Chapter One
How many people have plunged to their deaths while taking selfies?
The thought ran through Cherry Davis’s mind just as she glanced over her shoulder at the drop-off behind her and decided maybe using the tripod was the better way to go. With a sigh, she pulled out the telescoping tripod and set up her phone on it. She posed a couple different ways and snapped some shots, then went through them until she settled on the best one.
She edited and smoothed out the flaws and then posted it on all her socials with the caption:Walking on this lovely day in the park with my sweetie, who insisted on taking this horrible shot!She added a wide-eyed emoji, gave it a proofread, then posted it, tagging the park and adding a bunch of hashtags for maximum views. Seriously. It was all about the hashtags. Nobody needed to know that there was no actual sweetie with her. At least for now.
Her stomach rumbled loudly as she put her tripod back into her backpack, telling her it was way past time for breakfast, so she headed to her favorite spot to eat, have some coffee, and do work, and forty-five minutes later, after having changed into her work clothes, she was sitting at her usual table by the window.
Nowthoseare some nice legs.
Cherry watched—subtly, she hoped—as the waitress walked away after dropping off her yogurt parfait. Was she new? Cherry was in Sunny Side Up at least three mornings a week and had never noticed this woman before. And shedefinitelywould’ve noticed this woman before. She watched her go, then refocused her attention on her breakfast.
The parfait was pretty. Layers of white yogurt separated by deepindigo blueberries, happy, bright raspberries, topped with walnuts and a sparkling drizzle of honey. Sliding the glass dessert-type dish closer to the window allowed it to catch the mid-April sunlight, and she took a couple photos. Picking the best one, she again used her editing app to quickly make it look even better. Then she posted it to Instagram and did the hashtag thing. She had gained seventeen new followers overnight, and when she clicked over to TikTok, she had twenty-three new ones. Excellent. Her viewership was growing every day, and that’s what she needed, to be able to say good-bye to insurance forever.
There was an old-fashioned bell over the door, and it jingled happily every time somebody came or left. Some might find it annoying, and to be honest, Cherry was surprised she didn’t, but she loved Sunny Side Up and everything about it. While most young business professionals were standing in line at Starbucks, frantically scoping out the tables and couches to see where they might have a shot at sitting, she had a cute little corner table all to herself, and she could see Black Cherry Lake if she craned her neck just right. Instead of the bustling of a coffee shop, she was in a more laid-back environment. Not that there wasn’t bustling. There was. Of course there was. It was nine in the morning on a Wednesday, for God’s sake. It was busy. Just not Starbucks-level busy.
The café was old, had been a staple along Black Cherry Lake for decades—long before Jefferson Square came along as the new hot spot in Northwood, and long before some prime sites around the lake became offices and shops and restaurants—and now it felt a little…outdated. Cherry had heard talk about the owners either selling or trying to modernize a bit, but for now, it was just fine with her. She preferred the quieter setting, the way it was situated at the end of the lake—so it still got foot traffic but was a bit off the regular beaten path.
She sipped her coffee. God, was there anything better in the morning? Hot, strong, and sweet, just the way she liked it. She’d never let that on to her followers, though. No way. They wanted her drinking trendy stuff. Lattes and macchiatos. Fraps and whips. So she’d do a post a little later at—you guessed it—Starbucks. Right now, though, she had to do her temp work.
Which wasn’t really actual temp work, but that’s what she called it in her head because working for the insurance agency was only temporary to her. That was the plan. She had no desire to be a claimsadjuster her entire life. Hell, no. Cherry on Top, her brand, her social media handle, was going to be her primary income eventually, she was sure of it. Just wait and see.
Her phone pinged, and as if she’d read her mind, it was her boss, Amanda Crowley. Or Cruella, as Cherry preferred to call her. In her head of course. She had a streak of silver right in the center of her dark hair. Which would look super cool if she wasn’t such a bitch. A quick glance at the text confirmed what Cherry already knew—she was being checked up on.
Peterson claim?
Cruella didn’t believe in greetings or small talk. Right to the business at hand. Always. There were many times that Cherry would shine a spotlight on that. Text back something like,Good morning to you too.But not today. She had no patience for her boss today.
In progress.She sent it.
“More coffee?” The voice surprised her, and she looked up into sparkling blue eyes. They were large and framed by very dark lashes. The waitress again, and apparently, her face was just as sexy as her legs. For just a split second, Cherry thought about kissing her. No warning. Just reaching for her face, pulling her down, and kissing her senseless. She swallowed, because what the hell, brain?
“Please.” She held out her cup and the waitress filled it up. “Thanks so much. It’s a gorgeous day, isn’t it?”
The waitress smiled, and the smile was just as beautiful as the rest of her. Straight teeth. Full lips. Smooth cheekbones. Light, wavy hair. “It really is. I love spring. It’s like you get to start over again.” There was a moment of held eye contact. Deliciously held eye contact, if you asked Cherry. And then the waitress asked, “Can I get you anything else?”
Your number? A date with you? You could kiss me…
She said none of those things because of course she didn’t. She simply shook her head with a soft smile and watched for a second time as the beautiful waitress with the sexy legs walked away from her.
The sound of another text arriving pulled her out of fantasyland and into the present. Cruella again.
ETA?
“I will slay this claim if you’d give me five freaking minutes,” she muttered, returning her attention to her laptop screen.Soon, she textedback, knowing the vagueness would tick Cruella off and not caring. With a last wistful glance at the waitress, she forced herself to focus on her job.
* * *
Ellis hated waitressing. She hadn’t been hired as a waitress at Sunny Side Up—she’d been hired to manage Sunny Side Up. And most of the time, that’s what she did. She was much better with spreadsheets and invoices than she was with actual people sitting at tables and wanting stuff. But two of her waitresses called out sick that morning, and her backups didn’t respond in time, so she had no choice but to shimmy into a uniform, tie an apron around her waist, and jump into the fray.
That redhead, though? Yeah, she made it bearable, becauseday-um. And she didnotsay that lightly. The color of her hair was like a mixture of everything and anything with vibrant shades of red-orange. Sunsets and autumn leaves and fire. She wasn’t what her dad would’ve called a carrottop. Her hair was more auburn. Deeper than traditional red. It looked soft and rich, and Ellis had a moment standing there next to her table where she envisioned herself leaning forward to smell it, wondering if she’d get whiffs of strawberries or coconut or something else entirely. She had to clench her teeth to keep herself standing upright. The last time she’d been that physically affected by a woman was…yeah, never.
Not that she had the time to spend thinking about pretty girls. Waitressing was grueling. She knew that, she did, in her brain somewhere. But knowing it and experiencing it were twowaydifferent things. Her shift had begun at six, and her feet were already killing her. How people made a career out of being a server was beyond her, and she found herself with new respect.
“Order up.” Cal’s voice was like a shotgun blast from the kitchen as he slid a plate onto the little holding area under the heat lamps and smacked the small bell with his metal spatula. Sunny Side Up was nothing if not stuck in time, though Ellis would be hard pressed to namewhichtime. The fifties? Seventies? Eighties, maybe? Whatever year it was, it was not this one. But Cal had been the short-order cook for longer than Ellis had been alive. He was a sweetheart of a man, no matter howhard he tried to be gruff beneath his dark mustache—sprinkled with gray and with the long sides down to his chin—and Sunny Side Up was always packed, so they were doing something right. Nobody made french toast like Cal did. Ellis could testify. She had it for breakfast at least three times a week.
“Got it,” said Kitty, one of those women who’d been waitressing her entire life. Watching her fascinated Ellis. Despite being, by Ellis’s estimate, well into her sixties, the woman could carry the meals of an entire table of four in one trip, plates up and down both arms, and never seem the slightest bit worried about spilling a thing. Ellis, on the other hand, preferred to make several trips if it meant not dropping a Western omelet in somebody’s lap. She’d dropped things twice that morning—a mug of coffee and a small plate of toast—but both times, she’d been behind the counter, thank God, and between her and Kitty, they’d cleaned it up quick, and even laughed about it.
