1
PAISLEY
“You’re in my booth.”
The voice came from somewhere above my left shoulder—deep, unhurried, more amused than annoyed. I didn’t look up. I was in the middle of cross-referencing GPS coordinates with a topographic map I’d printed at the library back home, and I’d just realized the ridgeline trail I’d highlighted in yellow was going to take me through a creek drainage that didn’t show up on the festival’s official map.
“Excuse me?” I said, still not looking up.
“This booth.” A pause. “It’s mine.”
I finally glanced up, and my pen slipped out of my fingers, clattering softly against the table. The man standing at the edge of my booth was tall—not just tall, but broad in a way that made the space around him feel smaller. Dark hair, a little too long, curled at his collar. A jaw that could have been carved from the same rock as the mountains I’d be hiking. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and his forearms were tanned and roped with muscle.
He was looking at my maps. Not at me. At the mess of paper and highlighters and coffee cups spread across every inch of his apparently claimed territory.
“I don’t see your name on it,” I said.
That got his attention. His eyes shifted to mine, and something flickered there—surprise, maybe, or the beginning of a grin he was trying not to let show.
“Evan.”
I blinked. “What?”
“My name. Since you said you don’t see it on the booth.” He tapped the edge of the table with two fingers. “Now you’ve heard it. Does that count?”
Before I could respond, a voice cut in from behind him.
“Evan, leave the girl alone. She’s been coming in here for two days and hasn’t bothered a soul, which is more than I can say for you.”
Lauralie appeared with a coffeepot in one hand, her other hand already shooing him away from my table. She was maybe my age, with a no-nonsense ponytail and an apron that had seen better days. We’d developed an easy rhythm over the past two mornings—she kept my coffee full, and I kept my maps from sliding off the table onto the floor. It was a good system.
“Lauralie, come on,” Evan said. “I’ve been sitting in this booth since before you worked here.”
“And today it’s occupied. Counter’s open. Go.”
She topped off my mug without missing a beat and gave me a conspiratorial look that I returned with a grateful smile.
But Evan didn’t leave. He stood there, hands in his pockets now, his gaze drifting back to the papers spread in front of me. I watched his eyes move across the topographic map, the printed scavenger hunt checklist with my highlighted annotations, the trail guide I’d dog-eared and marked up with colored tabs.
“You’ve got Blackrock Ridge highlighted,” he said.
I stiffened. “So?”
“So that trail washed out about three weeks ago. There was a slide after the last big rain. You’ll make it about a mile and a half in before you hit a dead end where the creek crossing used to be.” He leaned closer, and I caught a scent that was equal parts pine and coffee, with something warmer underneath. His finger landed on the map, tracing the yellow line I’d drawn. “See this elevation change? That’s where it goes. The whole switchback section is gone.”
I stared at where his finger rested on the map. He was right—the elevation change was steep there, and a washout would make that section impassable. I’d planned to tackle that trail in the morning. I would have wasted half a day. More than that, I could have been stranded if I hadn’t been careful.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
“Because I was up there last week clearing deadfall with one of my business partners.” He straightened up and crossed his arms. “I co-own Wildwood Ridge Outfitters. We run the guided wildflower tours for the festival, among other things.”
Of course he did. The one person in this restaurant who could actually help me, and I’d been two seconds from telling him to go find another booth.
Lauralie reappeared, this time with a menu she slid in front of him at the counter. “Evan. Counter.”
“I’m helping her with trail conditions,” he said, not moving.
“You’re hovering over her breakfast maps like a bear who found a picnic basket. Counter.”
