“Small skinny vanilla latte.”

“Did you get a name?”

“Nope. I asked, but she said she’d wait for her order at the pick-up counter.”

In other words, the woman wanted to remain anonymous.

Also curious.

While it was possible she was one of the many visitors who dropped into their picturesque town for a few days during the summer months, his gut said otherwise.

And since his people instincts had served him well in his previous profession, there was no reason to discount them now.

So who was she—and what was she doing in Hope Harbor?

Only one way to find out.

“I’ll take care of her.”

“That works. I’ve already got customers.” Bren inclined her head toward the couple waiting for their pound of ground coffee.

Zach called up his friendliest smile and ambled down to the end of the serving counter. “Let me guess—a small skinny vanilla latte.”

The woman did a double take . . . took a step back . . . and gave the shop a quick, nervous scan. As if she was scoping out potential threats.

No worries on that score. There was nothing in The Perfect Blend to raise alarm bells. While several of the tables tucked against the walls and cozied up around the freestanding fireplace in the center were occupied, no one was paying any attention to the new arrival. The customers were all reading newspapers, absorbed in books, or chatting as they enjoyed their drinks and pastries in the Wi-Fi-free environment.

The door behind the woman opened again, nudging her aside.

Charley Lopez entered, his trademark Ducks cap secured beneath the hood of a dripping slicker.

“Sorry, ma’am.” His teeth flashed white against his rich brown skin as he touched the brim of the cap, pushed the hood back to reveal his gray ponytail . . . and gave her an intent look. “I didn’t mean to bump you.”

“No problem.” She dipped her chin and moved aside, putting some distance between them. As if his perusal had spiked her nerves.

“Are you coming in or going out?” Charley maintained his hold on the half-open door.

“Coming in.” Zach answered for her. “I’m betting she’s in the mood for a skinny vanilla latte.”

“Excellent choice.” Charley closed the door.

“Bren will handle your order as soon as she finishes with her customers, Charley.” Zach kept his attention on the stranger.

“No hurry.” The taco-making artist who’d called Hope Harbor home for as long as anyone could remember moseyed toward the counter. “I doubt I’ll have much business at the stand, thanks to our odd weather. August is usually one of the driest months on the Oregon coast.”

“Any day is a perfect day for a Charley’s fish taco.” Zach flashed him a grin.

“I may steal that line. It’d be a great marketing slogan.”