I can’t escape.
I give my glass a swirl, eyeballing what’s left of my wine. “I really am an idiot for not hooking up with tourists. They come, they go, no strings attached.” My hand waves flippantly through the air.
Annabelle nods sagely. “True. Most of them are probably either married, old—or here for bachelor parties. It’s slim pickings even on a good day.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You’d think living in a small town by the water would attract afeweligible men. But no. The only new faces we see are here for a weekend of questionable decisions before heading back to their real lives.”
Don’t get me wrong. Our little town is gorgeous. Glistening water in the summer and snowcapped mountains in the winter? It’s like a postcard, if postcards came with an astronomical nightly price tag.
I probably wouldn’t be living in this town if it weren’t for my parents and the guesthouse above their detached garage where I live for free ... one of the perks of having parents with prime real estate.
Despite the dwindling dating pool and the ever-present tourists, this town is home.
There’s a sense of comfort in its familiarity, in the faces I see daily—even if those faces occasionally pop up on Kissmet with cringeworthy pickup lines.
Guh!
“Who knows?” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Maybe Mr. Right will magically appear in my yoga class tomorrow. Stranger things have happened.”
Spoiler alert: Mr. Right doesnotappear in my yoga class the next morning.
Instead, I’m greeted by a crowd of eight massive guys who look like they’ve been dragged here by their fingernails. These aren’t the bright-eyed, flirty singles I hoped for. And, judging by the glint of wedding rings on several fingers, at least half these hotties are off the market.
And Mr. Wrong? Doesn’t look like he’s showing up either.
Chapter 3
Harris
I am up at dawn despite swearing I would sleep the day away.
Fresh air will do that to a person, I suppose.
Inhaling a clean shot of pine, I stretch, then sit up with a yawn. Twist my body from side to side to get the knots out of my shoulders.
The cabin is quiet, save for the rhythmic creaking of the dock outside as waves lap lazily against the wooden posts. I pull on a sweatshirt and step out onto the porch, bare feet brushing the cool weathered boards. The lake is still, a mirror reflecting the soft hues of early morning.
It’s the kind of serenity meant to relax you, but all I can think about is how much I need caffeine.
Back inside, I stare at the ancient coffee maker sitting on the counter. It looks more like a science experiment than a kitchen appliance, complete with levers, knobs, and a water reservoir. I try pressing buttons at random.
Nothing happens.
I fumble with the filter, spill some coffee grounds inside, and press the buttons again. Still nothing.
The quiet of the cabin is getting on my nerves.
“Fine. Be that way,” I mutter, abandoning the piece-of-shit contraption. I grab my keys from the hook by the door and head outside, the gravel crunching under my boots as I make my way to my truck.
The drive into town isn’t long—fifteen minutes, tops—but it’s a winding road that hugs the lake on one side and the forest on the other. The scenery is postcard perfect, but I’m too focused on my mission to appreciate it.
A decent cup of coffee isn’t a want at this point;it’s a necessity.
I park outside a place called Loon Landing Café and stare up at an aged wooden sign swinging in the breeze.
Zero shops are open, except the café, and I watch as an older man in a flannel shirt steps out of the hardware store and begins sweeping the sidewalk in front of it.
The first thing I notice once I’m inside the café is the air; it smells like roasted beans and cinnamon, maybe? Bakery. Bread. My stomach grumbles as I eyeball the sweets inside the glass case, the young woman behind the counter greeting me with a smile almost as bright as the morning sun.
