Page 1

Chapter one

I toss the travel-sized deodorant in my suitcase on a wing and a prayer and scan what I’ve packed one more time. What else am I missing?

Outside our bay window, November flurries drift past the streetlights, and I catch myself counting them the way you do when you’re trying not to think.

Maya looks up from her laptop at the kitchen table with her stylus paused over whatever project she’s working on now. Her dark hair is in a messy bun, and she’s still in her bathrobe. “You’re seriously wearing those to the airport?” She smirks, pointing at my feet.

Did I make a mistake and put my four-inchers on, with all that frantic packing? I twist, lift my right foot, and check. “They’re my regular three-inch heels, I’ll be fine.”

“Lila, you’re going to Montana,” she explains, as if this were breaking news. “Deep into the backwoods. No-one-can-hear-you-scream territory. In November. It’s probably snowing there right now.”

“Nice visual, but in case you haven’t noticed, we live in Chicago, where it also snows. If I can make it around this city wearing these babies, I can do it there. Besides, these are my lucky heels.” I buckle the strap on my left shoe.

She makes her sleepy face, eyes half closed, like she can’t believe what I’m saying. “They’re your I-still-have-standards heels,” she corrects, popping a grape into her mouth. “There’s a difference. One gets you laid. The other gets you a twisted ankle in baggage claim.”

I smooth the front of my fitted black coat and ignore her. My suitcase is stuffed with outfits for the trip in case I’m lucky enough to get positive media attention. If I’m going to show up in Passion Pines as the woman who once ran the dessert program at Éclat, I’m doing it with my chin up and my legs looking like they still belong in a magazine.

But my heavy-duty, crush-proof Pelican 1510 is what actually matters. I do a quick mental run-through, for the fiftieth time this morning. Digital infrared surface thermometer for the custard. Fine-mesh stainless steel tamis to strain the pumpkin puree. And an apothecary bottle filled with the high-proof Applejack and grated mace infusion that will make my Tahitian vanilla beans sing. It’s a basic assassin’s kit for baking.

Maya closes her laptop with a soft click. “Talk to me. For real. You’re about to fly to the middle of nowhere a week before Thanksgiving because of a pie contest?”

“It isn’t just any contest, and you know that.” I drop onto the arm of the couch. “If I win, I might get my life back, and save my reputation. I need this, Maya. That one viral photo of my melted-down disaster obliterated my career. I was fired and blacklisted before the caterers had even packed up. My cookbook deal evaporated overnight.” I take a deep breath and shut down the memory of that glossy ruined pastry cream. “It’s actually pretty pathetic. This contest is the only place that would even look at my application.”

Maya crosses the room and sits beside me, bumping her shoulder against mine. “You’re allowed to be scared.”

“How could I not be? There’s so much riding on this.” I force a tight smile. “On the bright side, I’ll finally get to see Passion Pines in person.”

“Famous last words.” She reaches over and zips the front pocket of my suitcase, where I’ve stashed the printed contest rules and Clara’s email confirmation.

I don’t tell her the rest of what’s bothering me. After I liquidated what was left of my 401(k) and paid the last bill from the lawyer who couldn’t get me out of the non-compete, I have exactly seventeen hundred dollars in my checking account. The train, the motel, and the entry fee have already taken a nice little chunk out of that.

Maya gets up and ties her robe. “Promise you’ll text me when you land. And if the mountain man of your dreams appears, I want photos. Detailed photos.”

“I’m going for a pie title, not a man.”

“Uh-huh. I can see you now, strutting down Main Street looking gorgeous. You’ll probably be the only person in Passion Pines who isn’t wearing work boots. Do they even have sidewalks there?”

“Of course they do. Don’t you remember? They shot the last season of Blind Date for Life in Passion Pines. I’m staying right in the center of that cute little town.”

“Well, that’s a relief. I thought maybe you rented a place farther out from civilization.”

“I’m desperate, but I’d rather not end up as bear food. A walkable main street with pretty store fronts is more my speed, thank you very much.” I stand and check the rideshare app. I hate leaving the only place that still feels like mine. This apartment, with its too-small kitchen and the stain on the ceiling from a late-night caramel experiment gone wrong, feels like the last piece of the old Lila that hasn’t been taken away.

Maya walks me to the door and pulls me into a tight hug that smells like the peppermint lotion she always uses in winter.

“Go take the title. Then come home and restart your career.” She shrugs. “Or don’t come home. Just be happy, okay?”

“I don’t know what I’d do without you.” My throat tightens. “I’ll call you from the train station.”

“You’d better.”

The flight is a four-hour blur of recycled air. From the Whitefish Amtrak Station, I catch the Empire Builder, and fire off a quick text to Maya and my family, leaving a digital trail of breadcrumbs to prove I didn’t change my mind and turn around.

I manage to doze for maybe an hour before the arrival announcement wakes me. I rub my eyes and peer out at a cloudy gray sky. I’m actually here. My two suitcases are stowed below, but the hard case with my secret baking weapons is still at my feet.

A long, low, old-fashioned horn whistles as we slowly roll into town. No chance to back out now.

I stand, slinging my purse over my shoulder, and grab my case. The second I step onto the platform, the mountain air hits me like a clean, sharp slap, cold enough to sting my cheeks and wake every cell in my body.