Page 13 of Dream On, Ramona Riley

She took a breath and turned around, resting her palms on the counter behind her to steady her shaking hands. Olive and April both stared at her, expressions expectant.

“Okay,” Ramona said. “Okay, let’s do it.”

And the battle cry April released could’ve woken the dead.

Thankfully, April hadseveral morning appointments and Marley arrived to pick up Olive, so no one had time to hunker down and create the twenty-point plan April wanted to draft torestart Ramona’s sad little life, as she so eloquently put it. Ramona wasn’t sure how much she wanted Olive involved in the process anyway, as April seemed hell-bent on, well, framing it asrestarting Ramona’s sad little life.

She walked to her shift at Clover Moon alone, glad for the fifteen minutes left to her own thoughts, but as soon as she turned off Birch and onto Lake Street, the world exploded. It was a gorgeous morning anyway—the trees green and lush and still hanging on to their spring blossoms as they got ready for summer, the sky a cerulean blue, the air sweet and fresh. There were even a few rainbow flags fluttering outside of businesses here and there, including the café. A perfect day, by all accounts, but the town itself was a riot of activity.

Chaos, Ramona would even say.

People crowded the sidewalks, their phones out and pointed toward the small green space in the center of the town square where white vans were parked with their back doors thrown open, all manner of film equipment smattering the area. People Ramona didn’t recognize with iPads in their hands and headsets over their ears milled about, calling out orders and huddling around cameras, inspecting the screens and adjusting knobs and buttons.

Ramona froze, her own curiosity creating a flurry inside her chest. She couldn’t help but look around for Noelle Yang’s iconic salt-and-pepper hair, for a rack of clothes, anything to do with costumes, but she didn’t spot anything of note.

At least not yet.

Just knowing Noelle Yang was somewhere in Clover Lake—or would be—was enough to make Ramona’s heart race against her ribs.

Her eyes scanned for another face too…ice-green eyes, pale skin…she realized she had no idea what color Dylan’s hair was right now as she had favored pastels here and there in the past. It was naturally brown, like chocolate or the bark of a maple tree in the rain, and—

Ramona pressed her lips together, tight enough to ache.

Dylan Monroe didn’t matter—she was just an actor, a wild one at that, and Ramona had more important things to focus on. Plans. Aspirations. Goals. And Dylan had nothing to do with any of that.

Nothing at all.

She hurried down the sidewalk toward Clover Moon, squeezing through the rubberneckers and offering up hellos when townsfolk greeted her. Inside the café was just as busy, everyone who’d come out to see the film move into town settling in for a cup of coffee and a plate of Owen’s whoopie pie crepes.

Ramona skirted around the tables, waving when she heard hername, finally making it behind the counter to where Owen was frothing milk at the espresso machine.

“Can you believe this?” he said, but he was smiling.

Owen was approaching fifty and blissfully married to his high school sweetheart and sported a trimmed gray-and-brown beard. His pale head was bald as a cue ball, and he was covered in tattoos, several of which April inked on for him in the last few years. Ramona’s favorite was the spray of wisteria curling down his right forearm to his wrist.

“I can’t,” Ramona said, tying on the apron embroidered with tiny sewing needles and spools of thread Olive had given her two Christmases ago. She clocked in at the register, then scanned the dining room for who might need what. “You want me to take section four?”

Owen topped off the drink he was working on with a foam heart and shook his head. “Not today, no.”

Ramona frowned. “But I always take section four.”

Owen set the mug on the bar, and the coffee was promptly whisked away by Beth, another server who’d started just a few months ago. Ramona smiled at her, then folded her arms at Owen.

“You’re up to something,” she said. “Did April talk to you?”

He laughed. “She talksatme all the time, but in this case, I’m not sure what you mean.”

Ramona sighed. Owen was family to her, an uncle or much older brother, if you will, but he also liked to wax on about Ramona not living up to her full potential and had threatened to fire her on more than one occasion just to get her to leave the proverbial nest.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling her hair back into a low ponytail. “There’s just a lot going on.”

He nodded. “Well, I hate to add to your load, but I’ve got something I need you to do for me.”

She let her arms flop to her sides. “See? Up to something.”

He presented his palms. “It’s strictly business, I swear.”

“Fine. What is it? You need me to find a new bread supplier again? I thought we were going to try to make it in-house?” She dug into her apron pocket and found her pen and order pad, popped off the pen cap, and scribbled on the first page to test the ink. “I told you a million times, I think fresh-baked—”