My phone buzzes for the hundredth time this morning. I pull it out while arranging the staff picks display. It’s Jess.
Stop spiraling. You’re going to be fine.
Easy for you to say. You’re in Portland.
Want me to come down there? I can be on a plane in 3 hours.
No. I’m fine. Just nervous.
Has anyone else said anything since book club?
No. But the BookTok videos are getting worse. Someone posted a whole analysis of the town layout yesterday. They’ve narrowed it down to “somewhere in Arizona.”
Arizona is huge. Breathe.
I set my phone down and finish arranging the books. Romance front and center, of course. Some cozy mysteries. A few local interest books about Southwest history.
No copies ofWildfire Summer. I still haven’t brought myself to stock my own book.
Maybe I should. Maybe it would look less suspicious if I did. Someone who doesn’t want to be found wouldn’t display their book at their own stand.
“Morning, Sadie!”
I look up to find Lin Mendoza setting up her produce booth across the aisle. She waves, and I wave back, forcing brightnessinto my smile. Next to her, Isabel Herrera is arranging hooks and fireplace tools at the forge stall. Mateo must be working on a commission today. She catches my eye and grins, holding up a new bottle opener shaped like a cactus. I smile back with a wave.
The market opens at nine. I’m straightening my display like it’s a set of book club chairs when I notice Judith Ashford, head of the local historical society and member of half the committees in Sierra Rose, browsing Maria’s salsa stand. The world quiets a little as she glides through it wearing her typical crisp white blazer despite November’s warmth and a smile that never, ever, reaches her eyes. I’m not even sure it reaches her upper lip.
Judith is the kind of woman who knows everyone’s business and isn’t afraid to share her opinions about it.
She’s talking with someone, gesturing with practiced authority. Then she glances my way.
She scares me, honestly.
My stomach tightens.
“Sadie.” She nods, examining my book display. “Romance, as always.”
“It’s what sells,” I say, keeping my voice light.
“Mmm.” Her finger trails along the spines. “I’m glad you haven’t stocked that book everyone’s talking about.Wildfire Summer, is it?”
My heart stops. “Oh?”
That was too squeaky. She’s going to know.
“Pure smut, from what I hear.” She picks up a different romance, examining the cover with distaste. “And it degrades Southwest towns, using them as backdrops for that kind of content. Some people have no shame.”
She sets the book down and moves on, leaving me frozen behind my table.
By nine-fifteen, Judith is out of sight, and I’m busy with customers. A tourist couple looking for books about Arizonahiking trails. A regular who comes every week to see what new romances I’ve brought. A teenager asking if I have anything “gay and fantasy.”
I’m ringing up a sale when I see her.
Carol Brennan.
She’s browsing the salsa booth, but her eyes keep drifting toward my table. There’s something in her expression—that same look she had at book club. Curious. Thoughtful. Deducing.
She catches me watching and smiles. Then she heads my way.
