The first activity flashed in her mind, and she nearly choked on the lump of anxiety lodged in her throat. Hastily, she downed half her glass of iced tea in one gulp.
There was no way she’d survive the list.
Orspending time with Colt.
* * *
On the ride back to Frank’s, Colt couldn’t get the flicker of panic in Penny’s eyes out of his mind. She’d looked genuinely terrified by his proposed activities.
At the wedding, she’d mentioned having a long list of phobias, but he’d assumed she’d been joking. Or at the very least, exaggerating.
But now… he wasn’t so sure.
What kind of person didn’t enjoy a little fun and excitement? Try as he might, he couldn’t figure her out. One moment, she exuded this captivating energy. The next, she seemed to recoil into a tight, convoluted knot of fear.
And to his surprise, he wanted to help untangle it.
Warm wind whipped past him as he zipped around another bend in the winding mountain road. He loved the freedom of his motorcycle—the sensation of the air curving around his body, inviting him to push the limits even further.
He knew he sounded cliché, but living on the edge made him feel alive. Plus, it meant honoring his father’s dying wish—words he’d never shared with anyone. Not even Luke.
At the memory of his father, his chest constricted, making the snug fit of his padded motorcycle jacket close to unbearable.
Skidding to a stop in the gravel driveway, Colt yanked off his helmet, gasping for air as though he’d been suffocating.
Spotting Beverly’s Volvo in the covered parking stall, he decided to slip around the side of the house and use the back entrance so he wouldn’t disturb them.
Arriving at his room, Colt carefully turned the door handle, slowly nudging it open to avoid the betraying squeak of the hinges. After quietly clicking the latch shut, he shrugged out of his jacket and draped it across an ironing board that doubled as a table. Since Frank didn’t have proper guest accommodations, Cassie had fixed up what appeared to be a storage space, situating a twin mattress in between stacks of cardboard boxes filled with copies of Frank’s first book,The Mariposa Method—waiting to be signed, he assumed—and even more boxes bursting with fan mail rerouted by his publisher.
Every single envelope remained unopened. Apparently, Frank didn’t write for accolades. Not that Colt was surprised. After all, the man had used a pseudonym so he could maintain his reclusive lifestyle. Until Cassie came knocking on his door last Christmas and turned Frank’s life upside down.
Colt smiled to himself at the musing. His sister-in-law sure was a force of nature. Since meeting her, even ever-dependable Luke had changed professions, giving up their father’s law practice. A revelation Colt still found unsettling.
Kicking off his boots, he flopped onto the bed, landing on something sharp and solid.
Groaning, he plucked a hardback edition of Frank’s book from its uncomfortable position lodged in his side.
Noticing the Post-it note stuck to the glossy cover, he ripped it off with one quick yank before squinting at the cursive script.
Finish this by Monday morning. Then the real work begins.
Crumpling the note, Colt closed his eyes with a heavy sigh.
Great…he’d almost forgotten about this part of the arrangement.
Normally, he wasn’t a fan of manual labor. He preferred to pay his meager bills with more engaging jobs like exotic car salesman and skydiving instructor.
But he also knew the importance of having a purpose in life—a passion—particularly for someone in Frank’s position.
Besides, how hard could it be?
Chapter 8
Grunting, Colt shoved the heavy book off his chest, struggling to sit upright in bed. He’d fallen asleep in the worst possible position and now had a huge kink in his neck to show for it. But once he’d started readingThe Mariposa Method, he couldn’t put it down. He’d been gripped by the opening paragraph, which recounted Frank’s first visit to a coffee plantation in Colombia. The vivid depiction of his confrontation with a gun runner for the drug cartel bent on controlling local farmers by brute force had Colt pinned to the page.
The remainder of the book chronicled Frank’s riveting journey from coffee enthusiast to world-renowned roaster. Developing his unique coffee roasting process had been a tumultuous labor of love fraught with heart-wrenching highs and lows. And Colt developed a newfound respect for the cantankerous inventor. But more than that, the passionate, almost tender language Frank used to describe the process stirred something in Colt… an intense curiosity to witness the artistry he so colorfully described. If he wasn’t looking forward to the day’s adventure, he’d wish it was already Monday.
Another unexpected outcome of finishing Frank’s book was how badly he craved a rich, flavorful cup of coffee. In fact, he doubted he’d ever view the caffeinated beverage in quite the same way again. Through Frank’s powerful prose, coffee roasting had sparked a similar allure as one of Colt’s favorite hobbies—cooking. He admired the way a skilled chef could transform the simplest ingredient from mere sustenance into an unforgettable experience. With Frank’s groundbreaking method, even a lowly robusta bean could tantalize the taste buds of the most refined palate. Ifthatwasn’t culinary magic, Colt didn’t know what was.
