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It was, however, the only one I could solve without confronting the fact that I had nearly kissed Hudson Blackwell beneath the stars, panicked at the last possible second, and fled into the night like a startled raccoon.

The graphic on my screen belonged to a boutique hotel client who’d requested an illustrated map of the surrounding neighborhood. Not a normal map, of course. A normal map would’ve included roads, buildings, and useful directional markers.

This map needed to feel whimsical but upscale, playful but geographically precise, and hand-drawn without appearing handmade.

I had sketched tiny storefronts, trees, street signs, café tables, parked bicycles, flower boxes, and one decorative fountain the client insisted existed despite all available satellite imagery suggesting otherwise. Every object had been organized into carefully labeled groups.

Almost every object.

Two layers near the bottom of the panel were labeled as Layer 147 copy 3 and Layer 147 copy 3 copy.

I clicked the first.

Nothing visible happened.

I turned it off and on several times while staring at the screen with all the concentration I could muster.

Still nothing.

I clicked the second. A small black mark near the hotel vanished.

“Excellent,” I muttered.

I zoomed in.

The mark returned when I enabled the layer. It appeared to be either a shadow beneath a bench or a structural defect in a lamppost. I had created it three nights earlier while working past midnight and apparently decided Future Sloane would enjoy an archaeological challenge.

Future Sloane did not.

I renamed the first layer MYSTERY PROBLEM ONE and the second MYSTERY PROBLEM TWO, which failed to solve anything.

My phone was facedown beside the keyboard. I had checked it twelve times since waking up. Hudson had texted last night after I’d forgotten to tell him I’d arrived safely.

Hudson: Made it home?

Sloane: Yes. I survived the mountain roads and only considered driving into a ravine twice.

Hudson: That’s not funny.

His next text had come in at eight thirty this morning.

Hudson: I had a good time last night.

I’d stared at that one for several minutes before answering.

Sloane: Me too.

It was painfully inadequate. The man had opened up about his father, trusted me with the reason he worked himself into the ground, listened to me confess things about my parents that I’d never shared with another living soul, nearly kissed me, respected my retreat without making me feel guilty, and then hugged me in a way my body was still replaying.

Me too.

Hudson had reacted with a heart emoji and nothing else.

That should’ve reassured me. Instead, I spent the morning wondering whether the heart meant warmth, affection, politeness, or acknowledgment that he’d simply received my deeply nuanced two-word review.

I returned to the layers panel just as a knock sounded at my apartment door.

I froze.