Page 2 of S'more of Silas
Everyone knows who Silas Whitaker is.
No onereallyknows him.
But God, I want to.
When I told Joy I don’t daydream about mountain men in a romantic way, I lied. Plain and simple. Because Silas is never far from my mind. He's the kind of man I'd write into a book if I thought I could do him justice. Mysterious background. Quiet competence. The sense that still waters runvery,verydeep.
Now he's walking toward my booth, that steady gaze locked on me, and my heart kicks against my ribs like I'm the heroine in one of my own thrillers, realizing she's alone with the prime suspect.
Except I don't feel afraid. I feelelectrified.
Silas Whitaker is a mystery I'd love to solve.
Chapter 2
Silas
Crowdsaren'tmything.Too much noise layered on top of noise. Children shrieking with joy or tantrum, vendors calling out their wares, music from competing speakers creating a discordant mess that makes my teeth ache. After enough years in the service, in places where sound could mean the difference betweensafeandcompromised, I learned to prefer the quiet. Wide-open woods. The steady rhythm of a river running over rocks. Wind moving through pine trees. The pop and crackle of a fire.
But here I am, walking through the Maple Ridge Fall Festival like I belong, like this is something I do. Like I'm the kind ofperson who shows up to community events and mingles and makes small talk about the weather and whether this year's apple crop is better than last year's.
Idon'tbelong here. I know it. Anyone looking at me knows it.
The only reason I even came was because I heard Cassiopeia Sinclair would be here signing books. Not that I’d ever admit that to anyone.
She's sitting behind her booth, arranging stacks of paperbacks like each one is something precious that needs to be handled with care. Her banner flutters in the October breeze—purple and cream, her name in elegant script. Pumpkins from the orchard are lined up around the table, real ones that still have bits of stem and field dirt clinging to them. She's smiling to herself, that soft little expression she gets when she's lost in her own world.
I've seen that smile before, though always from a distance. Across the street when I'm in town for supplies. Through the window of the coffee shop when I stop in for beans. Once, memorably, at the library when I was returning books and she was there for some kind of author event.
Cassie Sinclair is...different. Bright in a way that has nothing to do with volume or flash. Dreamy. Like she's got one foot here in Maple Ridge and the other somewhere up in the clouds, in whatever story she's currently building inside her head. She’s lived in the shadow of her older brother, Orion, the flashy football star, her whole life.
But in my eyes?Cassieis the star.
And I've been too damn captivated by her for my own good for longer than I want to admit.
I stop at the edge of her booth, suddenly aware that I don't have a plan beyond "show up and see her." I clear my throat, the sound rougher than I intend. "How much for a copy?"
Her head snaps up, eyes going wide. Green with flecks of gold, sharp enough to pin me to the spot. For a moment, she just stares at me, and I wonder if I've made a mistake coming here.
"Oh. Hi." She fumbles with the stack in front of her, nearly knocking over a small display of bookmarks. "Uh, fifteen dollars. But I’ll autograph it for you for free. Perk of the festival."
I pick upCorn Maze Conspiracy, running my thumb over the cover. My copy at home is already dog-eared, spine creased from reading it twice. Once when it first came out, and once this past spring when I needed something familiar to pull me out of a rough patch. This one—this pristine copy in my hands—is supposed to be my excuse for being here.
"It's for my mom," I lie, setting it on the table between us. "Birthday gift."
"Yeah?" She looks genuinely pleased. "That's sweet. Does she enjoy cozy mysteries?”
"She, uh—" I clear my throat. "It’s her favorite genre.”
Cassie’s face lights up. “Wonderful! What does she like best about them?”
The question catches me off guard. I wasn't expecting to have to defend my—erm,her—taste in books. "The setting, I think. She likes to read about small towns where everyone knows everyone. At least, theythinkthey do.”
"But someone's secretly a murderer."
"Exactly.”
Cassie laughs, reaching for her pen. "Your mom sounds like my kind of reader. What's her name?"
