Chapter 6
SIX
JOE
Wednesday, Two Days Before the Summer Swap
“As much as I enjoyed playing with your camera,” Krista said, leading Joe down the wooden dock toward the Hideaway, “it’s my turn to be the teacher.”
Joe grinned as the word “teacher” lodged in his mind and twisted into something far less innocent.
Before he could stop himself, he pictured her in a short plaid skirt and a white blouse unbuttoned just enough.
Instead of sitting her on a desk, he imagined lifting her onto the bar top, the wood still warm, still faintly scented of citrus and tequila.
She’d laugh, her eyes widening, that deep, throaty sound driving him wild.
He’d step closer, her legs opening, her skirt sliding higher as his hands found her thighs.
He blinked away the image, clearing his throat, forcing himself to focus. You’re here for coffee, man. Not fantasies.
The dock led them to the main patio. It was a wide stretch of weathered decking built right up against the lake, half wrapped by a pergola and railing, the boards warmed by sun and old summers.
Honeysuckle vines trailed along the beams, their blossoms swaying in the breeze.
On one side, a seating area curled around a stone firepit, low couches and deep chairs arranged like a living room outdoors, each spot paired with a small table.
Closer in, black iron café tables sat beneath the pergola.
Bees drifted lazily between the blooms, the low hum blending with the soft tick of water against the dock. Beyond the railing, kayaks bobbed gently on the surface.
And then there was the bar. It wasn’t a full indoor room so much as a compact little bar house built into the deck, the front opening up to the patio with a wide service counter and shutters that could swing closed and lock tight when the night was done.
He followed after Krista as she unlocked the bar area, holding the door open, flicking on a light as they walked in down the narrow hallway stocked with supplies and extra cases, bypassing the bathroom and storage closet on the way.
The front shutters were still closed, but within moments, she popped them open, letting in bright sunlight and fresh lake air.
Behind the counter, rows of jars caught the light, amber and rose and pale gold, each one labeled in Krista’s looping script.
Hot Honey. Clover Blend. Summer Wildflower. Moonlight Kiss.
Behind the counter, on the side wall, hung a couple of T-shirts and sweatshirts for sale with the Hideaway’s logo on them, a bee buzzing around the center.
Joe raised his camera, ready to snap a photo, but paused, caught up in the beauty of the place. In the beauty of her.
Krista crossed to the old radio and twisted the dial until music crackled softly through the speakers. A jazzy tune filled the space, warm and lazy as the lake breeze.
He watched her slip behind the counter and fought to find his voice. He cleared his throat. “What should I plan on my hours being?” he asked, to keep his mind on the job and not on how mesmerizing he found this woman.
“Let’s see…” She brushed a curl from her cheek and jotted down the hours. “In the summer, we’re open 11a.m. to 6p.m. daily, closed Wednesdays. Thursday through Saturday nights, we stay open late for golden hour cocktails—that’s when the Hot Honey Hideaway really shines.”
“Cocktails and caffeine,” Joe said. “You cover all the essentials.”
Krista laughed. “Pretty much. By day, we serve iced lattes and ice cream: honey, strawberry, pistachio, lemon. In the evenings, it’s margaritas, mojitos, the works. My daily specials are…experimental.”
“Experimental?”
“Some hits. Some flops.” She gave a sheepish grin. “The miso caramel latte didn’t exactly win hearts.”
Joe chuckled. “I don’t know. Sounds like something I’d like to try. Shall I start with that?”
“Not likely.” She tugged open a drawer, then paused, looking past him out toward the lake. “This place wasn’t always…this,” she said, making a sweeping motion with her hands. “Gramps has rented boats here, but all he had was that little shed over there and a cash box.”
Joe leaned an elbow on the counter. “So how did it turn into the Hideaway?”
Krista’s shoulders lifted in a small shrug, but there was pride in it too.
“I saw the potential. Everyone came down here anyway after church, lunch, or a long day on the water. This was the place to sit awhile and cool off.” She glanced off in the distance.
“I figured…why not make it the perfect summer hideaway?”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. I fixed up the deck; Madison’s boyfriend, Zach, built the bar. Slowly I was able to save up, buy the new tables, outdoor furniture, and then I jumped in with a business loan from the bank.”
His gaze moved around the space again, as if he could suddenly see the before-and-after in the beams and tables and jars. “You did it all without a safety net?”
“My parents have money. Ridiculous money.” She said it like it was a bad thing. “They had a plan for me. Ivy League college, the right internships. The right city. That was the life they paid for and expected me to live.”
Joe’s jaw flexed. “I’m betting they’re not thrilled with this.”
“No.” Her laugh was short. “They kept waiting for me to come to my senses.” Her fingers tightened around the pen. “And they’ve never been shy about using money to get what they want. Gifts, threats, strings. All of it.”
“So you didn’t take it?”
“I left home at sixteen,” she said quietly. “I didn’t take their money then, and I’m not taking it now.” She lifted her chin. “This”––she gestured to the bar, the jars, the cozy space that smelled like honey and citrus and lake air—“is mine. I built it. I didn’t need them to do it.”
Joe had thought he respected her before, but this was another level. “That’s…impressive.”
“It’s stubborn,” she corrected, but her pride flickered again. Then her gaze dipped, just for a second . There was sadness there, too.
“Do you talk to your parents now?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, though her voice wavered. “They love me. They just…don’t always understand me. My sister, Robyn, she’s the golden child. Smart, academic, and steady—everything they wanted for me. I’m happy for her. She deserves it.” Especially after that loser of a boyfriend she dated.
Joe tilted his head. “But part of you still wants them to be proud of you.”
Her throat tightened. “Guess I never outgrew that. ”
“Some people would give anything to have parents who care enough to push,” he said quietly. “Even if they get it wrong sometimes.”
“You didn’t?”
“Foster homes,” he said with a shrug, his eyes fixed on the lake. “A few. Nothing dramatic. I just learned early on not to expect anyone to stick around.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“No, just me.”
She reached over and rested her hand lightly on his arm. “I’m sorry, Joe.”
“Don’t be. It made me who I am. You learn to build your own version of family—people you meet, jobs you take, the ones who stick for a while. I’ve got a few of those scattered around the country. We check in, trade stories, that kind of thing.”
Krista’s thumb brushed against his sleeve. “Sounds lonely.”
“Not most days,” he said quietly. “But sometimes…yeah. Nights get long.”
There was a brief pause, her hand still on his arm. Then Krista reached for an apron and tossed it at him. “Alright, if you’re going to work here, you have to learn the basics first.”
He caught it easily, smirking. “Yes, ma’am.” Joe set his camera down on the counter and got ready to work.
She grabbed two mugs from the shelf and lined them up neatly on the counter. “Our honey latte is the most popular drink on the menu, so let’s start there.”
“Got it.”
“Step one, add a bit of honey to the mug.”
Joe moved closer, watching the sunlight catch on the amber ribbon.
As she glanced up, their eyes met. Joe saw the warmth of summer in their green and golden depths, dragging him under like a pool full of honey .
“Okay,” Krista said quickly, clearing her throat. “Step two. Espresso.”
“Should I start the campfire?” Joe joked while Krista filled the portafilter.
“Ha, honestly, I bet the locals would love your cowboy coffee.”
Once they added the espresso to the mugs it was time for the next step.
“Now we heat the milk,” Krista explained.
He followed her directions with the steamers, though his attention wandered, drawn to the faint trace of citrus and vanilla on her skin.
“You better pay attention, cowboy. The milk’s about to scald.”
He turned quickly, laughing under his breath. “Sorry.”
Krista reached past him to adjust the temperature, her arm brushing his. “You’re doing fine,” she murmured.
He was hyper conscious of everything from the low hum of the radio to the gentle lap of water outside. The scent of honey and espresso thick in the air. Most of all, her voice, her warmth, her nearness.
“Okay,” she said, stepping back with a smile, “now slowly pour the milk in so it mixes with the espresso and honey.”
“Alright.” Joe followed her instructions. “Is that everything?”
“Almost. When I’m not too busy, I do a little bumblebee design on top with the syrup. Like this…” Krista demonstrated how she made the miniature bee, complete with wings and stripes. “Voilà!”
“Yeah, think I’ll skip that step for now.”
“You’re right. Maybe that’s an advanced class,” Krista said with a laugh, lifting the mug and handing it to him.
“To swapping lives,” she added, raising hers in a toast .
“To the Summer Swap,” Joe agreed, tapping his cup lightly against hers before taking a sip.
“What do you think?” she asked, watching him closely.
He swallowed. “Well, it’s no cowboy coffee, but it’ll work in a pinch.” His grin gave him away. It was, of course, delicious.
Joe watched her, wondering what she was thinking, wondering if she knew how much space she’d begun to take up in his mind.
“You know,” she said after a beat, “we should create a boozy version of this. Maybe with vanilla vodka, and serve it over ice…or even over ice cream?”
Joe chuckled. “Whatever you want to try, I’m game.”
She glanced at him then, her eyes warm but serious. “Well, speaking of which—I’ve been thinking about what you said last night. About helping me look into my great-grandma Isabel going missing. Were you serious about that?”
Joe straightened. “Absolutely,” he said. “I’m always on the lookout for an interesting story.”
Krista’s expression turned cautious. “Hang on, cowboy. Before we agree to anything, I want you to promise you won’t publish anything about her without running it by me first. This isn’t some story—it’s my family.
I just want to know why Isabel disappeared, and why no one’s talked about it all these years. ”
Joe met her gaze. “You have my word.”
And he meant it. Even as the reporter in him stirred, the man in him wanted to protect that spark in her eyes.
As Krista turned to clean the coffee machine, Joe looked around. The lake shimmered beyond the deck, sunlight catching on ripples like natural diamonds. Somewhere out on the water, a loon called out, greeting the day.
Closer, there were two mugs on the counter, still half-full, the honey jar glinting gold in the light, the breeze stirring the hanging vines.
A story was taking shape here; he could feel it. Not the kind he’d planned to write, not the glossy travel piece Marcus was expecting. This one was personal. It was the kind that could change the person telling it.
Krista began to hum along with the song on the radio, soft and easy, and Joe felt something take root in his chest.
They took their coffees and sat over on the outdoor couch, overlooking the water. It was easy to slip into conversation. They talked some more about his travels, sharing places they’d like to go, Rome being a top destination on both of their bucket lists.
“To see the Trevi Fountain? Oh man, chef’s kiss!” Krista said with a laugh.
They hit on the heavier topics too, the foster homes he remembered the most. The people who showed up in his life when he needed them the most.
She in turn talked about her fish-out-of-water childhood. What it was like always wanting a different life than the one your parents had planned out for you, and the fallout when she’d run away to Maple Falls.
“I almost didn’t do it, you know,” she said.
“Move here?” Joe questioned.
Krista nodded. “I hated the thought of abandoning my sister, Robyn. But she surprised me. She didn’t resent me for escaping, and she wanted the Ivy League life.
Can you imagine?” Krista had tried to laugh it off, but Joe could feel the heavier emotion there, the feelings of guilt that still weighed her down.
That morning something shifted inside Joe.
He’d stopped believing in destiny a long time ago. Somewhere between all the moves, the empty apartments, and the kind of childhood that taught you not to wait for miracles.
But here he was in Maple Falls, drawn to a woman with golden-brown curls, a freckle-scattered nose, and bright hazel eyes. He didn’t just want some photographs to remember her by.
He wanted her—God, he wanted her—wanted the taste of honey on her mouth, wanted her laughter turning into a gasp when he lifted her onto that bar top and stepped between her knees.
He was falling fast, and he couldn’t help but wonder if destiny hadn’t stopped believing in him .