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“Yes.”

“In nineteen thirty-seven?”

With a cocked head, my brow furrows, and I stare at her questioningly. I suppose her father might have been alive then, which would put him in his nineties if he had been the one to purchase it as a grown man and not an infant. But she looks to be in her late thirties or early forties, so it’s unlikelyher father would be that old.

“Hmm?” she turns to look at me and startles. “Oh. Did I say father? I meant grandfather. It was my grandfather's. He was the reason I got into collecting and selling antique items.”

“Oh. Okay.”

What else am I supposed to say? You’re lying? You said father, not grandfather? I don’t know her; maybe she just misspoke.

“So, how do you like it? Is it what you were looking for?”

All mention of fathers and grandfathers is forgotten as I gush over the acoustic guitar in my arms. Strumming across the strings, I play a tune that’s been rolling in my head for a while now but wasn’t something the studio wanted to produce. They always wanted upbeat pop songs, not lovesick ballads that speak to how truly lonely I was . . . am.

“Yes. It is exactly what I am looking for. I’ll take it.”

“Wonderful.”

Handing over the guitar to Shanna, she takes it to the counter to hold while I look around the rest of the store. Although there are many nice things, I don’t need any of them. With the guitar, I’ll have everything I could ever need.

Returning to the register counter, I pay for the guitar of my dreams and wish that my father could be here to see it and hear me play on the guitar, which I only know about because of him. The price for the guitar is far less than it should be, but when I offer to pay more, Shanna just brushes me off and won’t take a penny more than the price on the tag.

I step out of the store with a guitar case in my hand and a smile so wide it hurts my cheeks.

Chapter 8 – Hunter

I really need to stop thinking about Lottie living in my cabin, sleeping in my bed, on the sheets I’ve slept on many times, curled under my grandmother's quilt. Lottie is what we call a no-go zone. Getting involved with a female like her is just asking for trouble. Nope. I’m far better off keeping my distance and leaving her alone.

As I confirmed with Ginger in a very loud argument last night, she's already paid for the cabin for three months. There’s not much I can do about that now. I could kick her out and refund her money; I have the right, but I don’t want to. She seemed to want to be there so badly and didn’t appear to be causing any problems. What’s a few months?

The fact that she’d been there without my knowledge or any gossip reaching me proves that she wants peace and solitude in a location like Snowberry offers.

Lottie Pickle may spell trouble for me personally but for the town? She’s harmless. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to keep tabs on her. You know, for safety purposes. Not because I want to know more about her and possibly hear her captivating voice again. Not at all.

Halfway through my work morning, I realize I need something stronger than the bland brew from the break room coffee pot to get me through the day. As well as something todistract me from the desire to ask Ginger more about the allusive Ms. Pickle.

What a strange last name. How does a person end up with the surname Pickle? Were her ancestors pickle makers? It’s not a common or even typical last name.I bet I could easily find information on her with such an uncommon last name.I wouldn’t even need Ginger to do a simple Google search.

No. I shake the intrusive thoughts out of my head, shaking Lottie out of my daydreams even as I search the street and sidewalks for golden hair, striking blue eyes, and a whiff of her gardenia scent. Telling myself I’m just surveying the streets and nothing more.

This is going to be harder than I thought.

The Ugly Mug comes into view, and I quicken my pace, jogging the last few feet and rounding the corner to the door. You would think fewer people would be in a coffee shop this late in the morning, but you would be wrong. The coffee shop is just as busy now as it would be at eight in the morning. That is to say, about half a dozen people are sitting and drinking hot and cold beverages. It’s a small town, so busy is relative.

I grab one of my usual mugs off the rack on the wall. A large, wide-rimmed cup, the exterior painted to resemble a pastel watercolor rainbow with a gold handle big enough to comfortably fit my larger hands. As a shifter and an alpha at that, I’m a little larger than the average male. So, I don’t care that it’s colorful and “girly.” It gets the job done, and it’s grown on me.

Tobias grins when I place the mug on the counter. He knows what it means when I choose this cup. I need coffee and a lot of it.

“That kind of day, huh?” he asks, ringing me up for whatever he thinks I need to drink today. I trust him to choose for me and don’t question it. The only time I ever choose my own order iswhen I’m trying to remain on schedule and need to get in and out. Then, I stick to my go-to espresso—quick and efficient.

“Yeah. Too many new visitors in town so close to the eclipse.”

Not for the first time, my thoughts venture to the elf wandering around town doing who knows what. So far, he hasn’t stepped out of line, but it’s barely been a couple days since his arrival. If I give it time, he’ll slip up, and I’ll be there to personally escort him out of town when he does.

“Ah, yes. I met our new resident this morning.”

My heart drops to my stomach, thinking he’s talking about the elf. But when I see his mischievous smile, I realize there’s no way that who he’s talking about. Which means he’s referring to…