ONE
KRISTA
Tuesday
Krista leaned against the bar at the Hot Honey Hideaway, smiling at her friends around the crackling campfire, wishing she could freeze the moment in time. The lake shimmered behind them, and the sky was turning from peach and gold to a deep, bruising purple. The perfect summer night, but it marked the beginning of a goodbye.
Wisps of smoke rose from fires across the way at her grandparents’ nearby campground—Hidden Hills—while pontoon boats cruised the lake on their evening loop. Her friends sipped her trademark hot honey cocktails, laughing into the night.
She glanced down at the pitcher of Hot Honey Margaritas beside her. It was the drink that had made its namesake, the Hot Honey Hideaway, go viral last summer. Now it was all coming to an end. It didn’t matter that she loved this place. She had to sell it, and soon. Tonight, she was going to tell her friends. The decision weighed heavier than the August heat.
Her grandparents had first built the Hideaway as a boathouse, decades ago. It was an extension of theircampground with kayaks, paddleboats, and freshly turned ice cream for locals and tourists. Krista had morphed it into something new and magical with iced lattes and honey-drizzled ice cream by day, cocktails and conversation by night. A little hive of joy inspired by her grandparents’ bees. Every inch of the place was full of memories, and selling it felt like losing a piece of herself.
But it had to be done. Her grandmother’s memory was slipping, and her grandfather couldn’t run Hidden Hills alone. Realistically, it was just too much work to run the Hideaway and the campground. One had to go. And it sure as sugar wasn’t going to be her grandparents’ business.
Krista would do anything for the two people who’d taken her in as a runaway teenager and loved her without condition. They needed her now, and she wouldn’t fail them.
“One last round,” she murmured to her dachshund. “Come on, Frankie.” He blinked up at her with melted caramel eyes, sighed dramatically, and padded toward the firepit where everyone was gathered. Laughter rippled across the lake, soft and warm, mingling with the calm lap of water against the dock and the occasional hum of cicadas in the trees.
It was the sixth gathering of the Cocktail Club this summer. They’d fallen into their usual rhythm of gossip, margaritas, questionable ideas, repeat. She should have joined them ten minutes ago. Instead, she’d stood there, rooted to the spot, wondering how to deliver the heartbreaking selling-her-dream news.
Now a bee-shaped wind chime tinkled above the counter, and she sighed.
“Okay, Krista,” she muttered. “Time to tell them.”
Carrying the pitcher, she stepped out into the amber glow of the firepit. Her friends’ voices wrapped around her like a warm blanket.
“Finally!” Kit spotted her first, raising herglass. “We were about to send a rescue mission. Thought you drowned in tequila.”
“Almost did,” Krista said. “The blender is staging a coup.”
Madison smirked. “Better than the jalapeño incident. My tongue is still recovering.”
Krista poured herself a drink and settled between Kit and Zoe. The lake stretched out like liquid glass while fireflies flickered above the lakeshore reeds. The world was slowly softening into that hazy edge between day and night. Her friends were mid-conversation, but she wasn’t in the mood to join in.
“And then the mayor tripped over the llama sign again!” Kit’s voice cut through the evening. “His ego may never recover.” Kit, who was Krista’s roommate and also an extraordinarily talented local chef, clapped her hands, and leaned back, her glossy dark chin-length hair catching the firelight as she did. She crossed one leg over the other, red Converse balancing on her opposite knee.
“Bet Edith pushed him—just a little,” Cassidy, who owned the chocolate shop, added, snickering.
Krista’s mind drifted, and she snuck a glance at the old, black-and-white photograph she’d been carrying in her pocket. She hadn’t known it existed until it tumbled out of a dusty shoebox in her grandparents’ house that afternoon. It was a piece of family history—a secret she couldn’t stop thinking about.
The woman in the picture was laughing, and the resemblance to Krista was uncanny. Same dark curls, same spark in the eyes. Same don’t-tell-me-what-to-do tilt to her chin. On the back:Isabel, Age 23. Before her Strange Disappearance.
What kind of a caption was that? Her grandmother had been evasive and changed the subject, leaving Krista’s curiosity doing cartwheels. At least it had been a distraction from her decision to sell her beloved Hideaway.
Zoe leaned against her shoulder. “You okay? You’re doing your far-away stare again.”
Krista managed a small smile. “Just tired.”
“To summer!” Cassidy toasted. “And to our Queen Bee.”
“To our Queen Bee,” Kit echoed.
Krista clinked glasses before taking a sip of the sweet, spicy drink. The margarita slid, warm and comforting, down her throat. Tonight was the kind of night she wanted to bottle and keep forever.
Then, a low, deliberateahem.
Krista jumped. Margarita sloshed into her lap. “Oh my gosh!”
