The dough resisted under Rebecca’s palms, but she welcomed the fight. Flour coated her knuckles as she kneaded with more force than necessary, working out the knot of anxiety that had been tightening in her chest since she’d first heard about Luke Brennan and his plans for Davis Crest.

“Maybe you’re right,” she admitted, punching the dough one more time for good measure. “Homicide might be a little drastic. But don’t you think it could be justified in this case? I’m just saying we should be proactive. You know, get out ahead of this thing?” 

Flour dusted her cheeks and her apron, and even her dark hair, piled in a messy bun on top of her head, held a light sprinkling, like newly fallen snow on rich soil. She stopped, pushing a strand of hair out of her face with the back of her hand, before turning to Katherine, her best friend. “Well? Don’t you agree?”

Katherine shrugged as she leaned against the counter, holding a steaming mug of coffee to her chest and observing Rebecca through her round-rimmed glasses. 

“I don’t understand why you’re so mad about this,” she said. “We haven’t even met the guy yet, and maybe he’s not as awful as you’re expecting? You should at least give him a chance to explain himself before you begin plotting his demise. And you’re over-kneading that dough,” she said, nodding towards the lumpy mess in front of Rebecca. “If you pummel it like that, the bread will be as hard as a rock. Are you making Harvest Spiced loaves, or a murder weapon?” 

Rebecca huffed, then chuckled as she looked down at the hapless focus of her rage. Katherine was right, as always. She’d ruined it.

“I could beat him to death with a baguette and then eat the evidence?” she suggested with a grin before scraping the dough into the trash can below. Katherine raised an eyebrow in admonishment, but her smile gave her away. 

“That would never work,” she said. “You’d leave some incriminating piece of evidence behind, the cops would arrest you and throw you in the slammer, and then who would run the coffee shop and make me my daily cappuccinos? You can’t do that to me, or to the fine people of Davis Crest.”

Rebecca chortled and agreed that it probably wasn’t worth the risk, although she questioned whether any sane person still called prison ‘the slammer.’ The absurdity helped. Humor always did—it was how she kept the worry at bay. Because underneath the jokes, she could already feel the weight of what was coming. The changes. The possibility that this little town—her refuge—might be swallowed up by something less personal.

The coffee shop oven beeped, and Rebecca slipped on her oven gloves before opening the door and pulling out the last batch of cookies. The scent of cinnamon filled the air, and the two friends smiled at each other in a moment of shared contentment. These mornings were Rebecca’s anchor—the quiet ritual of creation, Katherine’s steady presence, the coffee shop warm and safe before the world came knocking.

Rebecca slid the cookies onto the cooling rack before pulling off her apron and hanging it on the hook. She brushed herself down and put her hands on her hips, pulling her shoulders back in a stretch as she surveyed her morning’s work. There were sugar cookies decorated with Jack-o’-lantern faces piped in orange and black icing, cupcakes topped with rakish grinning ghosts, and chocolate brownies adorned with spiders and bats. 

“They look good, don’t they?” she asked, glancing towards Katherine with a hopeful expression.

“They’re spooktacular,” Katherine said, rolling up the sleeves of her warm knit sweater and reaching for a cookie. “I love your Halloween treats; they’re always so deliciously creepy and creative.”

Rebecca gently smacked Katherine’s hand away from the cooling rack and offered her a bat cookie from an earlier batch. “I’m going to set these up in the display cabinet before I open up. Do you want another coffee?”

“No, I’m good, thanks,” Katherine replied. “I’ll help you set up, then I have to get back to the bookshop. I have a book delivery that’s been sitting in the storeroom for a week now, and I’ve run out of excuses not to unpack it.”

Happy with their front counter display, Katherine bid farewell to Rebecca and walked towards the back door of the coffee shop, grabbing a spider brownie on the way. “Don’t forget to take one of these flyers for the bookshop window. We need to get the word out,” Rebecca shouted after her. 

“Will do,” Katherine replied on her way out of the back door. “Oh, and you still have flour all over you, by the way.”

Rebecca brushed herself down before pouring herself another cup of black coffee and adding a splash of cream. She thought about Katherine’s plea to give this Luke Brennan guy a chance. Her jaw tightened. Give him a chance? Easy for Katherine to say. She hadn’t spent the last seven years rebuilding a life in this town, piece by careful piece. She hadn’t fought to make Davis Crest feel like home again after...

She stopped the thought before it could take root, pushing it down where she’d learned to keep all the other painful memories.

Walking to the entrance of the coffee shop, she plumped the pillows that lined the benches of the large bay windows on either side of the front door, getting them ready to accommodate the regulars as they sat and chatted, sipping their cappuccinos and mochas while looking out onto Main Street. Rebecca would sit here each morning before opening, watching the town stretch, yawn, and come to life. She waved to Cheryl as she cycled past on her bicycle, out delivering the morning mail, and then raised a hand in greeting to Harold Thompson as he strolled past the windows, his aged hound-dog Boris padding along at his heels. This was Davis Crest, California, population just over four thousand, and, for better or worse, Rebecca’s hometown. It had taken her years to accept her return, but now, watching the morning light paint the mountains in gold, she realized she had stopped fighting it. Davis Crest had become more than just a refuge. It was where she belonged. A place worth fighting for, worth protecting from people who saw the mountains and thought only of profit margins.

She sighed, finished her coffee, and gazed out the window. The forested slopes shimmered in the morning light, a tapestry of red and ochre as fall wrapped the town in color. Every year, when the summer tourists left, the mountains turned from lush green to gold and russet, and the town exhaled into its quieter rhythm. Cool mornings, maple leaves drifting through the crisp air—this season always warmed her soul like a mug of hot apple cider.

The soft jingling of the front doorbell pulled her from her reverie, and she looked up to see Megan stepping over the threshold, bundled up in a warm jacket, her ruddy, freckled face full of smiles as always.

“Good morning, m’lady.” Rebecca greeted her with a flourishing bow, a habit from their high school years when Rebecca had called Megan ‘our lost princess.’

“Good morning, brave knight,” Megan replied, curtsying. “There’s a chill in the air this morning,” she said, shaking off her jacket. “Fall is finally here.” 

“Let’s get you a hot drink to warm you up. You want your usual?”

“Of course,” Megan said, “and I’ll take one of those delicious-looking pumpkin cookies too, please.”

“One pumpkin spice latte coming up,” Rebecca said, turning to the coffee machine. “Are you sure you want a pumpkin cookie too? That’s a lot of pumpkin, even for you?” 

Megan put her hand to her chest in feigned offense. “Madam, one can never have too much pumpkin spice. ‘Tis the season, after all.”

Rebecca laughed. Megan’s energy was contagious; this girl could start a party in an empty room. 

Megan took a seat on a bar stool by the counter as Rebecca poured her latte, swirling an intricate leaf design on the top and finishing it with a dusting of chocolate powder. The two friends chatted and laughed together with an intimacy born from a lifetime of shared experiences going right back to first grade. 

“So, old lady, are you ready to turn thirty?” Megan asked with a grin.

“Don’t remind me,” Rebecca replied, shaking her head and looking to the heavens.

“Can’t we at least celebrate it?” Megan said with a pained expression. “You can’t seriously let such a big milestone go by without doing something fun. We could go into Los Angeles or spend the weekend in Santa Monica?”

“I’d rather just go to O’Brian’s for a drink and then go home.”

“And be in bed by ten o’clock? What kind of thirtieth birthday celebration is that?” Megan said, throwing her hands up in consternation.

“It sounds great to me,” Rebecca said, stacking some coffee mugs. “I have a seven-year-old, remember? I can’t be hungover the next day, plus I’m not a party girl like you.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’m just glad I can give my class back to their parents on a Friday afternoon. Did you get any nice birthday gifts?” Megan asked, sipping her latte.

“My mom told me she has something for me. She said my grandfather left an envelope for me in his will and asked that she give it to me for my thirtieth birthday. She’s going to bring it over today before she goes to the doctor’s office for her extra shift.”

“Ooh, I wonder what it is?” Megan said before launching into an amusing story about her wild but adorable class of third graders. Then she stopped and sat bolt upright as she reached to put a hand on Rebecca’s arm. 

“Oh, I completely forgot to tell you. You know that real estate developer you’ve been complaining about? It seems he’s coming into town today. He’s here to speak to Chuck and the town council members about the permitting for the new ski resort. Weren’t you going to raise a stink about that at the town hall meeting on Friday?” 

“Damn,” Rebecca said, slamming her coffee mug down on the counter. “This is happening faster than I thought, and I haven’t even handed out all the flyers yet. If I give you one, will you put it up on the bulletin board at school?” 

“Sure,” Megan said with a shrug. “But would it be so bad to have a new ski resort on the mountain? It’s a shame to leave the old Mission Ridge Resort to rust away like that, and a new ski resort would bring more customers into town. You could get them hooked on your cappuccinos and sugar cookies,” she said with a wide smile. 

“Absolutely not.” Rebecca said. “If they build one of those huge commercial resorts, it’ll destroy the feel of the town. There will be traffic, noise, and trash everywhere, and before we know it, there’ll be a Wendy’s and a Jack-in-the-Box right here on Main Street.” 

Megan frowned but chose not to argue the point any further.

“In fact,” Rebecca said, standing up, “I’m going to run over to Amy’s right now and ask her if I can put up some of these flyers in her windows. We need everyone in town to come and voice their opinion at the town hall meeting if we’re going to take down this corporate monster.” 

“Okay, I can take a hint,” Megan said, jumping down off her bar stool. “I have to get to school, anyway. Good luck, brave knight, in your quest to slay this evil capitalist dragon, and give me a couple of those flyers to put up around the school.” 

Rebecca handed Megan a handful of flyers before heading to the door and flicking the sign from open to closed. As she walked across the road to Amy’s Diner, she waved to a couple of the locals who had stopped their cars to shoot the breeze and catch up. 

“They won’t be able to do that if this town turns into a circus,” she grumbled to herself as she pulled open the door to the diner.

“Hey, Amy,” she said, waving. “Can I put a couple of these flyers up in your windows? It’s about the town hall meeting. I’m rallying support to run this corporate asshole out of town.” 

“Of course, honey,” Amy replied, delivering several large plates of hot waffles topped with freshly whipped cream and strawberries to a family sitting at a table in the corner. 

Amy Thompson, the unofficial matriarch of Davis Crest, was in her late sixties and had lived in town all her life. She’d started working at the diner as a girl of just seventeen, and it was her proudest moment when, at twenty-four, she’d bought the place for herself. Her waffles were legendary, and her laugh was loud and joyous. 

“Hey, Rebecca?” she said from behind the grill station. “Are you volunteering at the Fall Festival this year?” 

“Yes,” Rebecca replied with a groan as she taped a flyer onto the door. “Megan roped me into doing face-painting again.” 

“Oh, the kids will be so happy; you’re so good at it,” Amy said, folding a pile of crisp white napkins.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Rebecca grumbled, shimmying into one of the red and white leather booths to stick a flyer in the window. 

Glancing back, she saw Amy pick up one of the flyers she’d left on the counter. She squinted at it, trying to bring the print into focus. It was clear she needed glasses, but she was in denial and had been for years. 

“Is this about that new real estate development project up at Mission Ridge?” she asked. “Harold was telling me about it. Quite some undertaking, and particularly close to your heart for obvious reasons, my dear. You’re against it, then?” 

“Yes, I most definitely am,” Rebecca said, “and everyone in town should be, too. We have to stop them.” She slid into the next booth, shaking her head. “These corporate bloodsuckers think they can roll in here with their Rolex watches and fast cars and tear apart our town for profit? They don’t understand a place like Davis Crest—it’s not a resource, it’s a home.”

“Excuse me, miss?” said a man sitting in the booth next to her.

Rebecca jumped in surprise, almost dropping her remaining flyers. She’d been so focused on the task at hand she hadn’t even seen him sitting there. 

“Oh, hi. Sorry. Can I help you?” she asked.

“Yes, thank you. Could you pass me the salt shaker in front of you, please? This one is all out.” 

“Um, sure,” she said, and passed him the shaker. 

He smiled at her, his keen blue eyes contrasting with the soft darkness of his thick hair. He was wearing a cashmere burgundy sweater that flattered his coloring. Rebecca took in his wide shoulders, guessing by his frame he must be tall, at least six-foot-three. She hadn’t seen him around town before; she would have remembered—looks like this were hard to miss. She watched as he shook the salt onto his omelet before placing the shaker down on the table and taking a long sip of his coffee. He was handsome in a casually confident way; a strong jawline, clean-shaven and impeccably well-groomed, he had the air of someone long accustomed to getting what he wanted in life.

He took a bite of his omelet and chewed contemplatively. “That’s better,” he said, looking up at her again with those piercing blue eyes. “And I agree with you about those ‘corporate bloodsuckers,’ they really are the worst, aren’t they?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Rebecca agreed. “You see, Amy? This guy gets it, and he’s not even from Davis Crest.”

Luke nodded and took another bite of his omelet, chewing slowly as he watched her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Um, I’m sorry, but who are you?”

“I’m Luke. Luke Brennan, from East Fork Developments. The real estate development company,” he said, standing and holding out his hand to shake. “It’s an honor to meet you. Won’t you take a seat?”

Rebecca’s eyes widened as her stomach dropped three stories. Well, of course he was handsome. Tall and confident—a man who’d probably never been told no in his life. The universe clearly had a twisted sense of humor, making her nemesis look like a damn walking cologne ad. Heat crept up her neck—not attraction, she told herself firmly, just mortification at being caught mid-rant by the very person she’d been ranting about. She fought the urge to flee and jump headfirst into the lake. But Rebecca Moore didn’t run anymore. Not from anything. Not even from blue-eyed developers with warm smiles and plans to destroy everything she’d worked to protect. This was not how she had envisioned meeting her arch-nemesis, but hey, here they were, so she needed to pull herself together and play it cool. 

She drew a steadying breath and extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Brennan,” she said, keeping her voice casual. She would not be thrown by this disarmingly attractive man. After all, the devil appears in the most appealing forms, does he not?