Bill knocks on the door a few minutes after I’ve entered. I usher him in, trying to block out his repentant, beaten-dog look. Sorry, Bill, too little, too late. We both know what’s about to happen, and at least he doesn’t make it more difficult than it needs to be.

  Once Bill is gone, I sit at the table and connect my laptop to the satellite Wi-Fi link. I google ‘Mayor Emerald Creek’ and wait for the results to load with a beating heart. The City Hall website is the first hit. I click on it.

  An official dot Gov page opens up titled: Mayor Theodore Abraham Hunt. No pictures. I stare at the surname, wondering if Emerald Creek is one of those small towns where everyone is related to each other. Probably. I shrug and read the rest.

  Mayor Hunt is the chief executive of the City of Emerald Creek.

  Pompous. That’s an introduction worthy of the president. The institutional rambling of the page continues to inform all interested citizens that the city’s thirty-fourth mayor was sworn into office six months ago.

  The recent appointment might be why they haven’t put up a picture yet, seeing how swift and efficient they are at handling paperwork.

  As mayor, Hunt is responsible for the city workforce of over thirty employees and an annual budget exceeding $5 million. After attending St. Mary’s High School and the University of Notre Dame, Mayor Hunt attained his law degree from Columbia University. Mayor Hunt is making government the best it can be for residents and businesses by demonstrating a commitment to engagement, innovation, and performance.

  Uh-huh, Mr. Mayor, you’re the boss man.

  I skip the remainder of his boastful CV as it’s just a sequence of one self-celebratory statement after the other.

  Whatever. Whoever the elusive Theodore Abraham Hunt might be, he won’t know what’s hit him once I’m done dealing with him.

  Between handling Bill and the unfruitful online stalking of the mayor, I need a palate cleanser. I make a cup of coffee, but as the first sip of the dark liquid comes in contact with my tongue, the blend tastes so awful that I spit it back out into the kitchenette sink.

  I clean the mess and stalk out of the trailer, intent on finding a good cup of coffee.

  One of Bill’s deputies, Cameron, passes me on the way to the barn, driving a golf cart, and nods at me. “Boss.”

  “Cameron, stop.”

  The man hits the brakes and pulls up next to me. “Yes?”

  “First off, you’re promoted to Chief Location Manager. Bill is gone and I need you to pick up his slack.”

  “Of course, thank you.” Cameron nods, with an expression not too dissimilar to the one his former boss had in my trailer a few minutes ago. The man looks as though I’m firing him, too, instead of having just promoted him.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “You start with a clean slate. I won’t hold you accountable for any past delays. I plan on sorting the situation with the mayor tomorrow, and once I secure the permits, it’s on you to make sure everything proceeds smoothly from there on.”

  Finally, he smiles. “Thank you for the opportunity.”

  I wave him off. “You know what they say about Hollywood?”

  He raises a skeptical eyebrow at me.

  “There are only three ways to move up your number on the call sheet. If someone above you A, gets fired, B, quits, or C, goes off to rehab.”

  “I thought that only applied to actors?”

  “No, staff, too.”

  Cameron chuckles. “Duly noted. Anything else I can help you with?”

  “Yes,” I sigh. “Please tell me where to find good coffee on set.”

  He points behind his back with a thumb. “The one in the barn is pretty decent.” Then, putting a hand to the side of his mouth as if he’s about to tell a secret, he adds, “But I’ve heard rumors Christian Slade has a cappuccino maker at his cabin.”

  Christian is my lead superstar. I could catch two birds with one stone and drop by to say hi.

  “Is the cabin far?”

  “No, it’s one of the closer ones.” Cameron pats the empty seat next to him on the golf cart. “I can give you a ride.”

  I climb onto the cart. “Thanks.”

  We ride down the hill and move on to flat ground until we reach Christian’s cabin. Cameron parks next to two other carts and waits for me to get off before asking, “You want me to wait for you?”

  “No, thanks, I can take one of these back. I should be able to find my way around. But let’s meet at my trailer in about”—I check my watch—“two hours? I want to go over our applications and check that everything is in order. Could you also dig up city regulations, and county and state laws? Tomorrow, I want to walk into City Hall ready for any kind of ambush.”

  Cameron frowns. “Ambush? You expect foul play?”

  “What I don’t expect is for these delays to be casual. The mayor’s stalling seems deliberate. We have to find out what his agenda is. And I want to be prepared. Make sure the paperwork is spotless and that City Hall doesn’t have any legal ground to deny our applications.”

  “I’ll dig up every town ruling on public space permits. See you in a couple of hours.” Cameron waves and reverses the cart, heading toward the barn.

  Christian’s cabin is a brown log building with a porch. I walk up the front steps and ring the bell.

  A thin, tall man with dark hair and dark eyes comes to answer the door. He’s wearing black pants and a black shirt with a white cooking apron on top.

  “Jeff, hi,” I greet him, recognizing Christian’s personal chef from previous occasions Christian had to be on location for extended periods.

  “Miss Baker, how nice to see you again.”

  “Is Christian in?” I ask.

  “Yes, he and Miss Lana are having breakfast on the back patio.”

  “Is it okay if I join them?”

  “Sure.” He steps aside to let me in. “Would you like anything to drink?”

  “If you could make me a vanilla latte, you’d become my new best friend.”

  “Something to eat as well?”

  “No, thanks, my landlady is already stuffing me worse than a Thanksgiving turkey.”

  “Oh, please, you look as fabulous as always.”

  “Well, I’ve only been here a day.”

  Jeff escorts me across the small but cozy living room and opens the sliding French doors, announcing me. “Mr. Slade, you have a visitor.”

  Christian, tall, blond, blue-green eyed, turns toward the doors and unleashes his million-dollar smile on me. “Sam!”

  We hug.

  Lana stands up as well and hugs me next. “What a surprise. We didn’t expect you until wrap time.” She and Christian got married last year but had been good friends since working together on the set of another one of my movies. A sci-fi flick that was instrumental in reuniting them after an emotional breakup.

  “Well, yes,” I say. “That was the plan. But filming will never end if things keep going at this snail’s pace. So here I am, ready to wave my magic super-producer wand and fix everything.”

  “How long are you staying?” Lana asks.

  I sigh. “Until the last cut.”

  Christian flashes me a teasing grin. “Gosh, you must be dying. Won’t all the fresh air kill you?”

  “Ha, ha,” I say. Christian knows how much of a city girl, and New York fanatic, I am.

  Jeff arrives with my latte in a steaming cup.

  I take a sip and melt at how good it tastes. I raise the mug. “This coffee is a saving grace.”

  Jeff bows. “Much obliged.” He collects a few dirty plates and bowls from the table and leaves.

  I take another life-preserving sip of latte and ask, “Besides the production delays, how’s everything else?”

  “Oh, I love Emerald Creek,” Lana jumps in to say. She caresses the table. “This is my office and you can’t beat that view.” I stare at the green hills and pastures with no sign of human intervention and silently disagree. “Plus, I can take the longest walks from the cabin. Just around that hill, there’s a trail that goes straight to the Potawatomi Waterfall. It only takes two hours, and the view from on top is even better. We can do the hike together one day if you want to go.”

  That sounds like my idea of hell on earth. Still, I say, “Thank you. Maybe, I don’t know how much free time I’ll get.”

  Christian chuckles. He knows I’d never voluntarily submit to hiking.

  “What about the rest of the cast?” I ask. “Are you getting along with your co-star? I heard she’s AWOL.”

  Christian winces. “Eh, I’ve had worse.”

  “But you’ve also had better,” I say. “Sorry. Chelsea Moreno wasn’t my first choice either, but she polls too well with the viewers.”

  “No, she’s perfect,” Lana says, surprising me.

  “Oh?”

  Lana grins. “I prefer Christian’s co-stars a little nasty. Sorry, but I’ll never get used to seeing my man kissing someone else, even if it’s totally fake. At least if they’re horrible people, I don’t feel threatened.”

  “You wouldn’t be threatened even if my co-star were an angel,” Christian says, grabbing her hand from the table and kissing her knuckles.

  These two are so sweet I want to gag.

  “Okay, lovebirds,” I say, getting up. “I’ve indulged in the scenic views enough. Time to get to work. Chris.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Just a heads up, I’ve convinced Lionel to shoot the barn scene early, in case you need to do any prepping.”

  Christian wiggles his phone at me. “Yep, got the alert. We have an actor reading tonight. I guess the late timing is to give Chelsea enough time to get back.”

  “Yes, my minions are tracking her down as we speak. I’ll see you peeps later, and let me know if you need anything.”

  Outside the cabin, I head for the parked golf carts. I’m about to jump onto one when I stare back toward my trailer. The rectangular structure is visible in the distance. Considering the double slice of French toast I had for breakfast, I should probably walk. I still have an hour before I have to meet with Cameron and, as much as I technically despise walking for its own sake, it’s also good exercise. Plus, my workout got cut short this morning, so…

  I consider my pumps. Maybe not the best hiking gear, true. But no cows around, so it should be safe from the worst terrain hazards.

  I’m halfway down the road when my phone chimes with a text from Taylor.

  From Taylor

  How’s Indiana so far?

  Before I reply, another message comes in from Holly.

  From Holly

  Met any hot cowboys yet?

  An image of a shirtless Travis Hunt pops into my head. But I refuse to acknowledge the guy, even if it’s only in a text to my best friends.

  To Taylor, To Holly

  So far, only an actual cow named Betsy and Hildi the goat

  Taylor sends a perplexed emoji, followed by another text.

  From Taylor

  Those are oddly specific names

  To Taylor, To Holly

  What can I say? People name their cattle around here

  As I stumble down the hill, my left heel gets caught in a patch of wet mud. I curse under my breath and struggle to free my foot. The heel comes out caked in mud. I snap a pic and hop to the side of the road to clean my shoe in the grass. I send Taylor and Holly the photographic evidence of my wretchedness.

  To Taylor, To Holly

  Sorry gals, I have to go. Apparently, I can’t walk and text at the same time or I might get caught in another quicksand

  Holly sends her usual positive vibes.

  From Holly

  Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad. I googled Emerald Creek, and it seems like a lovely town

  To Taylor, To Holly

  Easy for you to say when your heels only meet blessed, solid concrete

  I’m already fed up with all this nature

  Haven’t been downtown yet, though

  I’m going tomorrow, will send an update

  6

  EVERYTHING COMES TO HER WHO WAITS

  The mayor’s office opens at nine, allowing me plenty of time to prepare. After an early workout, I convince Willette one scone is enough to meet all my dietary needs—if not more—then I shower and get dressed for war.

  No occasion has ever called for a power suit more than today. At the cost of being banal, I opt for an all-black set. A clean-cut jacket with a silk satin sleeveless blouse underneath and skinny, straight pants. Very classy, very elegant, hyper-professional.

  For footwear, however, I take a little more creative license. Nature might have not provided me with spikes, but thankfully, Christian Louboutin rectified that mistake. I wear my five-inch heel, studded pumps. The final touch is to apply matte-red lipstick to match the soles of my shoes.

  Jerry comes to pick up Celia just as I’m ready to drive away. My assistant will be my eyes and ears at the compound while I’m gone. Before leaving, I double-check with Jerry that I understood the directions to get into town correctly. He repeats them to me one more time while also assuring me I only have to get a couple of turns right before I cross over a creek and into a land where satellite systems will resume functioning. I follow his instructions and as I pass over an old wooden bridge with flaking paint, the map app miraculously stops loading, and the reassuring ‘woman from the valley’ voice instructs me to turn left.

  As Jerry predicted, I reach the ‘city’ center in fifteen minutes. The town square is for pedestrians only, and the street I’m on has no free parking spots. I make a few loops on the adjacent streets until a gray truck turns on the blinker. I pull up ahead, and once the car’s gone, reverse into the spot.

  In New York, I don’t drive and I’m out of practice. So it takes me a few maneuvers to back into the space properly. When I get out of the truck to check the result, it’s far from perfect. The pickup is skewed to the left and the front tire doesn’t exactly fit into the parking limit line, but it’s the best I can do. Plus, I’m already sweating more than with my earlier workout, and I’d prefer to get to the mayor’s office in a presentable state.

  The street is lined with parking meters. I take out my credit card to pay for a few hours of parking—who knows how long the mayor will make me wait—but when I approach the column, there’s no card slot or wireless sticker to signal where I should place the card for contactless payment. Confused, I study the meter. There’s only a coin slot with a turning lever. Could… could this be one of those ancient mechanical-only meters?

  I snap a picture and send it to my friends captioned:

  To Taylor, To Holly

  Have I suddenly stepped into the eighties?

  Holly gets back to me right away.

  From Holly

  Perfect, now all you need is a Jake Ryan

  To Taylor, To Holly

  Correction: all I need now is coins!

  I don’t have any on me. Already exasperated, I get back into the truck and search the glove compartment, cup holders, and under the seats for any spare change. I come up with a grand total of three quarters and ten cents. Mmm, probably not enough.

  I check my wallet and find a five-dollar bill. In New York, I haven’t used cash in I can’t remember how long. Heck, I haven’t used a credit card in months. I pay for everything with my phone.

  Now I need to find a place where I can change the fiver. On this street, there’s only a FedEx, a bike rental, and a closed restaurant. I lock the truck and walk along the curb to reach the main square. Here, fanned out around the wide circle of the plaza, the shops overlook a fountain in the middle. Flower beds full of anemones and multi-colored sweet peas are interspersed with wrought iron and wooden benches. And a large maple wood gazebo, probably used for public celebrations, sits at the edge of the square.

  At the corner of the next crossroads, a blue-and-white striped awning catches my eye. I head in that direction, hoping for a coffee shop.

  The establishment turns out to be more of a diner. As I walk in, the bell above the door chimes with the notes of an Elvis song. The fifties vibe is replicated by the interior. Not by design, I suspect, but simply as the result of the place not being renovated since it was built.

  A portly woman in her early sixties is updating the day’s specials on a blackboard behind the counter.

  I approach her. “Hello, do you serve coffee?”

  “Morning, dear, yeah, sure. Would you like a cup?”

  “Oh perfect, I’ll take a skinny vanilla latte with soy milk, easy on the foam, and with a double sugar-free vanilla syrup pump, please.”

  The woman blinks at me. She grabs a pot from the auto-drip coffee maker behind her and pours the dark liquid into a nondescript white mug. “Honey, we got coffee, black.” Then she points at the counter. “Sugar is in the jar, creamer in the basket.”

  I search the pods for a vanilla flavored one and I’m thrilled when I find it. “Do you have any sweetener?”

  The woman begrudgingly hands me a packet of Sweet’N Low. “That’ll be a dollar fifty.”

  I hand her my bill and collect the coin change.

  With the addition of the creamer and sweetener, the coffee is drinkable. I gulp it down in a few long sips and head out of the diner.

  Back at the truck, I feed all the coins I’ve amassed to the meter. At a fare of two dollars an hour, the spoils of my scavenger hunt grant me a little over two hours of street parking. Busy or not, the mayor had better receive me.