Page 2 of Revival in Laurel Valley

The first spark of interest Grant had felt in months flickered to life. “What’s her story?”

“Name’s Liza Carmichael. Her great-aunt Rose passed a few weeks back and left her Heavenly Delights.” Blaze settled his hat on his head. “Rose Baker ran that place for fifty years. This town won’t be the same without her.”

“The baker was named Baker?”

“Yeah, life’s funny that way.” Blaze headed for the door. “Liza’s made it clear she’s only here long enough to sell and move on. Los Angeles, last I heard.”

“Perfect,” Grant said, grabbing his jacket. “Neither of us is staying.”

“That’s what worries me.” Blaze’s gaze caught on Grant’s scar. “You’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re about to do something stupid.”

Grant followed him out into the cold March morning. The wind cut through his jacket, carrying the scent of pine and snow from the mountains. Laurel Valley spread out before them—all peaked roofs and flower boxes, tourists in designer ski wear, money and privilege wrapped up in small-town charm.

“I thought you said she was trouble,” Grant said.

“She is. Which is exactly why you’re interested.” Blaze started walking toward downtown. “Just remember—you’re supposed to be lying low, getting your head on straight. Not getting tangled up with a woman who drives like a NASCAR reject.”

But Grant was already hooked. Trouble was exactly what he needed.

Liza Carmichael brought in the first load of boxes and bakery bags and then leaned against the counter of Heavenly Delights and surveyed the damage. Half her inventory was gone—cleaned out by resort executives grabbing artisanal lattes before strategy meetings, yoga instructors fueling up on gluten-free scones, and the handful of locals who still remembered when this bakery had been the heart of the community instead of just another tourist stop.

She’d had to put the closed sign up and run to the catering supply shop to restock. Lesson learned.

She’d been up since 4 a.m., her hands moving through the familiar rhythms Aunt Rose had taught her all those summers ago. Braiding dough, folding butter into croissants, coaxing sugar and cinnamon into something that made people believe in magic before breakfast.

Her arms ached. Her feet hurt in her rhinestone-studded boots—but she had an image to maintain. She’d already heard whispers of the wild child running the bakery. She’d been called worse things. Truth be told, she kind of liked the moniker.

She sighed. She still had another full batch of supplies in her car. But she went ahead and unlocked the front door and turned the open sign on.

“Come on feet,” she muttered to the empty bakery, “just a little longer.”

The back door of Heavenly Delights opened onto the parking lot that served the shops along this section of Main Street. Even here, behind the scenes, Laurel Valley maintained its standards—neatly maintained asphalt, wooden planters filled with evergreens that stayed lush year-round, wrought-iron lampposts that matched the ones on Main Street. Shop owners and the people who lived in the apartments above the stores parked here, away from the picturesque cobblestone pedestrian streets that made tourists reach for their cameras. It was the working side of downtown, practical and functional, but still unmistakably Laurel Valley.

March wind hit her the moment she stepped outside, sharp enough to make her eyes water. The kind of cold that reminded her this wasn’t Vancouver or New York, where you could duck into a Starbucks every few blocks. This was Idaho mountain country, where spring arrived on its own schedule and didn’t care about anyone’s preferences.

Liza’s bright red BMW sat in her designated spot. She popped the trunk and stared at the rest of the supplies. She groaned. She’d thought she could get the rest in one more trip.

A car door slammed nearby, and Liza turned to see Raven O’Hara emerging from her sleek black SUV.

Raven looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine instead of a parking lot at nine in the morning. Dark hair fell in waves past her shoulders, catching the sunlight, and she wore a flowing silk caftan in swirls of turquoise and purple over fitted black pants, the fabric moving around her like water with every step. Thick gold hoops gleamed in her ears, and her wrists were loaded with bangles that chimed like distant bells.

Liza had to admire the commitment to style. Not many women could pull off bohemian chic at 9 a.m. in a parking lot, but Raven made it look effortless. But it was her eyes that always caught people—crystalline blue, the kind of blue you saw in mountain lakes on postcards, sharp and warm at the same time. Eyes that saw everything and somehow still made you feel welcome.

The first real friend Liza had made when she’d rolled into town three weeks ago with a lawyer’s letter and absolutely no plan beyond trying not to have a complete breakdown.

“Oh thank God,” Raven called out, her voice carrying across the parking lot. “Please tell me you have more cinnamon rolls in there. I’ve been dreaming about them since yesterday.”

“I have a couple I put aside, but they’re for paying customers,” Liza said, unable to stop her smile.

“I’m about to pay in services. We’ll call it even.” Raven came over to the car and looked in the trunk. “Well, let’s get to it. They’re not going to move themselves.”

“I can handle it⁠—”

“Sure you can. Right after you win the Olympic weight-lifting competition.” Raven grabbed three boxes without waiting for permission, balancing them against her hip with the ease of someone who regularly hauled designer merchandise. “I’ve got maybe twenty minutes before Tess shows up to help me open, which means we do this now and I get to pick out whatever I want from your bakery case.”