, and stop at three more stalls where people call out “Welcome back!”and “You better not leave us again, Josie!” before Maya finally leads me to the pop-up beer garden near the back of the square.
A crooked sign above it reads:KARAOKE NIGHT – BE BRAVE, BE BAD, BE LOUD.
It doesn’t seem like long at all before we’re wedged onto a bench, a half-sipped cider in my hand, and my song queued up like no time has passed.
“Welcome home, baby chef,” Maya says, grinning as she slides a paper shot cup toward me. “To new beginnings, terrible song choices, and the fact that you are officially,finally, back.”
“To bad decisions,” I add, clinking my cup against hers. “And worse harmonies.”
We throw back the shot, wince in unison, and howl as the next singer gets up to absolutely butcher a Bon Jovi classic.
