Frankie shook her head, wistfully longing for a return to those years and the wonder of learning and exploring new ideas. The drunken nights where they’d sit in the dorm hallways and debate politics. The camaraderie of working in a restaurant. The joy of having friends who liked the same things she did, who saw who she really was—and liked her that way.

Those years were long past.

She eyed the roadhouse and was quite sure that working in a restaurant now wouldn’t be nearly as fun as when she was a college student.

But she wasn’t here for fun now, was she? This place would serve her purpose, since the postmistress said the PZs were often at the bar.

Time to hit the runway and walk the walk. Pulling in a fortifying breath, she crossed the lot, pulled open the door, and stepped inside.

The place was nicer than it appeared from outside, and she was glad she’d worn nice black slacks and her favorite royal blue sweater.

The restaurant and bar were spotless, and the air held the tempting aroma of grilled meat. With golden-stained log walls and wagon wheel chandeliers, the rooms held an Alaskan hunting-lodge ambiance. The nightclub took up about half of the right side of the building with a glossy, wooden bar along the back and distressed-wood tables and chairs in the center. Mounted on the log walls were huge antlers interspersed with wild animal photos.

Although only mid-afternoon, there were a couple of guys at the bar, and a few people seated in the restaurant.

Frankie stopped at the hostess station and waited for someone to notice her arrival.

“Oh, hey.” A slim, young man in a pink button-up shirt walked over. His nametag said Felix. “Bar or restaurant?”

“Actually, I saw the help wanted sign in the window.”

His face lit up. “Awesomeness. We’re already short-handed. The ski season might be ending, but the summer tourist season will be kicking in soon. Help we need.”

She smiled. “Perfect. Do you have an application or—”

“Wylie can talk with you now.” Felix motioned her into the room. “He’s a good guy. Maybe a bit grumpy today. Night owls hate working lunch shifts. Given the choice, I don’t think he’d get up until mid-afternoon.”

Great. An interview with a grumpy guy. Ah, well, this Wylie couldn’t be worse than diva models, screaming photographers, and irritable event organizers.

A few minutes later, she sat across from the middle-aged chef being interviewed. Thankfully, she’d already worked out her evasions about why she was in Rescue and could answer the question he’d asked.