Page 1

Chapter

One

Lainey

I watch the freckled eight-year-old lurking a few steps behind his parents, who are browsing the souvenir shelf in the Pearl Peaks tourist information center. The father is showing the mother a set of fridge magnets, but the kid is eyeing the multitude of chocolate-coated trail snacks we offer for the people who forgot to bring their own before their hikes into the mountains surrounding the small town.

Just as the boy reaches for the snacks, the mother turns and catches him at it.

“No, Dennis, you’ve had enough sugar for today.”

My heart goes out to him—you can never have too much sugar when heading out into the wilderness—but there’s nothing I can do to help. I’m only here to organize the tours and work the cash register, not provide mopey minors with moral support for being born in an outdoorsy family.

“Have a nice day,” I call after them. “Thanks for stopping by.”

Then I slump back in my chair and pull out my tablet. It’s been a slow day, a slow week, really—not that I’m surprised. We’re nearing the end of September, so the flow of tourists pouring into the mountains has slowed to a trickle. Soon, the hiking trails will close for the winter, and the center will no longer need two full-time employees, which means my hours will get cut in half.

I’ll still be working weekends and holidays, but until the start of the skiing season in December, I’ll have to be very mindful of my spending to make sure I’m staying on top of things. I might even have to stop my semi-regular visits to the best bakery in town, which will break my heart.

My parents’ worried faces float up in my memory, their expressions of concern so similar, it’s almost funny.

“You can always move back in with us,” my mom had said after I graduated from college with no job offers lined up. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

But it wasn’t shame that drove me to leave Denver and take an interview in Pearl Peaks, a small town nestled in a basin between the tall peaks of the Sawatch Range. When I told my sister, who escaped to L.A. for college and studied to be a hotshot attorney, that Denver was too big and too loud for me, she laughed at me and called me naïve. But all through my high school and college years, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the world was passing me by, going too fast, all while blaring with noise.

I saw the ad for the tourist information center job and knew it was exactly what I needed. The long hours and the grind mentality I encountered during my internship in downtown Denver were enough to tell me I’m not made for the climbing-the-social-ladder kind of life. If I stayed with my parents or took a position at some faceless chain hotel in the city, I’d lose myself.

So I packed an overnight bag, jumped in my cranky old car, and drove three and a half hours east, until I left behind the urban sprawl of the state capital and the views became breathtaking.

I interviewed with Morris, the werewolf owner of the center, slept at a cute bed and breakfast place I couldn’t really afford, and crammed through the night to learn everything I could about Pearl Peaks, its diverse society of supernaturals, and its surroundings.

The more I studied, the more I realized what a gem this place is. When Morris called to offer me the job, I barely held in a squeak. He welcomed me on board and made me promise I wouldn’t escape back to the city once this area was buried under two feet of snow and the temperatures dropped well below freezing.

It’s been a dream working here. Not easy—working in hospitality never is—but I’ve loved every moment of it so far. If I could afford it, I’d put down a deposit for a little house or cabin in the area and really settle here. That’s on my five-year plan anyway.

First, I’ll need to find a second part-time job to tide me over until the holiday rush.

Outside, the sun breaks through the clouds for the first time today, illuminating the parking lot and the forest beyond, highlighting the gorgeous aspen trees that have just started turning golden.

I’ve spent the last six months in awe of the nature around here. I didn’t get many days off because I picked up every extra shift I could. Having very few local friends means my social life is somewhat lacking, so I haven’t explored much beyond the town limits, but I’ve been wanting to.

Maybe having more free time won’t be an entirely bad thing. I’ve been booking hiking tours for months, parroting what I learned from the brochures, but wouldn’t it be even better if I could tell them information from personal experience?

The office phone rings, interrupting my train of thought.

“Pearl Peaks Tourist Information Center, Lainey speaking, how can I help you?” I rattle off as I have so many times this summer.

“Yeah, hi, this is Sandra Collins? My husband and I have a tour booked for tomorrow to go see a waterfall?” She makes the two statements sound like questions.

I open the spreadsheet and scroll to the right date. “Yep, I have you right here. You’re starting at seven to⁠—”

“Yeah, that’s the thing, we need to cancel.” The woman’s voice, annoyed and curt, interrupts me. “My husband got food poisoning, so we can’t make it.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” I move the spreadsheet slider to the right to check the status of their booking. “Right, I can see you’ve paid in full, so I’ll go ahead and issue you a refund, minus the deposit. That comes out as⁠—”

“What?” she barks.

I draw my shoulders back even though Mrs. Collins can’t see me. “Ma’am, you’re canceling less than twenty-four hours before the scheduled start of your tour. The terms and conditions on the booking site clearly state that the ten percent deposit is non-refundable if you cancel later than two days before the start of your trip. If you’d like, I can reschedule you for another⁠—”