Page 3 of Will Bark for Pizza (Bluebell Springs #1)

THREE

KIRA

I sped past the bakery and took a sharp right down a street filled with real estate offices, a museum, and a haunted tour guide business that wasn’t there on my last visit. Husker whined in confusion, but I didn’t slow until we left the city limits.

I couldn’t go back to Omaha. Not yet. But I sure as hell wasn’t ready to face anyone. Not even Aspen.

Why did no one fucking tell me?

I wove through backroads until I found the familiar rutted dirt road I’d been running to since I got my learner’s permit. The weathered private road: no trespassing sign greeted me like an old friend.

I turned onto the rough road, grateful that I splurged on my Jeep after my most popular book series went viral on TikTok. This road wasn’t maintained or intended for regular vehicles; I learned that lesson the hard way.

“Connor still gives me shit about towing me out that summer,” I threw over my shoulder to Husker.

But he was back to bouncing from one window to the other, sniffing at the crack of fresh air as he tried to decipher my plan.

It felt so . . . normal. My erratically beating heart calmed.

“But I guess you were there, weren’t you? ”

We’d been together since Husker was nine weeks old, when he was small enough to fit inside a cat carrier and ride under the seat on the plane. He was a hellion of a puppy that summer, when I broke my axle on this so-called road.

A particularly rough bump elicited a grumble from the back seat. My seven-year-old pup was slowly aging into a grumpy old man dog.

“Sorry, Bubbies.”

The road was in worse shape than I remembered. Uncle Karl liked it that way. Left it rough on purpose. He claimed it kept the tourists away from the good side of the lake. Never mind that they rarely sought out the smaller, less exciting lake at all. And when they did, the locals chased them off.

As a kid, I remembered bumpy rides in the backs of pickups. It was a game to hold on and not get thrown from the bed of the truck. Mom hated that game.

A mile and a half later, the smaller, lesser-known Ghost Lake came into view through a clearing of trees.

The road dead-ended at the water. Houses dotted the lake on the opposite side, each one separated by thick forest. Unlike the popular Glimmerstone Lake that was packed with lake houses so close you could reach out your window and touch your neighbor, Ghost Lake was for those locals who preferred a quiet, separate existence.

The backdrop of mountains, lit up by the early evening sun, delivered the serenity I so desperately needed.

Husker, on the other hand, lost his ever-loving mind.

“We’re overdue, don’t you think?” He couldn’t hear me over his excited Husky chatter, demanding I let him out of the Jeep immediately.

I parked near the boat dock I was happy to see still standing.

Even better, it appeared as though someone replaced the rotted planks with fresh ones.

Was Uncle Karl finally staying out at his cabin again after all these years avoiding it?

I chose to believe he was, and it soothed the worst of my frustration.

I clipped a long leash onto Husker’s collar, hooked the handle to the trail hitch so he couldn’t chase any wildlife, and set to work digging out an inflatable paddleboard I nearly didn’t pack.

Because of the dream I had.

I looked up at the sky. “Thanks, Mom.”

Husker watched as I used the hand pump to fill the purple and gold paddleboard we hadn’t put on the water in nearly three years. A gut punch of sadness struck me, but I took a deep breath and willed it away. I’d deal with that emotion another day. I had enough emotions in line ahead of it.

Starting with the frustration I currently felt with my family.

I took out my irritation on the hand pump. I wasn’t able to find my electric one while loading up this morning, and right now I was glad for the manual labor. Husker tilted his head in confusion with each mumbled curse. My anger made the grueling task go faster .

How did no one tell me?

The board was taking shape. It was faded in places, and I was mildly concerned the inflatable board might leak from being neglected all this time. I listened for a hiss of air once it was filled. Nothing. At least, I thought it was nothing. Hard to tell with how hard I was panting.

“It’s good!”

Husker popped to all fours, tail wagging. His excitement was enough to convince me we wouldn’t sink in the middle of the shallow lake. Considering the water was probably sixty-five degrees—sixty-eight if I was lucky—that was a good thing.

As I was putting the hand pump back into the car, my phone rang.

Instantly, Husker’s large ears dropped, and I swore.

I owed this dog a lot for everything he went through with me while I was in what I now referred to as my Dark Ages.

The mere sound of the phone ringing or a text chiming could cause him undue stress.

I’d changed the tones a dozen times, but it didn’t matter.

Husker was reacting to me. Would I ever not tense at the sound of my phone?

Just another reason Travis could go to hell.

“Sorry, Bubbies.” I tapped answer when I recognized the caller.

“Happy twenty-fifth book release!” Lila’s chipper tone sang through the speakerphone. Husker perked at the sound of her voice, earlier stress forgotten. Small wins . “I hope you’re doing something exciting to celebrate.”

“Does paddleboarding count?”

“Come again?”

“I’m about to get on the lake with my paddleboard.

” I feigned nonchalance, but inwardly I felt guilty for keeping yet another secret from yet another person.

Lila Quinn was my personal assistant and currently, the only close friend still treating me like one.

She was the reason anyone even knew about today’s book release, because I sure as hell wasn’t on social media shouting it from the rooftops.

I met her at a local writers’ conference two years ago, and we hit it off immediately. She was a godsend on the marketing that overwhelmed me when my author career really took off. Without her, I’d have drowned long before now.

“Where did you rent a paddleboard?”

“I own one.”

“Since when? And where are you? Standing Bear Lake? I can meet you there in half an hour.”

I let out a heavy breath, deciding it was best to just spit it out. “I’m in Colorado.”

“Colorado?” she repeated. “Is everything okay? Is someone sick? Oh, God, did someone die?”

“Everyone is fine.” Everyone but me . “I had a dream. About my mom.”

“Oh.” Understanding and compassion warmed her tone, stripping it to the equivalent of a verbal side hug. She was one of the few who knew about my Mom dreams and what happened the last time I ignored one. “She wanted you to come home?”

“Yeah, I guess so.” Now, I knew why. But I wasn’t ready to tell Lila the bookstore was closing. I wasn’t ready to face that reality myself.

“You didn’t want to invite your PA?” she asked, tone hinting at hurt and confusion but still hugging me tight. Best PA ever. Best friend . “You know I love a good road trip. And we could’ve gotten some epic social media footage.”

If it hadn’t been for Lila, I’d have no social media presence at all.

“It was super last minute.”

“I can still come meet you out there,” she offered. “Oh! You could do a book signing at your mom’s bookstore! I’ll bring everything. All you have to do is show up and smile.”

I let out a laugh, because we both knew I’d never do it.

I kept my author identity a secret. My profile picture was merely my author logo, and I never posted a single picture on any platform that showed my face.

I liked the anonymity. It’d come in handy when I eventually confessed to my readers that I was done writing paranormal romance.

“Just think about it,” she encouraged.

“No one here even knows I’m Diana Davenport.”

“No one?”

“Just my cousin, Aspen. I’d be mortified if anyone found out what I write.”

“You make it sound like writing sexy vampire romances is some sort of crime,” she chastised.

I couldn’t imagine the book club Mom started before I was born would be excited to find out I wrote paranormal smut. They’d show up to a book signing for Brenda Mason’s daughter, but once they read the first chapter, they’d be horrified and concerned for my soul.

“Trust me, it’s better this way.”

“Promise me if you ever do an in-person event for Diana Davenport that you’ll bring me along. Kidnap me, if you have to. I do not want to miss your coming-out party.”

“I promise.”

It was easier than explaining that I’d never reveal my secret pen name.

Or that my author career as I knew it was about to be on a downward spiral.

I hadn’t dredged an ounce of inspiration since the Big Breakup.

I was almost certain that part of me died a swift death along with the most toxic relationship I’d ever experienced.

The price for peace was high, but I’d happily pay it again.

I’m not sure my readers felt the same way, though.

“How long will you be out of town?” Lila asked.

“Not sure.” I didn’t give much thought to this plan when I loaded the car this morning.

I packed enough clothes, dog food, and reading material to last me a solid ten days.

Being an author had been my full-time job for the past three years, and it afforded me a flexibility I certainly took for granted until now.

I’d miss that the most when the money inevitably ran out and I had to return to reality. Thanks to Lila, I might have a couple of years of freedom ahead of me before that day arrived.

“You okay?” Lila asked, her concern genuine. “Because I can pack a bag and be on the next flight?—”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’ll be okay,” I corrected.

“Is that what the paddleboarding is for?”

“Yeah.” I half dragged, half carried the board to the edge of the shore before digging out the paddle with one hand, and balancing the phone with the other .