Package of peanut butter crackers in one hand, bottle of water she’d refilled at the service station drinking fountain in the other, Christi strolled down Main Street during the Hope Harbor morning rush hour—such as it was.

There wasn’t any bumper-to-bumper traffic, but the Myrtle Café Jack had mentioned was doing a brisk business. The savory aroma of bacon and biscuits was almost as hard to resist as the enticing scent of cinnamon wafting from the aptly named Sweet Dreams Bakery she’d passed on Dockside Drive a few minutes ago.

The crackers would have to do until the market Jack had told her about opened, though. Her food dollars would stretch much farther there than at a restaurant.

But the coffee shop across the street? That was tempting.

She stopped at the corner and perused The Perfect Blend—also a popular spot, as evidenced by the steady stream of customers. A caramel latte would taste s-o-o-o-o good about now.

Keep walking, Christi. Think about how much food you could buy at the market for the price of a froufrou drink.

Right.

She forced herself to continue across the intersection and start down the next block.

Her phone rang as she passed the second storefront, and her pulse stumbled.

Was this the verdict on her trespassing offense?

She moved out of the traffic path on the sidewalk, set her water on a bench, and groped for her cell.

A pleasant female voice responded to her greeting. “Good morning. This is Chief Graham-Stone from the Hope Harbor police department. Am I speaking with Christi Reece?”

“Yes.” She squeezed the phone. Please, Lord, let this not be more bad news.

“I’m following up on your discussion with Officer Colby this morning. We contacted the management firm that handles Sea Glass Cottage. They’ve advised us it may take a day or two to connect with the owner. How long were you planning to stay in town?”

Nowhere near that long. Springing for a motel room for two nights would put a large dent in her dwindling finances.

“I was hoping to leave sometime today.” And sleep at a rest stop again en route to Dallas.

The sound of shuffling papers came over the line. “I see you left a credit card number to cover the cost of the logs you used at the cottage. And according to Officer Colby’s report, there wasn’t any damage. I don’t expect this will be difficult to sort out. If you have to leave, we can contact you after the owner weighs in.”

Relief stole the stiffening from her legs, and she sank onto the bench. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. I hope you’ll have an opportunity to enjoy a quick sample of our town before you head out. Hope Harbor is a very welcoming community.”

The same phrase Charley the taco man had used to describe the place.