Page 3 of Revival in Laurel Valley

“Blackmail.”

“And I’m not even sorry. I’d commit crimes for those cinnamon rolls.” Raven’s grin was pure mischief.

“I’ll give you a call if I’m feeling felonious,” Liza said dryly.

Raven laughed. “Now that we have that settled, grab your boxes and let’s go before the wind decides to take everything to Kansas.”

Liza loaded herself up and they headed across the parking lot toward the back entrance of the shops.

“Shoot, I forgot to prop the back door open,” Liza said. “We’ll have to go around the front.”

“No problem,” Raven said. “I’ve still got my sneakers on. I’ve learned not to put on my heels until I turn the open sign.”

The cobblestone pedestrian walkway stretched before them like something from a European fairy tale. The Bavarian-style buildings lined both sides—peaked roofs with elaborate trim painted in soft pastels, flower boxes already overflowing with early pansies and trailing ivy despite the cold, carved wooden shutters that looked like they’d been crafted by artisans instead of contractors. Every detail was carefully maintained, obsessively preserved, creating the kind of old-world charm that made tourists believe they’d stumbled into something authentic instead of carefully manufactured.

Twin Peaks rose behind the town like white-capped sentinels, so perfectly positioned they might have been placed there by a set designer. The morning sun caught on the snow, making the mountains glow like they held their own light.

“God, I love this town,” Raven said, pausing to adjust her grip on the boxes. “I never get over how beautiful it is. Like living inside a postcard.”

“A suffocating postcard,” Liza muttered.

“Only if you let it be.” Raven started walking again, her bangles chiming with each step. “You know what I learned when I married into the O’Hara family? Small towns can either trap you or embrace you. It’s all about which you decide to let happen.”

They passed The Reading Nook with its restored stained-glass window throwing prisms of colored light across the cobblestones. Sophie O’Hara’s bookstore, rebuilt after the fire that had nearly destroyed it two years ago. The window display showcased spring releases with hand-lettered signs that looked like art instead of advertising.

“That’s easy for you to say,” Liza said. “You married the golden boy. You’re an O’Hara now. This town basically belongs to your family.”

“Wyatt is hardly the golden boy—trust me, the DEA doesn’t give out gold stars.” But Raven’s voice was gentle, understanding. “And yeah, being an O’Hara opens doors. But you know what else opens doors? Making the best éclairs anyone’s ever tasted. Showing up every morning at 4 a.m. to bake bread for people who’ll never know your name. Keeping Aunt Rose’s legacy alive when you could’ve just sold everything and run.”

“Oh, I’m still planning to sell everything and run,” she said. “I’m still going through all the paperwork from the lawyers. It’ll take me at least another month before I can list the bakery and the house.”

They passed Raven Layne Boutique—that bright red door like a beacon, the display windows showcasing mannequins draped in cashmere and silk, designer pieces that screamed sophistication and money. Through the glass, Liza could see the elegant interior—hardwood floors polished to a mirror shine, racks organized by color and season, that mixture of fine fabrics and subtle perfume that made walking in feel like entering a different world.

The shop personified Raven. The bohemian elegance, the carefully curated luxury, the way it managed to feel both exclusive and welcoming at the same time.

“Almost there,” Raven said, adjusting her grip on the boxes as they continued down the cobblestone street.

Just a few more doors to Heavenly Delights with its curved glass windows—original to the building, installed in 1923, holding a hundred years of Laurel Valley history in their wavy panes.

Around her, downtown was waking up. Shop owners were flipping their signs from closed to open, sweeping the cobblestones in front of their doors, arranging outdoor displays. Tourists were already browsing—designer athleisure and expensive cameras, the kind of people who came to mountains to take pictures instead of actually climbing them.

But there were locals too. She recognized Mrs. Armstrong making her way to The Reading Nook, recognized Lane Greyson in his deputy uniform heading toward the sheriff’s office, recognized the easy way people called out greetings to each other like they’d known each other their whole lives.

Maybe Raven was right. Maybe this town could embrace you instead of trap you.

If you let it.

Liza shouldered open the bakery door—it still stuck, would probably always stick, another piece of history she’d inherited along with the recipes and the responsibility—and Raven followed her inside, both of them setting the boxes down with relieved sighs.

“One trip,” Raven announced triumphantly. “See? Teamwork makes the dream work. Or whatever motivational poster my yoga instructor keeps quoting.”

Liza looked at the boxes, then at Raven, and felt something warm settle in her chest. Three weeks ago, she hadn’t known a soul in this town. Now she had someone who’d help haul bakery supplies at nine in the morning.

“Thank you,” she said, meaning it.

Raven waved it off, her bangles chiming. “Please. You’re going to feed me cinnamon rolls. We’re more than even.” She glanced around the bakery—the wrought-iron tables and chairs with their delicate curlicues, the white Priscilla curtains framing those curved windows, the glass showcase already filled with the morning’s work. “It looks exactly like it did when Rose ran it. She’d love that, you know. That you kept it the same.”

“I hope so.” Liza’s throat tightened. “Some days I wonder if she left me this place as some kind of cosmic joke. I’m a dream in the kitchen, but I have no idea how to run a business.”