Whispers of Love in Sweetwater Springs (Sweetwater Springs #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“Y ou’ve got to be kidding me! Only two boxes of books when I ordered three?” Olivia Harper’s exasperated voice echoed through the cozy confines of Harper’s Haven , the bookshop she’d inherited from her grandfather Elijah.

She hoisted the books inside and shook her head. “I guess I’ll have to charm my customers with my dazzling personality instead of relying on the books.”

With a grin and a sigh, she reached for her cell phone to rectify the mistake. Sunlight filtered through the lace curtains, casting a glow over the antique furniture and overstuffed chairs. The scent of aged paper and rich mahogany embraced her like an old friend.

Blooming cherry blossom trees, with slender upright branches and rounded canopies, lined the street. When she finished her phone call, she opened the window to let in the floral-scented air.

As she gazed around her shop, a flicker of uncertainty passed through her.

Harper’s Haven wasn’t just a bookstore—it was her dream, her legacy. She had poured her heart and soul into every detail, determined to carry on her grandfather’s proud tradition. But lately, the weight of responsibility seemed more burdensome than ever.

With each passing year, the pressures of running the business grew more daunting.

She shrugged off her khaki-colored windbreaker, hung it on a hook by the door, and secured an apron over her clothes. Then she kneeled beside the book shipments and sliced through the packing tape.

She lifted out two hardbound editions of Wuthering Heights , their gold-leaf lettering glinting in the gauzy morning light.

The distinct tinkle of the shop bell was unmistakable, and she greeted the first customer of the day.

But no one responded.

“Hello?” she called out again. “Can I help you find anything?”

Only silence. Every aisle lay empty and still.

Okay, this was strange. She was certain she had heard the bell.

“Anyone here?” She repeated.

Nope. No reply. She must’ve been mistaken. She was obviously alone.

Corralling her unease into something more productive, she redirected her attention to her task. As she sliced through the packing tape on the next box, a flash of creamy parchment grabbed her attention. She crouched for a better look, clearing dust bunnies from the wooden floorboards. An envelope lay slightly hidden underneath the front door.

She yanked the envelope free. The texture was luxuriously thick, and clearly expensive stationery. No postage, no address … only a wax seal, keeping its contents mysteriously confined. The wax itself was an unusual shade of yellow, its sheen catching the morning light streaming through the windows.

There were no clues as to the sender, an intriguing omission.

Her fingertip dipped over fancy lettering.

The initials L.B.

Where had she seen that unique script before, with its elongated curves and artistic loops? It tugged at her memory but hovered slightly out of reach.

The letter was addressed to:

Ms. Lillian Beaumont

Sweetwater Springs

Whispers of Love

“Whispers of love?” she asked aloud. “What does it mean?”

The handwritten style was antiquated but graceful, with long, sweeping strokes. All perfectly precise except for the initial L, elongated by a slight wavering in an otherwise steady hand.

As Olivia flipped the envelope, a tiny drawing made her breath still. A single heart flanked Lillian’s name, colored a vivid red.

Lillian Beaumont was a woman in her 70s. She had recently moved back to Sweetwater Springs, having been gone for decades. Elegant and from an esteemed family, she lived on her inherited estate at the edge of town.

Her silver hair was always perfectly styled. She favored classic pieces in luxurious fabrics—cashmere sweaters in soft pastels, pencil skirts, and her signature red lipstick. On occasion, she perused Olivia’s bookshop and purchased armfuls of classic books.

Although, come to think of it, Olivia hadn’t seen Lillian in several weeks.

She straightened.

In her peripheral vision, she caught a flicker of motion behind her—the swish of a coat, an odd shuffle of footsteps quickly fading.

Envelope still in hand, she wandered down the aisle.

“Hello? May I help you find anything?”

Again, nothing. The silence seemed to press in on her, heavy and unsettling.

She retreated and ran her fingertip over the wax seal, specks of it breaking off, then placed the envelope on the counter.

As she unloaded the remaining shipments, her thoughts drifted to the unexplained letter. Who was it from, and why deliver it in such a cryptic way? The hand-drawn heart suggested Lillian had a secret admirer.

The morning passed quickly with a steady stream of customers, while Olivia dusted off shelves, lit several scented candles, and cashed out book sales.

The sunny spring weather had apparently put everyone in high spirits and in a buying mood. She helped Mrs. Dalton select a few gardening books to start planning her summer vegetable garden. She also set aside a couple of new young adult fantasy novels for two teenage girls to pick up.

At noon, Emma Jacobsen, who owned Blissful Bites , the bakery next door, stopped by. As usual, she was dressed to the nines despite her flour-dusted apron. Emma often came to chat when business was slow. She was in her late twenties, with fair skin and glowing, rosy cheeks.

“I’m done for the day and headed home,” Emma announced. Her blond hair fell to her shoulders in loose waves, impervious to frizz or the hairnet she often wore.

“You sold all of your baked goods already?” Olivia asked.

“Every single one, but I saved a chocolate donut for you.” Emma handed Olivia a donut wrapped in wax paper.

“Thank you and enjoy the rest of your afternoon,” Olivia smiled. “I don’t close until six o’clock.”

“But I start preparing fresh dough and baking before sunrise, so I work more hours than you.”

“I don’t know about that.” Olivia gave Emma a mischievous jab and took a bite of her donut, thinking about the extra hours she spent on inventory management and curating book selections.

In her typical brazen fashion, Emma’s gaze flew to the envelope on the counter. “What … do we have here?” Her tone shifted to a higher pitch.

While Olivia recounted the story, an almost imperceptible shift appeared in her friend’s appearance.

Emma grimaced and touched her neck. “Possibly it’s one of Lillian’s secret fans.” She shifted from one foot to the other. “You always had a knack for solving puzzles when we were young. I’m sure you’ll be able to figure it out.”

“Lillian Beaumont hasn’t dated in ages. Word is, she never married.”

“It’s never too late for love.” Emma’s shoulders hunched. “At least for you. Not for me.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I’m still struggling to run the bakery after my mother’s passing. That’s enough excitement for me.”

“You have the option to hire help to reduce your workload,” Olivia replied.

“Like you? You’ve never done anything of the sort.”

Olivia shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“So am I, and I’ll run the bakery alone. My mother and grandmother did, and I’m carrying on their legacy.”

A legacy of overwork, Olivia thought, though she kept silent. Emma wouldn’t trust her bakery to anyone else. Her grief over her mother’s unexpected death had stopped her from moving forward with her life.

Olivia grabbed a bottle of water from behind the counter and drank several sips. “So, you and I are currently dateless.”

“Seems that way.”

In truth, Olivia longed for a partner, a man to share her passions and support her dreams. She yearned for the warmth of love and the comfort of a family. However, exactly like Emma, fear held her back. Fear of change, fear of letting someone in, fear of losing the one constant in her life—her cherished bookshop.

“Maybe a handsome, heroic guy will move into town for you,” Emma said.

“He better move in soon.” Olivia smiled. “Or at least before I hit the age of thirty.”

“Hey, if it’s not too late for Lillian, then it’s definitely not too late for you.” Emma tapped her fingers on the counter. Nevertheless, there was more to her words—something lurking just below the surface. “The letter writer might be someone closer than you think.”

As they swapped speculations, Emma’s attentiveness carried a deliberate edge as she adjusted her denim skirt and fidgeted with her hair.

Did she know something? Or was she merely playing along with the intrigue?

Though they contrasted in looks, with Emma’s petite frame and blond locks differing from Olivia’s willowy height and chestnut curls, their friendship had always worked. As different as sunrise and sunset, each woman admired talents in the other she herself did not possess, and, despite her odd behavior, Emma was a true and reliable friend.

With a quick goodbye, Emma headed back to her bakery to close for the day, with promises to sleuth out ideas about the letter writer.

Although the bookshop kept Olivia busy for the next hour, her thoughts took a detour. Underneath her cheerful demeanor, a deep longing for companionship and love had taken root. She wanted someone to share her experiences, her interests, and the quiet moments that made life worth living.

Work had become her sanctuary, a refuge where she had the opportunity to lose herself in stories, and vicariously experience the affection she craved. Yet, as fulfilling as her work was, it was unable to fill the void in her heart.

Love would require a leap of faith, a willingness to risk her carefully cultivated independence, and take a chance. The alternative—a life spent alone witnessing others discover their happily-ever-afters—seemed increasingly hollow.

Shaking off her melancholy thoughts, she resumed the task at hand. She couldn’t help but wonder if the mysterious letter held a clue to Lillian’s own journey with love. Perhaps, in unraveling the secrets of the past, Olivia might stumble upon the courage to open her heart to the possibilities of the future.

She looked forward to catching up with Lillian. The woman’s wit and sophistication always brightened Olivia’s day.

Should she notify her about the strange delivery?

Yes, of course. The letter was addressed to her, and the contents were none of Olivia’s business. She should personally deliver the letter to Lillian.

Then again, maybe not. Olivia sought to respect the privacy of the letter’s sender as well as that of the recipient. More importantly, directly approaching Lillian without understanding the context or the sender’s intentions could be intrusive.

Olivia ran her fingers across the weighty parchment. The meticulously drawn heart suggested strong emotions.

When the time was right, she’d approach Lillian in a thoughtful and considerate manner, planning the conversation to ensure a positive and supportive interaction.

She tucked the letter in her apron pocket for safekeeping and decided to observe Lillian closely at their next meeting before springing the letter on her. Perhaps there would be unspoken clues—a blush, a tearful glimmer in her eye—to expose whether joyous news or old heartaches might wait within the envelope. For now, the contents remained unknown.

The shop bell jangled, and the front door swung open.

Olivia looked up, a greeting frozen on her lips.

Her childhood friend stood in the doorway, his hazel eyes glinting beneath his artfully tousled dark hair.

She grabbed the counter to steady herself, hoping her knees wouldn’t give out.

“Daniel Whitfield. Is it really you?” The question ran from her lips. Her pulse thumped in her ears, resembling an erratic drumbeat. She studied his handsome face, searching for traces of the boy she had once known.

Their gazes locked, and the seconds hung suspended. His athletic build and broad shoulders filled out a well-fitted leather jacket. His wavy hair framed a face that had grown more chiseled and defined since their teenage years.

He summoned images of long ago afternoons spent sharing books, floating into imaginary worlds, and eating chocolate-chip cookies. Her favorite, she’d declared. Especially if they had lots of chocolate chips.

“Loads,” he always assured her when he handed her a store-bought cookie. His grin suggested that he might’ve sneaked in a few extra chips when she wasn’t looking.

Daniel had been her best friend and appreciated her shy introspection.

He got her. He understood her.

They passed countless summer evenings chasing fireflies and stargazing, dreaming about the lives they would someday lead.

When they grew into their teens, she developed an insatiable crush on him. She thought of him always and everywhere, even when they weren’t together. She assumed he felt the same when they shared their first kiss.

But then he was gone, awarded a scholarship to a prestigious college in another state, aspiring to become a historian and preservationist specializing in museum studies.

“I’m planning to travel the world, Ollie,” he told her. “But someday I’ll be back.”

And she was left in Sweetwater Springs. Alone. And he hadn’t come back.

He promised to stay in touch, though he never had, save for a few postcards and hasty letters.

Seeing him in person after all these years, his unexpected appearance only amplified the warring emotions inside her.

His achievements in international projects that integrated history and preservation techniques had led to frequent media appearances. She’d seen his interviews on television and online.

“Hi,” he said quietly. He stepped further into the shop, and anticipation fluttered in her chest. His presence filled the room, commanding, yet reassuring, like a warm cuddle on a chilly day. He came closer, his gaze never leaving hers. “You look great.”

She fine-tuned the buttons on her cream blouse. She had paired the blouse with a floral skirt, accessorized by Grandma Rachel’s pearl necklace. Classic clothing in the old Hollywood style suited her better than mass produced modern fashion. The styles had histories. Similar to her books.

Though today she didn’t feel stylish. Today, she felt self-conscious.

Perhaps, if she was well-traveled.

But she wasn’t, and he was.

“Thanks. You’re not so bad yourself.” She felt a blushing warmth travel up her cheeks, and she silently hoped that the sunlight through the window wouldn’t betray her reaction to his closeness.

Sporting his signature crooked smile, he embraced her in a long, tender hug. His masculine scent mixed with leather and an intoxicating foreign spice—something new and spicy—and more evidence of the success she’d admired from afar.

She inhaled traces of the familiar, clean, and fresh, uniquely him. It brought back a flood of memories, of stolen kisses and whispered promises of a love that had never faded.

The strength of his arms offered security, a quiet acknowledgement of the years they’d spent apart. She pressed her face into his chest, unable to resist, and noticed his heart quickening ever so slightly.

“It’s so good to see you, Ollie,” he murmured in her ear, sending a tingle down her spine. “Real, real good.” His hands rested on her shoulders, igniting memories of their long-held connection.

Ollie. The nickname was a nod to their shared history, an affectionate shorthand, like slipping into a well-worn pair of shoes. He hadn’t forgotten.

She met his hazel eyes, reflecting intelligence, kindness, and longing. Tiny flecks of gold danced in their depths. And something more—a hidden gravity she couldn’t fully decipher.

“You haven’t called me Ollie since we were kids.” She swept back a chestnut curl escaping from her updo, silently cursing her unruly hair for choosing this moment to stage a rebellion.

“Concrete proof it’s been far too long.” His eyes twinkled with mirth, though his voice was low and smooth. “I hope you haven’t outgrown your affection for socks that don’t match.”

“Never,” she replied.

Once upon a time, they confessed things to each other. He once had a dream of being able to fly, so real that he’d been disappointed when he woke up and realized it wasn’t true. She always wore mismatched socks for good luck, and it had become a personal superstition.

Today she wore one red and one blue sock. Some superstitions died hard.

Affection enveloped her from head to toe as she soaked in his good-looking features. His face carried a touch of rugged individuality, and his jawline was peppered with a dark stubble that lent him an air of casual sophistication. The radiance of his smile had the power to brighten even the darkest corners of her heart.

Time had certainly changed everything. In the past, he was her confidante.

But now. Now things were different—even more intimate.

“I’ve returned to settle down in this town permanently.” He lifted her chin. “Are you pleased?”

She studied his face, searching for the boy she had once known. She took in the man he had become, a heady mix of awareness and novelty that left her both exhilarated and unbalanced. “If your words hold true, then undoubtedly.”

“They are true.” The curve of his lips radiated genuine understanding. “Think you can catch me up on things around Sweetwater Springs?” He gestured toward the door. “Possibly over lunch?”

“I already ate a chocolate donut.”

“A donut isn’t lunch.”

“For me, it is, though I might be able to clear my schedule for an old friend on a different day.”

“I plan to be more than an old friend.” As he scanned a shelf of historical fiction, his hand covered hers, where it rested on the polished oak surface of the counter. “Remember when we said we’d marry each other if we weren’t able to find anyone better?”

“We used to joke about it. So, you didn’t hit the jackpot?”

“Nope. You?”

“Nope.” Her stomach fluttered, and she quickly changed the subject as she gazed across her shop—anywhere but at him. Every corner held a piece of her heart, from the eclectic array of books to the elegant retro seating.

“What brings you here today?” she asked.

“You.”

“Me? I’m hardly a jackpot.” She laughed, a bit too loudly. “You moved back to Sweetwater Springs several weeks ago.”

“Ah, you’ve been checking up on me?”

“No.”

Well, yes. In this modest town of ten thousand, news waltzed faster than the eye could blink.

“I was busy buying a house on Windsor Boulevard,” he said. “An old Victorian.”

“Ooh. Quite a posh street.” Her comment carried a hint of good-humored recognition, a nod to the world they had once dreamed about.

Daniel chuckled. “Windsor Boulevard seemed fitting. A bit different from the old neighborhood.”

Olivia detected a blend of ambition and desire in his words.

“You did it,” she said. Despite his humble upbringing, he’d continually expressed a wish to reside on a more affluent street.

“Right.” He shifted. “Like I mentioned, I came here to see you. Plus, I met with the historical society about an upcoming exhibition, and it’s only a half block away.”

“Don’t put yourself out.”

He grinned. His hand still covered hers. His other hand reached for a leather-bound book on a shelf near the counter. “Hey, your shop is incredible—a reading corner and a brass chandelier. You’ve upgraded since your grandfather owned it.”

Her shop wasn’t solely a bookstore; it was a charming haven, nestled in the heart of Sweetwater Springs. Whenever she stepped inside, she marveled at how it always felt like coming home.

Visions of couples browsing the shelves for romantic reads, snuggled in the leather armchairs by the fireplace, brought a smile to her face. The antique volumes, with their tales of adventure, mystery, and timeless love, never failed to cast their spell over everyone who loved to read.

“Thanks. A lot can happen in ten years.” Olivia drew back her hand. “You’re welcome to look around. I have a fiction section and a shelf full of thriller novels.”

She gestured to a reading nook nestled between two towering bookcases and studied his profile when he turned. Sunlight from the front window glinted off his dark, tousled hair, the color of espresso. His eyes glittered with an inquisitive spark, which she recalled from their childhood adventures scouring the countryside for magical creatures drawn from fairy tales. Whether in Sweetwater Springs or abroad, his lively imagination had led him to pursue a career safeguarding the rich history and architecture of the past.

After he slid a worn Agatha Christie book onto a shelf, he turned fully toward her, his desire softening his gaze.

Her breath snagged as his fingers swept away a stray wisp of hair that had fallen across her cheek. That rebellious hair again.

His fleeting touch had sparks leaping over her skin. She looked down, suddenly fascinated by the intricate pattern of the hardwood floor.

“I’m glad we finally have a chance to catch up, Ollie.”

“Me, too.” She missed him. His return was like a sucker punch to the gut, so unexpected yet so wonderful, and there was no hope for it.

“Do you remember the last time we saw each other?” he asked. “That summer evening by the lake, before I left for college?”

“How could I forget? We made a multitude of plans, dreamed endless dreams.”

“I’m sorry it took me so long to return.”

When she didn’t respond, he stepped back and flipped through the pages of a well-known bestseller. “Remember when we used to go on treasure hunts?”

“Of course.” She gave a slight dip of her head. “Or our hush-hush codes and messages?”

“Mirror writing. And our underground scripts and cipher pies.”

“Definitely the best,” she agreed.

“Are you keeping any secrets these days, Ollie?”

“Like what?”

“Any guy I should be aware of?” He pointedly stared at her left hand.

She was ringless.

“None. Though actually …” Olivia debated whether to involve him in her discovery of the puzzling letter. His passion for discovering concealed artifacts might be beneficial.

She retrieved the envelope and recounted the peculiar delivery.

“Whispers of Love? It sounds like the title of a romantic poem. And the heart drawing. Perhaps the sender had a special connection to Lillian.” Daniel examined the letter, noting the expensive stationery and calligraphy spelling of Lillian Beaumont’s name. “I remember her well. She once caught us trying to sneak a peek at her famous rose garden. I worried that she’d never stop scolding us.”

“We were quite the mischievous duo, weren’t we? I’m surprised that she didn’t ban us from her property forever.”

“Have you spoken to her about the letter?”

“Not yet. I wanted to observe her first in case the contents were sensitive.”

“I’d be happy to partner on your little investigation if you’ll have me. For old time’s sake?” His eyes held an adventurous sparkle that Olivia well remembered.

“I’d love that.” She swallowed the lump in her throat for all the years that had gone by without him, then tucked the letter back in her apron pocket.

Some things never changed. Their enduring bond of friendship and comradery transcended time. They weren’t only discussing solving a mystery, they were rediscovering their love of a shared undertaking.

As he turned to leave, promising to be in touch, the bell jingled, its ring unusually sharp and insistent.

They traded a startled look.

He yanked the door open, surveying the cobblestone sidewalk as Olivia joined him.

The town’s postcard-perfect street stretched before them. Locally owned businesses were painted in earthy tones, complementing the natural beauty of the surroundings. Potted plants sat outside in vivid purple and pink colors, a stark contrast against the subdued architecture. Spring had arrived in the Pacific Northwest, awakening the scenic mountain community from its winter slumber.

This was her favorite season, when the promise of fresh beginnings wrapped her world in an optimistic glow.

A beam of sun struggled to pierce impenetrable clouds. Yet the street seemed frozen in a silent scene, as if the entire town had taken a collective pause. The only sounds were the occasional creak of a road sign or the hum of a far-off car engine.

Olivia twisted one of the pearls on her necklace, the smoothness comforting to the touch. “Where is everyone?” she whispered.

“At lunch?” Daniel half-joked, although his lips tightened. “Your shop bell rang, right?”

“I heard it as loudly as you did.” Goosebumps prickled her skin despite the snug temperature of the bookshop. First the unexplained letter, now phantom bell ringers? This day was getting odder by the minute.

After his departure a few minutes later, Olivia busied herself tending to afternoon customers while mulling over potential clues. Every so often, her thoughts strayed to Daniel. His passion for discovering the buried stories of people, sometimes in precarious situations, mirrored her own love of books and mysteries.

She inhaled. The comforting mustiness of well-loved novels, the faint trace of vanilla-scented candles flickering on antique tables, added to the light floral fragrance of cherry blossoms drifting in through the open window. The scent always reminded her of almonds or marzipans.

Hours later, before she closed for the day, a final tinkling bell roused her as Mr. Theodore Weatherly ambled through the doorway. A distinguished face in Sweetwater Springs, Theodore had never married, vehemently asserting he preferred to live alone. He was a kindly retired poet, and well-known for his calm, observant nature, and talent for heartrending verses.

“Good evening, Olivia.” Theodore’s clear blue eyes creased behind his trademark round spectacles.

“I’m about ready to close,” she reminded him, as she did every night around the same time.

“I know. I’m taking a stroll to catch the last rays and mingle with the night shadows. A little tango with the sunset and a potential chat with the neighborhood cats. Gotta keep these old bones in check.” He chortled. “What are you up to?”

Olivia smiled at his characteristic whimsy; a fox-trot of words frequently accompanied his escapades.

With his shock of white hair, and an endless collection of colorful bow ties, he had a habit of strolling slowly while nodding approval of his surroundings, as if the town were his personal art gallery and he were the sole critic.

“Oh, I’m not up to much, Theodore.” Olivia felt for Lillian’s letter in her apron pocket. “Merely some intriguing mysteries to unfold.”

Theodore swallowed hard, then waved a hand airily. “Ah yes, life does delight in its little enigmas.” He trailed off, his eyes unfocusing as if lost in inflated memories.

“How well do know Lillian Beaumont?” she blurted.

“Ah … beautiful, delightful Lillian.” A tender smile graced his lips. “I used to know her well before she moved away.”

“She moved back.”

“I heard.” He nodded, and she detected a quiver in his voice.

She wondered, not for the first time, what forgotten stories from past decades revolved around his discerning mind. He didn’t inquire about her intriguing mystery, and she didn’t expand on it. Apparently, he wasn’t interested.

After a short interval, his smile returned.

“Alright, good night.” Theodore turned on his heel. “I’m gonna check on my daughter’s bakery next door.”

Although not his biological daughter, Emma had become Theodore’s daughter in spirit, his only family over the years. On many occasions, they spent holidays together.

Olivia wished the scenario would eventually change for Emma, wished she would be able to heal from her mother’s passing. It didn’t mean Emma should exclude Theodore from her life. It simply meant that she needed a healthy relationship with a man she could love.

“Emma closed her bakery after lunch,” Olivia replied.

“I’ll catch her tomorrow, then.” Theodore drifted out the door, humming a romantic melody.

I Love You More Today Than Yesterday.

Sonny the books were organized on their appropriate shelves. However, she couldn’t escape the uncanny sensation of invisible eyes watching her every move.

Flickering candlelight cast dancing phantoms along the aging floorboards. She stepped over and blew out the candles.

Hastily, she gathered her belongings, removed her apron, and slid on her jacket. Each step resonated with the tick-tock of an old clock on the wall, its rhythm adding an ominous undertone to the otherwise peaceful environment.

As she walked outside to activate the security alarm and lock the front door, the letter crinkled softly in her pocket. Streetlamps fought a losing battle against the dense fog draping the town, the feeble glow barely making a dent.

An abrupt clatter of metal cans caused her to spin around. A figure limped out of the alley by the historical society building. As they straightened, she noticed the figure wore a black fedora.

The streetlight caught the wink of what appeared to be cigarette smoke.

Was it possible? Theodore? He was the last person she had seen.

As the figure limped out of sight, she tried to shake off her absurd suspicion. Theodore didn’t limp. Theodore didn’t smoke. Besides, why would the friendly poet be sneaking outside the historical society at this hour?

Then again, he did have a habit of evening wandering.

His connection to the letter was likely nothing. And yet, she wrestled with the idea that he knew more than he let on by his airy dismissal and unconcern.

As the other businesses dimmed their lights, the blossom-scented air took on an enigmatic quality, as if it cradled concealed secrets.

A gusty breeze tousled the awning of Emma’s bakery. The chill seeped through Olivia’s thin jacket as she headed to her apartment on Mistwood Lane.

Uneasy, she quickened her pace, resisting the urge to turn around.

She focused on the majestic outlines of snow-capped mountains in the distance, providing a stunning backdrop. This serene little town was a beautiful setting to call home.

Yet, a shiver traced a delicate path down her spine, refusing to be dismantled.

She scolded herself, banishing the urge to cower.

This was a perfect town.

Perhaps too perfect.