Chapter One
JUNIPER
The opening drums and guitars of Metallica'sMaster of Puppetsthunder through my apartment, and I crank it louder. That’s the big perk of living above the only other unit in this converted old house; when my downstairs neighbor is gone on one of his mysterious motorcycle trips, I can blast my music at full volume at any time. Even pre-dawn.
And he’s been gone for five days.
I pull another test batch of cinnamon rolls from the oven, steam curling up as I slice one open. The Fall Festival baking competition is two days away, and my signature cinnamon rolls still aren’t right; the crumb too dense, the swirl uneven, the flavor safe. Predictable, even.
Outside, October is in full swing. Fresh snow dusts the mountains, aspens blaze gold, and the air smells like wood smoke and pine trees. Our building sits on the edge of Snowflake Falls, twenty minutes from The Coffee Heart, where I pick up shifts and sell my pastries.
My phone buzzes.
Mom: Hope you’re not still wasting time with that baking thing. The Marriott corporate position is still available. Call me.
I put the phone down and crank up the volume. Time to start batch four.
“What do you think, Stanley?” I ask my sourdough starter. I read somewhere that it can help make your baking taste better if you talk to it. “Cardamom in the filling? Or is that too risky for small-town judges?”
Stanley bubbles noncommittally as the rumble of a motorcycle cuts through the music. My pulse jumps.
He’s back.
After three months, I recognize my neighbor’s motorcycle’s deep growl. Not that we’ve ever spoken. I don’t even know his name, only that he rides with the Ridge Renegades MC and is gone more often than he’s home.
I walk over to the window. He swings off his bike in one fluid motion, leather cut stretching across hugely broad shoulders. The porch light catches his thick, dark hair as he pulls off his helmet.
He looks up.
I yelp, duck back, knocking measuring cups to the floor in a metallic clatter that even heavy metal can’t cover.
“Shit.”
By the time I peek again, his apartment door closes with a thud that vibrates through my floorboards.
This is ridiculous. I’m twenty-seven, not a teenager with a crush. So what if he has arms that could bench press me? None of it matters. Guys like him don’t go for girls like me. Too wholesome. Too vanilla. Too…
The smoke alarm shrieks.
“Crap!” Black smoke pours from my oven. My test batch is charcoal, and two of the rolls are on fire. I yank the pan barehanded and then drop it with a crash. Pain shoots through my palm. Eyes watering, I flap a towel at the alarm.
Three hard knocks. From my floor.
I freeze. He must’ve come up the exterior stairs.
“Hey? You alive in there?”
That voice. Rough gravel and warm whiskey. My belly heats up at the same time as my heart thumps faster in my chest.
“I’m fine!” I squeak, “Totally fine! Everything’s under control!”
“There’s smoke coming from under your door.”
“It’s just a minor baking incident.” I jab the alarm off.
“You gonna open up, or should I call the fire department?”
The thought of Snowflake Falls FD seeing me in a flour-covered Ramones tee and cherry-print pajama shorts is the deciding factor. I crack the door open.
