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CHAPTER ONE

Colorado snow was charming in December, as winter was just making herself at home. Rarely was there more than a heavy dusting—a few inches at the outside—and it had the good manners to depart within a day or two. The more insistent snow, the kind that wore out its welcome in a hurry, was reserved for March: the time when every sane person wanted to vacate the state of Colorado in favor of a beach and a rum-based cocktail. Preferably with a magenta paper umbrella in it. Instead, most of us went skiing, which at least made putting up with the snow feel worthwhile.

I loved the wintery whimsy of the tree-lined drive up the mountains, and as I pulled in front of my parents' cabin, I was glad I'd made the trek alone. At least that's what I told myself. I certainly felt relief that Jonathan wasn't turning seven shades of Kermit-the-Frog-green in the passenger seat, but at some point someone would question his absence.

My boyfriend of four years had always hated the windy drive up Highway 36 from Denver, even though he'd always been the one behind the wheel. He was a California boy, lured to Denver by good jobs and scenery. He loved Colorado but was more comfortable in LA gridlock than on a mountain road. He had usually opted out of trips to see my parents since he was so prone to motion sickness, preferring to see them when they came down to the city where we lived and worked. I sensed he was low-key baffled as to why they'd retired to such a place. Yes, it was the gateway to Rocky Mountain National Park. Sure, it had world-class hiking and some of the most stunning mountain views in the world. But a lot of great hiking and scenery could be found elsewhere in the state on four-lane highways that didn't twist like a fine Laguiole sommelier's corkscrew.

He never understood our attachment to Estes, and that was okay. Some things could only be explained by a childhood full of memories. But his barely veiled disdain for the small mountain town was just another reason why our recent split didn't hurt as much as it should have. This place didn't 'have' to be important to him, but it should have mattered that it was important to us. To me. The breakup was ultimately the right decision, but it would bring the conversation to other areas of my life that didn't quite sit well with the rest of the family. I was almost twenty-seven, and they'd all expected me to have graduated culinary school and be well on my way to a Michelin star by now, but I'd subverted their expectations.

I took a steadying breath and went to the cargo area of my nine-year-old Toyota SUV. I hoisted out the heaviest of the boxes, trying not to grunt under the weight of small-batch Hawaiian vanilla pods, ethically sourced cocoa, and a ton of freshly ground almond flour and quinoa for the gluten-free menu at my mother's bakery. Left to haul in was a case of Colorado wine Mom was partial to, a bottle of locally distilled whiskey for Dad, and Avery's favorite truffle chips. Those things weren't for the shop, but rather because my parents had become like family to my vendors.

Dad rushed over from the front porch to relieve me of the box. "Holy cow, shortcake, did you leave any food in Denver?"

I kissed his cheek in greeting before grabbing another load from the cargo area. "A bit. But I have to help Mom replenish her stock of vanilla."

"Just don't let it eat too far into your profit margins, kiddo."

My heart tugged a bit. He wanted to press further, but he wasn't going to because of the holiday. He was always more than a little worried that my niche business ran too close to the red. And some months that was true. But the more time that passed, the larger and more impressive my client list became. I didn't hold my breath when the rent came due anymore, and there was no better feeling than to have that small sense of security.

My little venture was called The Kitchen Muse. I was a food broker but more specialized. I wasn't the person to get you a dozen hundred-pound bags of brand-name flour, but I could be counted on to let you know what farm had the best spinach this year and would drive to Hatch, New Mexico, for a client to ensure the best pickings during green chile season. I liked to consider myself a food matchmaker. If a restaurant or gourmet boutique shop was in need of truffles from a specific region of Italy, I was the girl to call. Closer to home, I could work magic. If a mom-and-pop kitchen out of Boulder was making standout artisanal cheese and charcuterie meats, I would help them find outlets to sell their goods and, hopefully, expand their business. For this reason, my SUV often smelled like a farmers' market stall rather than a store-bought air freshener. And I loved it.