Chapter 2
ANITA
I’m going to die on this hill.
Slip on this snow-covered incline, tumble backward like a cartoon character, and roll all the way back down to the harbor with my suitcase wheels screeching the entire way.
My thighs are burning. My lungs are on fire. And my suitcase sounds like it’s actively trying to file a restraining order against me.
“Just a little farther,” I mutter. “You can do this. You’ve survived worse.”
Have I, though? I’m genuinely asking.
The hill is steep. Steeper than it looked from the ferry. “It’s fine,” I say with all the confidence of someone who has never actually climbed a hill while dragging twenty pounds of luggage and radio recording equipment through a snowstorm. “I’ve got it.”
I do not, in fact, have it.
My boots slide on a patch of ice, and I windmill my arms, somehow managing to stay upright. My suitcase tips sideways before I yank it back into position.
“We’re almost there,” I tell it. “Don’t give up on me now.”
Three more steps. Two. One.
And then, blessedly, miraculously, the ground levels out.
I made it.
I stand at the top of the hill, breathing like I’ve just finished a marathon, snow collecting on my shoulders.
My backpack feels like it weighs approximately three hundred pounds.
My fingers are numb inside my gloves. And I’m pretty sure I’ve sweated through two layers of clothing despite the freezing temperature.
But I made it.
I turn around to look at the view behind me.
Oh.
The harbor spreads out below amid the fog, water churning against the docks, boats bobbing in their slips.
The mist is rolling in properly now, thicker and purposeful, creeping across the water.
It moves in waves, fingers of white fog reaching toward the land, curling around the pilings, swallowing the far edge of the harbor entirely.
It’s hauntingly beautiful. The kind of view that makes you understand why people write poetry about the sea.
Snow falls steadily, softening every edge, and the whole scene looks like a painting someone forgot to finish. I could stand here and stare at this for hours.
But my feet are freezing, and I still need to find my rental apartment, so I force myself to turn around.
And immediately forget about being cold.
The town of Mistberry Cove reminds me of those quaint towns you see in tourist brochures.
The houses up here are painted in soft pastels that somehow don’t look ridiculous against the snow.
Pale blue with white trim. Dusty rose with darker pink accents.
Butter yellow with sage-green shutters. Lavender.
Mint. Cream. They’re two and three stories tall, most of them narrow and pressed close together, with peaked roofs that shed snow in elegant slides.
Big windows glow warm from the inside, and nearly every sill is crowded with flower boxes.
There are no sprawling front yards, just sidewalks that run right up to the buildings, with a few steps leading to painted front doors. Some have small porches, barely big enough for a chair and a potted plant. Others have ornate iron railings, delicate and decorative.
The whole effect is distinctly European. Northern European, maybe. Like someone took a Norwegian fishing village and a Danish harbor town and mixed them together, then added just enough New England sensibility to make it feel grounded.
Beyond the town, rolling mountains rise in waves, covered in dense pine forests that look black against the gray sky. The wilderness is close here, like civilization is just borrowing this space temporarily and the trees are waiting patiently to reclaim it.
I’m mesmerized.
This doesn’t look anything like Portland. The city I left behind is all glass and steel and carefully planned green spaces. This is organic. Layered. The kind of place that grew naturally over decades, maybe centuries, without anyone trying to force it into a grid.
Why have I never been here before?
I grew up three hours away and somehow never bothered to visit. Never even heard much about it, except as a vague destination for summer tourists who wanted to see whales and that it’s where all the mist gathers.
I could live here, I think, then immediately shake my head. No. I’m here for work. Undercover investigation, then back to the city and my real life.
But still. The thought lingers.
I start walking, my suitcase bumping over the cobblestones because apparently this town is committed to being as picturesque as possible, even if it means my luggage suffers. The main street curves gently, following the natural slope of the land, lined with shops and cafés and small businesses.
There’s a bookstore with a hand-painted sign. A yarn shop with baskets of wool displayed in the window. A general store that has old-fashioned glass jars visible on the shelves inside.
And then I see a bakery. I stop walking so abruptly that my suitcase runs into the back of my legs.
The storefront is painted cream with soft pink trim, and the windows are absolutely stuffed with baskets overflowing with baked goods.
Croissants. Scones. Muffins the size of my fist. Crusty loaves of bread that look like they should be in a still-life painting.
The baskets are woven wicker, lined with checkered cloth in different colors, and they’re arranged on wooden shelves that frame the window like something out of a fairy tale.
But it’s what’s inside that makes my mouth fall open.
Through the glass, it’s a space that screams cozy.
Couches, deep and soft-looking, upholstered in jewel tones.
Mismatched armchairs cluster around low tables.
Proper dining tables with chairs are scattered throughout, and from the ceiling hang lights, dozens of them, at different heights.
Edison bulbs in copper cages. Paper lanterns.
Small chandeliers dripping with crystals that catch the light.
More flowers fill every available surface. Vases on tables. Pots on windowsills. Hanging plants with trailing green vines.
And everywhere, everywhere, there are pastries. On tiered stands. In glass display cases. Arranged on platters like edible art.
My stomach growls so loudly I’m pretty sure people in the next town over can hear it.
I need to go in there. Immediately.
The sign above the door reads The Flour House in elegant script, with smaller text underneath that says Bakery & Café Since 1987.
I grab my suitcase and backpack and push through the door.
Warmth hits me like a hug. I immediately identify a fireplace crackling in the corner, surrounded by armchairs and a small sofa. The smell is intoxicating. Fresh bread. Coffee. Cinnamon and butter and sugar.
I just stand there for a second, letting the heat seep into my frozen bones, and feel my entire body start to relax.
This is exactly what I need.
The interior is even better up close. The walls are painted a soft cream, with exposed brick in places that’ve been whitewashed to a gentle gray. Wooden beams cross the ceiling.
Against one wall is the counter, a beautiful reclaimed-wood structure with a glass display case that runs its entire length. Inside are more cookies, brownies, tarts, and so many other goodies.
And against the back wall, behind the counter, is a full glass wall that looks directly into the bakery kitchen. Stainless steel work surfaces, industrial ovens, racks of cooling bread, and a woman in a white chef’s coat pulling something from the oven.
I am officially in love with this place.
There are maybe a dozen other people scattered throughout the café, but I barely see them as I home in on an empty table. A couple I walk past take in my suitcase and backpack, and I must look like I just survived an Arctic expedition.
Tourist, their eyes say. Outsider.
I reach the free table near the middle of the space, tucked beside a window with a perfect view of the street. My suitcase crashes into a chair leg, and I wince, but I manage to claim the spot, dropping my bags with a relieved sigh.
I shrug off my coat, unwrap my scarf, and pull off my beanie and gloves. My hair is probably a disaster. I’m warm and sitting down and about to consume a dangerous number of baked goods, so I’m calling this a win.
I leave my stuff at the table and head to the counter, trying not to stare too obviously at everything.
Cookies are mounted on small stands. There are chocolate chip cookies the size of my palm. Snickerdoodles dusted with cinnamon sugar. Peanut butter cookies with fork marks pressed into the tops. Oatmeal raisin. Double chocolate. Something with white chocolate and cranberries. And I’m salivating.
I’m still going through my options when someone appears behind the counter.
“Hi! Welcome to The Flour House!”
I glance up and find myself face-to-face with possibly the cutest woman I’ve ever seen.
She’s maybe my age, around twenty-five, with a round, open face and stunning blue eyes that are so bright they look almost crystalline.
Her hair is blonde, pulled back from her face and plaited into two perfect fishtail braids that drape over her shoulders.
A few loose strands frame her face, softening the look.
She’s wearing a black button-up shirt, fitted and professional, with a pink-and-white apron tied over it.
The apron has The Flour House embroidered across the chest in curling script, and in the top corner, a name tag stitched in pink thread: Nina.
She’s smiling at me like we’re already friends.
“I see you just arrived in town,” she says, glancing at my bags by the table. “Perfect timing before the mist really rolls in.”
“Yeah, I just got off the ferry.” I lean against the counter, grateful to be in a warm space with a friendly face. “That hill almost killed me.”
“Oh God, yeah, it’s brutal.” She laughs, bright and genuine. “Especially with luggage. You’re brave for attempting it.”
“Brave or stupid. The jury’s still out.”
She grins. “I’m Nina. I run the café.”