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Her reply is almost instant:

GOOOO girly. Guard that Pelican Brief or whatever you call it with your life. Take that title. Send pics of any hot mountain men.

I grab my case and stand up with a grin, then step just outside the front door where the light is better and the snow makes a pretty backdrop. I open the camera, smooth my hair, and hit record.

“Passion Pines, I’m here. Grizzly Grind just handed me a key and a station …” I give the lens my best cocky smile, the one I used to wear in Chicago before everything fell apart. “Don’t let the pine trees fool you. I came to cook.”

I stop the video, tag Grizzly Grind, and post it to my hundred thousand followers before I lose my nerve. Frosty air nips at my cheeks as I wait for the post to finish uploading. For the first time since the scandal, I feel like my old self again.

I head back toward the glowing windows and push the door open. The bell jingles behind me. I turn, look up, and my next thought just … stops.

Do I know that guy?

You don’t forget a body or a face like that.

***

Gideon

Derick Voss, the reality show director who won’t leave me alone, ambushed me right outside Mom’s bakery. “I appreciate the offer. I really do,” I say for the fifth time. “But I’m not interested.” He just stands there, blocking the door to the Grizzly Grind, acting like he owns the whole town.

“Well, it’s your decision.” He holds his hands up like he’s giving up, but I have a feeling he’s not even close.

I made a brief appearance on the show in February to help my brother out, but for some reason Derick is convinced I secretly want to be a reality-television star, which is the absolute last thing I want to do.

“Tell ya what. You’re going to regret not taking the offer.” He shrugs. “I mean, your own show? Who turns down that kind of opportunity? You have fans, Gideon, who are tagging us all over social media.”

“Don’t you get it? I’m not the man for that kind of attention. I enjoy being under the radar. I like my privacy.” I laugh at the ridiculousness of having to explain something so obvious. “Why do you think I live up here?”

He chuckles. “I take your point. But I’m staying in town for your Pie Palooza. Hoping to get decent B-roll for our next special.”

I adjust the sack of organic flour my mom ordered from Italy under my arm and nod at the front door of the Grizzly Grind. “Have at it. It’s going to get dicey with old Mrs. Helmsley. No way will she allow herself to lose the pie contest a second year in a row. She’ll probably rig it.”

Derick gives me a wave and heads to the parking lot, which means I’m finally free from his badgering, at least for now.

I tighten my grip on Mom’s flour, enter the warm bakery, and come to a stop.

Looks like we’ve got trouble.

There’s an outsider chatting it up at the counter, showing my mom kitchen gizmos that are apparently hers. I blow out a breath. When is enough, enough?

City folks have been visiting this town like we’re some sort of tourist destination ever since they filmed that damn reality show here and put us on the map. Now even more strangers are pouring into Passion Pines for that damn pie contest.

This particular invader looks to be around my age. Not too short, not too tall, about five-six or five-seven. She’s wearing heels, of course, the most unsuitable shoes for mountain weather, but they do perfectly enhance her great legs and even finer ass. Even under that fitted coat, I can tell her hips would feel insanely good to hold onto.

I shut that thought down hard. A pretty face like that is a camera shot waiting to happen. It's how our lives get turned into their content. I’m not on the welcome committee. I’m the guardian. She’s an intruder, I remind myself. Another outsider sniffing around for a story, a brand deal, a quick renovation to flip on social media. One of those who think Passion Pines is so quaint and charming until they spend a winter here.

Now they’ve moved away from the counter, and it looks like my mother’s giving her the grand tour. That girl in heels has no business standing in the middle of the Grizzly Grind like she owns it, as if she’s decided the whole damn Pie Palooza belongs to her.

Who the hell does she think she is?

Mom catches my eye, spots the flour under my arm, and cuts across the space with her bracelets jangling. But she’s up to something, I know it. She’s fighting a smile and her eyes are sparkling the way they do when she’s about to get into mischief.

“Thank you, honey.” Mom takes the flour as her eyes track mine to the stranger. “That’s Lila Harlow, renting space for the contest.” She lowers her voice. “Apparently, she used to be a big deal in Chicago, but she ran into some trouble. Poor thing’s just trying to start over.”

I wince. Fresh start? That’s what they all say, right before they decide the mountain is a backdrop and the people living on it are disposable. “What if one of the girls wants to compete? There isn’t enough room here.”

Mom waves a flour-dusted hand. “Your sisters-in-law have their hands full. None of them are entering this year, and you know it. Thanks again, sweetie, or should I say, grazie.” She winks, scurrying off to the kitchen with the flour.