Page 1 of Will Bark for Pizza (Bluebell Springs #1)

ONE

KIRA

When the going gets tough, the tough choose sugar. Every single time.

At least, that was my philosophy. The half-eaten frosted sugar cookie sitting in my passenger seat could attest. The cookie was the size of a deep-dish pizza when we left Omaha eight hours ago.

To be fair, I didn’t eat all of it. Husker wore a purple frosting smudge on the side of his nose that his lolling tongue hadn’t yet discovered.

The overstimulated Alaskan Husky, who was currently pacing the back seat of my Jeep like a caged lion, didn’t need the sugar boost. But we shared everything that was deemed dog-safe. It was an unwritten rule.

We were a pack, he and I.

Narcissistic losers need not apply.

The dashboard was covered in dog hair, the windshield was splattered with the corpses of flying insects, and I hadn’t turned on the radio since the backdrop of mountains appeared on the hazy horizon. Travis would have complained about all of it.

“Asshole,” I muttered.

Husker’s pacing came to an abrupt halt with the single word, a sloppy substance that hinted at dog breath smacking my cheek. He stared at me expectantly, head tilting.

“Not you, Bubbies.” I wiped away the drool with the back of my hand before I could overthink it. “Never you.”

We maintained eye contact in the rearview mirror for an extra-long beat before he resumed his pacing. I was so damned lucky I had him, this wonderful, quirky, lovable dog. He’d saved me, in more ways than one. Especially these past couple of years.

No matter what happened once we hit the town limits of Bluebell Springs, at least I had Husker as an ally.

The thought created a lump in my throat. I didn’t know what to expect with this unannounced visit. Would we be welcomed with open arms or met with disapproving glares? Suddenly, I wanted another bite of cookie.

As though in tune with my craving, Husker jerked his attention to the passenger seat, leaning his chest into the net I’d bungeed between the front seats.

It was supposed to discourage his notorious habit of standing on the center console, like a lion appraising his pride lands.

But that didn’t stop him from stretching his neck as far over the top of the netting as he could, his nose pointed expectantly at the snack in the passenger seat.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?”

His big brown eyes flickered from the cookie to me with an air of incredulity that rivaled any human I knew. Probably a good thing dogs couldn’t talk. The words were written all over his face. Stupidest question ever, Mom.

He had a point.

I reached over, fingers digging beneath the plastic covering, and Husker’s mouth clapped shut on a held breath.

“Easy,” I warned, breaking off a piece for us to share.

The giant cookie was the last thing I picked up in Omaha before we hit the road this morning.

Even if my life was imploding, I wasn’t going to mess with tradition.

I wasn’t all the way superstitious, but I was enough.

I didn’t want to add some weird curse to the list of shit I still had to fix.

I needed this book launch to go well. It was very likely my last.

Besides, it was a damn delicious cookie. To be honest, I was surprised there was any of it left after eight hours on the road. Maybe I’d spent more time clutching the steering wheel for dear life than stuffing my face with sweets.

Small wins.

“Well?” I said to Husker, who was still standing. He knew the rules.

He immediately plopped his butt down in the center of the back seat, waiting for his portion.

I took a bite right out of the purple frosted B of Books , glancing in the rearview at Husker’s reaction.

His spine straightened, eyes shining with genuine concern.

Whether that was for my oversized bite or his fear of not getting his fair share was up for debate. Either way, he looked so damned cute.

I smiled, relieved that after the hell I endured, I could once again find joy in the little things. I broke off a tiny corner of the dessert and tossed it over my shoulder. Husker caught the terrible throw as though he’d been training for this all his life. Really, he had.

To be fair, the cookie was to die for. But the sugar sat a bit heavier in my stomach as we passed a green road sign announcing my hometown was a mere five miles ahead.

The mountains were no longer just background.

When had they snuck up on me? The tree-covered layer of mountains closest to the water felt close enough to reach out the window and touch.

The snow-dusted layers behind them were no longer white smudges, but distinct patterns.

A silent declaration that the point of no return was fast approaching.

Fuck . Was I really ready to face all this?

The urge to turn around gripped me, but I fought through it. I replayed the dream to drown out the impulse of running. Mom wouldn’t summon me home if it wasn’t important. At least, I hoped that’s why I’d dreamt of her last night.

Husker, typically the world’s quietest Husky unless pizza was involved, started to whine, his excitement escalating.

It didn’t matter that we were still three miles from the fork in the road; he recognized the landmarks.

The marina with the pontoon rentals, the enormous house perched on the highest hill this side of Glimmerstone Lake, the metal statue of a moose at the edge of a driveway that Husker always found suspicious.

Guilt gnawed at me. Bluebell Springs was hands down his favorite place, and we hadn’t been back since Aspen’s wedding last summer.

We hadn’t been much of anywhere .

Cracking the back windows diverted Husker’s attention away from the cookie, and shifted my guilt to more manageable levels. He resumed pacing at twice his previous frenzied speed, darting from window to window every few seconds, as though he didn’t want to miss a single scent.

I slowed, much to the annoyance of the car behind me, who took the first opportunity to pass on the narrow, winding road.

Damn tourist. Husker deserved to take in all the smells.

Fur swirled around the interior of my Jeep, forcing me to also roll down the front windows, just so I could see the road ahead.

Maybe I should call Dad, and warn him I was coming.

I glanced at the dashboard screen. My fingers hovered above the call button for several seconds before falling away. “I think it’s better to surprise him, right?”

And everyone else.

Husker didn’t answer me. He was too busy freaking out.

He recognized the familiar fork up ahead. Left, and you drove through downtown Bluebell Springs, accessing all the touristy shops and local businesses. Or, take the right, and bypass the main strip in favor of a straight shot to Glimmerstone Lake.

The painted wood sign surrounded by a colorful array of flowers had welcomed residents, newcomers, and tourists alike to my hometown for decades.

It was disarmingly stationed in the center of the fork, but angled just a bit to the left—as though beckoning anyone headed toward the bypass to reconsider a visit to the small town before heading out to the popular lake.

The sign grew bigger through my windshield at an alarming rate.

Anxiety officially set in, my chest heavier. I felt my throat close. But before full-on panic hit, a fiber of dog hair tried its damnedest to sneak up my nose, and I sneezed.

An odd reset button, but I wasn’t complaining.

My eyes squinted shut for a fraction of a second, but when they re-opened, my gaze landed on Kat’s Place, right on the outskirts of the fork. The parking lot was three-quarters full, a notable sign that tourist season was well underway.

My stomach twisted into a knot. I was ninety percent certain I was still on the do not serve list.

I wouldn’t miss the drinks. After Travis, I no longer touched alcohol. But I’d certainly miss the burgers and crisp French fries seasoned with what I could only describe as crack.

“Here we go,” I said to Husker, tapping the brake to slow us down, and taking the left fork into downtown.

I didn’t know how this was going to unfold. I didn’t exactly leave town on great terms last summer. I said plenty of mean, fucked-up things under the mixed influence of heartbreak and the bride’s special cocktail.

“They never should’ve given me that microphone,” I mumbled. Though Aspen had forgiven me, I’m not sure anyone else did. How could I blame them? It was quite possible that the second my tires hit asphalt downtown, I’d get a police escort right back out, courtesy of my oldest brother.

But I had to risk it.

Mom hadn’t been in my dreams in months. She’d been gone for four years now, and I could count on both hands the number of times she appeared in my dreams since the day we lost her. Each time, something significant happened. Sometimes good. Sometimes really fucking bad.

Now, when she showed up, I paid attention.

I hoped Dad was okay. That my brothers weren’t in any trouble. Oh God, I hoped nothing had happened to my niece.

“Connor would’ve called me,” I reassured Husker. Which of course made his ears perk with interest. He loved both of my brothers; he loved my niece even more. “Or, at least, someone would have called me.”

I glanced at my dashboard screen again, tempted to make the call and just rip off the Band-Aid, but my fingers didn’t move from their death grip on the steering wheel.

In my dream, I lay flat on my back on a paddleboard in the middle of the smaller, lesser-known Ghost Lake. Husker was perched on the end of my board, relaxed and taking in the sights and smells.

Mom floated on a board next to me. Books floated all around us. So many books.

It was magical and incredibly peaceful. I had so many things I wanted to say to her, but I was so comfortable just lying there, the sun warm on my skin, the gentle rock of small waves tranquil. I stayed silent. It was enough just to have her near again.

But then the wind picked up.

The calm waters turned choppy.

One by one, the books sank below the surface.

I sat up on the board, watching entire stacks of books plummet right through the water. Mom locked eyes with me for a single beat, her expression pleading.

And then, she disappeared.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

After that dream, I felt compelled to come back home. So much so that I started packing in the middle of the night. Husker was not pleased. He liked his lazy mornings. But he liked the threat of being left behind even less, so he stayed glued to my side as I paced around my apartment, filling bags.

I could hardly fathom that Mom had been gone for so long. I yearned for a few lazy days hanging out in her bookstore, reading in the corner nook, soaking up the sunlight. Lazy bookstore days were the cure to life’s toughest ailments—skinned knees, disappointing news, and broken hearts.

“Add a mini life crisis to that list,” I mumbled as we passed what the locals called Gift Shop Alley, eyes peeled for my brother, the police chief.

He liked to park in the alleys, barely noticeable until it was too late to hit your brakes without him noticing.

Luke wouldn’t hesitate to pull me over in a heartbeat.

His grumpiness knew no bounds, on the best of days.

If he was in a bad mood, he might just find a reason to arrest me.

“At least Aspen doesn’t hate me,” I said the words over my shoulder, in Husker’s general direction. But he was too focused on a golden retriever walking past Bert’s Shirts to hear me.

Aspen was the rarest, most wonderful kind of friend.

It’s why I set my sights on her bakery down the street. I certainly didn’t need more sweets, but I craved a friendly face before my family got hold of me.

A block from Frosted Peaks, I noticed a new pizzeria beside the veterinary clinic.

Its sign was purple and whimsical, set against the typical log planks that adorned nearly every business exterior in town.

Pizza Patty’s. The logs had a freshness to them, as though they were recently re-stained.

They glowed like toasted marshmallows against the sunlight.

The place looked busy, and there was a water bowl outside its door. Dog friendly . I hoped I’d be in town long enough to try it. The way Husker stationed himself at the window, hoovering up great whiffs of pepperoni-scented air, suggested he did, too. That dog lived for pizza.

Before I could catch a glimpse of the patio that snaked around the corner of the building, my gaze snagged on a large window sign directly across the street. The bold red letters seemed to reach into my chest, twist around my heart, and squeeze, like a woman giving birth with no drugs.

Going Out of Business Sale .

My foot slammed on the brake in the middle of Main Street.

I couldn’t breathe.

My throat closed, as though hands were strangling it shut.

I stared at the sign in red letters, taking up more than half the display window of Brenda’s Book Nook, and I couldn’t fucking breathe.

What the hell?

Communication with my family certainly dwindled over the past year, but it wasn’t nonexistent. No one had said a damn thing about Mom’s bookstore fucking closing .

Husker whined from the back seat as dog hair drifted around me, as though someone had shaken up a snow globe. I felt frozen in time, stuck in a moment I wanted no part of. Why the hell did no one tell me?

I gripped the steering wheel tighter, certain it was the only thing keeping me from a waterfall of tears and a bloodcurdling scream sure to alert the entire town.

The dream suddenly made a lot of sense.

Someone honked behind me, and I hit the gas.