1
GARRETT
I rereadthe text while I wait in line at Picnic & Treats for my turn at the counter. The last time I’d received a text like this from Maxwell Rodgers, my literary agent, was never.
Maxwell: When I call you in forty minutes, ANSWER THE GODDAMN PHONE!!!
Some of his clients had warned me, years ago, if he ever used all-caps and exclamations in a text, I’d better be worried. And I am. What if my sales dropped? Would my publisher drop me?
Maxwell didn’t even give me a hint as to why he needs to talk to me. No email. No voice mail. Nothing.
I check the clock on my phone. I still have thirty minutes. Plenty of time to get my lunch and drive the short distance to meet my brother before Maxwell calls me. But it just means we have to delay our run.
Loud conversation and laughter from the tables behind me yank my thoughts back to Picnic & Treats. My best friend’s blood and sweat, ambitions and dreams, have been poured into the café. Her grand vision. A vision my stomach always appreciates.
It rumbles at the mouthwatering smells. Smellsthat only come from my kitchen when Zara visits my house and cooks. For fun. For our friends. For me.
Unfortunately for my stomach, I don’t get to enjoy my lunch until after my run.
It’s not even noon, and the café is swarming with local customers. We’re in the final week of April, the end of off-season in Maple Ridge, Oregon. Tourist season, in the small mountainous town, starts soon.
And then Picnic & Treats will have a line out the door.
Zara is behind the counter, chatting to a mother with a baby in a car seat. Zara’s wearing the café’s white T-shirt with the P&T logo on the chest, and purple pants. Her violet scarf holds back a halo of black coils that brushes all the way past her shoulders.
With her stunning hair, copper-brown skin, and sparkling chocolate-brown eyes, my best friend is fucking gorgeous. A fact I’m sure her boyfriend—what’s-his-name—appreciates.
The scrawny little girl who’d waved her fists in the face of the kid who’d bullied me has long since grown up. But she’s still as fierce and loyal as she was in elementary school. A true warrior.
She also might be the inspiration for the love interest in the psychological thriller I’m writing. Not that I would ever admit that to her. Or anyone else.
It’s my turn to step up to the counter.
“Hey.” Zara’s usual smile could light up a room during a power outage. It makes you feel like you belong here, whether you’re a regular or a tourist visiting the mountains for the day. But that smile is nothing compared to the one she gives me now.
This one is several hundred watts brighter.
“The usual? Or are you gonna try something different this time?” The equivalent of a smirk slides into her tone. She already knows the answer. I’m that predictable when it comes to her cooking.
“Nope. The usual.” I can’t get enough of her African curry—kuku paka—and rice.
Zara’s gaze travels over my sneakers, running shorts, and sweatshirt. “You meeting up with Kellan?”
“Yep.” I flash her a one-sided grin. “You wanna join us? We’re running on one of the trails near the Warrior cabins.”
Zara shakes her head, giving me a comical cross-eyed expression. “Do I look certifiable? Running with you and Kellan—or Troy and Lucas—would be the death of me. I’ll pass, thanks.” As I knew she would. Running has never been Zara’s thing.
I fold my arms on the high countertop and lean forward, closing the distance between us. “If you change your mind, Golden Girl, you know where to find me.”
Zara releases a low, throaty laugh. “Trust me, Garrett, it’ll be a rainy day in Hell before I work out with you.”
“How do you know it doesn’t usually rain in hell? Heavy rain sounds hellish to me.”
Zara snorts. “Even in heavy rain, I bet you two would still go running.”
I puff up my chest, smiling. “You don’t get to skip your run while in the Marines just ’cause it’s raining hard.”
“True…but all that rain would extinguish the flames of Hell.”
