Gravel crunches under my boots. A sign nearby readsWELCOME TO COYOTE GLEN: WHERE COMMUNITY RUNS DEEP.
Cute. Condescending. Terrifying.
“This is temporary,” I mutter to myself. “A stepping stone. A reset. Something adult and responsible people do.”
The universe doesn’t answer. Probably for the best.
I never planned to end up in a small town,anysmall town, let alone one this tiny, where everyone probably knows how you take your coffee and what you bought at the grocery store last Tuesday.
But after everything… my options were limited. My name was stained in every kitchen within a hundred miles, and the few places willing to talk to me treated me like a scandal waiting to happen. The Sunridge Ranch job, as bizarre as it sounded, was the only one that didn’t come with thinly veiled judgment.
A private chef position. On a ranch. With an actual family.
Not exactly Michelin star material.
But it’s work. And right now, work is oxygen.
And at least I’m not completely alone here. Wild Reverie’s house sits somewhere among these trees, and even if the band is on tour, they insisted I use their place until I start at the ranch. Their group text, full of encouragement and badly misspelled jokes, is the only thing that kept me from turning around halfway here.
Sloane:You’ll love Coyote Glen.
Roman: The Hollow does killer wings.
Creed: You won’t get murdered.
Ezra:We believe in you.
And I need people who believe in me. Especially now.
I used to work for the guys. They know my cooking, and apparently, they think this will be right for me. At least for now.
I drag in a breath that tastes of pine needles and a faintly sweet tang.
Okay. I can do this. Take a few days. Get my bearings. Try not to cry in public.
The walk from the bus stop into town is short. Cozy houses, a few shops with hand-painted signs, mismatched lampposts that look like they’ve been here since before the moon landing. Coyote Glen is… charming. Against my will, I feel my chest loosen.
Wild Reverie’s house is at the outskirts of town. And it’sgorgeous.Veryrockstar hiding in a mountain town.
The key is exactly where Sloane said it would be: tucked under a ceramic frog on the porch.
Inside, it smells faintly of cedar, coffee, and the lingering ghosts of musicians who live on adrenaline. Guitars line one wall, and blankets are draped haphazardly over the couch. A note sits on the counter in Roman’s messy handwriting:
Eat whatever. Sleep wherever. Don’t overthink it.
You’re safe here.
—R
Safe and, more importantly, rent-free. If Roman and the guys hadn’t insisted I use the house while they were on tour, I’d be back in the city sharing a couch with someone’s cat and three roommates.
I exhale.
A small, shaky, grateful sound.
I drop my duffel and suitcase, turn in a slow circle, and let the quiet wrap around me. No paparazzi. No accusations. No Marcus.
Just pine trees and silence.
