“As much as I love that you’re out of your house and living independently, we’d have more privacy if it wasn’t a room at the inn.” Chiara’s nose wrinkles as she looks around.

“It’s a suite.” I cross my arms over my chest, ready to defend my beloved place. I moved here six months back after a long and exhausting round of convincing my family. “Plus, it has its own perks.” I motion toward the spread before us. It was Mexican night at the inn.

“That’s so true!” Chiara squeals. “Why would anyone cook when you can be inside Suzie St. Hill’s kitchen in two steps?”

“Exactly.”

She clears her throat. “But coming back to him. Do you remember the day you first found out about him? We’d sneaked out for the concert.”

“Of course. It was the first time I ever passed out.”

2. Autumn

2

AUTUMN

Six years ago

I lock my bike to the fence and hang my school bag over my shoulder, prancing toward the inn, my second home. As I pass by, I run my hand over the wooden sign with the inn’s name and trace the two butterflies above it. While crossing the kitchen window, the warm smell of spices assaults my senses. Our renowned chef, Suzie St. Hill, must have already started preparing for tonight’s rehearsal dinner.

I hop onto the porch and find Mom dressed in a billowy floral sapphire top, white jeans, and flats. Before the party starts tonight, she’ll change into an evening dress and heels.

She’s giving the final tweaks to a flower arrangement that is already perfect. That’s not only because she has the most competent staff—which she does, by the way—but she was also probably standing right here when they executed her idea.

Saying my mom is an involved boss is an understatement.

“Weren’t you supposed to be here earlier?” She pulls me into a hug and kisses my cheeks. “Please tell me you took the bus.”

When I don’t reply but give her a smug smile, her hands rest on her thin waist. “Autumn Smith, that bike of yours is a death trap. Someday a speeding car will run over you.”

Her face pales as if she just imagined that scenario. Mom runs her hands over her arms, a nervous habit of hers, which I inherited of course.

“I don’t understand why your father had to give you that birthday present.” The wave of her hand emphasizes how much she hates my beloved ladybug with pink rubber handlebars and a white wicker basket. “Couldn’t he have given you a dollhouse like all other fathers?”

“Mom, I’m sixteen, not six!” I suppress my laugh, knowing she won’t appreciate my humor right now. “Moreover, this is Cherrywood. Every street has a speed limit of thirty.”