I glared at him. He glared back.

“Thanks, Tessa. You’re the best.”

I stroked a hand over her flyaway hair. “No problem, Hay-bear. I need to get to work, but I’ll see you later, okay?”

She nodded and hauled the bad-tempered cat away.

Snatching up my bag, I hurried down the street. Late. So late.

A brisk wind tugged at my hair. Summer was just about to hand over to fall. I grinned. I loved the fall in Colorado. I loved when the aspens turned yellow, and I could pull out my favorite throw blanket that my aunt had knitted for me. Not to mention my gorgeous collection of scarves and hats.

Also, I had pale skin, so summer didn’t agree with me. If I spent too much time in the sun, I turned a lovely shade of virulent pink, then once the sunburn passed, I went back to pale. I couldn’t tan, and I’d tried, lots of times. As a teenage girl, all I’d wanted were boobs, long legs, and tanned skin. I’d gotten one out of three.

“Morning, Tessa,” a woman called out from across the street. She was watering her garden.

“Morning, Mrs. Mitchell.” I waved.

I pretty much knew all the locals in town. I’d been born and raised here. Windward, Colorado—my hometown—was the best place in the world to live.

Yes, I was a little biased.

Windward was nestled in the Rocky Mountains, a few hours from Denver. I’d grown up skiing in the winter, hiking in the summer, and loving the heck out of every season. I’d ventured to Denver for college, but I always knew I’d come back. Windward never felt too small. With exceptional skiing and scenery, excellent resorts and restaurants, not to mention some fabulous shopping, we had tourists from all over the globe visit. It was like the whole world came to us.

Best of all, I got to manage the best hotel in town—the Windward Mountain Resort. I thrived on making sure things ran perfectly and my guests had a memorable visit. Then, after work, I could leave the fancy center of town for the eastern side of Windward that the locals called home. The hotels and high-end condos gave way to cute, little houses. I could kick off my heels and snuggle up in my little cottage and putter around my garden.

Okay, I honestly didn’t get much time to putter, but I didn’t mind.

“Heya, Tessa.”

I waved. “Hi, Mr. Schmidt.” The local baker was making his rounds to the cafés, delivering his baked goods. He’d been doing it since I was a kid, and his honey cakes were the best this side of the Rockies.