She’s in her sixties now, silver hair pulled back in a soft bun, flour dusted across her apron. Same warm eyes. Same knowing expression. Same woman who always seemed to understand more than she let on.
Her nose twitches, scenting the air, and her eyes go wide.
“Cara Donovan.” Not a question. An identification. “Well. Look what the snowstorm dragged in.”
Every head in the bakery turns toward me.
Fantastic.
This is Honeyridge Falls, where The Honey Crumb is basically the town’s living room, and I’ve just walked in trailing ten years of gossip potential and a scent that’s probably screaminganxietydespite my industrial-strength suppressants.
I count six faces I vaguely recognize. All staring. Expressions ranging from surprised to delighted tooh, this is going to be good.
“Hi, Maeve.” My voice comes out steady. Minor miracle. “I was hoping for a coffee?”
“You can get a coffee.” She’s still studying me with those knowing eyes. I’d bet my royalty check she can smell the stress underneath my suppressant mask. “You can also give an explanation for why I’m seeing you for the first time in a decade, but I suspect the coffee’s easier.”
A woman at the counter leans forward with obvious relish. Mrs. Peterson.God. Mrs. Peterson who brought casseroles to every neighborhood event and collected gossip like some people collect stamps.
“Cara! I didn’t know you were coming back to town. Are you visiting? Is everything alright? How long are you staying?”
Three questions in one breath. I’d forgotten how efficient small-town interrogation could be.
“I’m here to help my grandmother for a while.” I attempt a smile that hopefully doesn’t look as manic as it feels. “She needed some company.”
“Eileen?” Mrs. Peterson’s eyebrows climb toward her hairline. “I just saw her at book club Tuesday. Seemed perfectly fine to me. Beat us all at cards and told Frank Morrison his political opinions were, and I quote, ‘older than his prostate problems.’“
That sounds like Grandma.
Which means my mother’s “she needs help” story is looking more like a convenient fiction designed to guilt me into coming back.
I’m going to kill her. Right after I survive this ambush.
Maeve sets a cup under the espresso machine without asking what I want. A minute later, she slides a vanilla latte with cinnamon across the counter.
Just how I used to order it.
“On the house.” Her voice softens. “You look like you need it.”
“Maeve, you don’t have to?—”
“I know.” She shrugs. “Consider it a welcome back. Even if you’re not staying.”
I wrap my hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into my frozen fingers. “Thank you.”
“Mm-hmm.” She leans against the counter, arms folded.
I recognize that posture. She’s about to drop something on me and wants a front-row seat to my reaction.
“You know, people in this town notice things. They talk.”
My shoulders tense. Here it comes.
“They notice when a certain romance author writes books that seemawfullyfamiliar.” She pauses, letting that land. “Pack dynamics that feel very...authentic.”
My stomach drops through the floor.
“I don’t know what you?—”
