1. Chapter 1

Los Angeles is my home, but Paradise, Idaho is my heaven… even with its current two feet of snow and shocking lack of organic, vegan restaurants. Not that I eat at those places, it's just strange not to have them.

I may be crazy, but I find the snow refreshing. Near-constant sunshine and four seasons that don't look very different from each other gets boring. And, vegan food is gross. Give me all the steak, make sure it's wrapped in bacon and cooked in lots of butter.

Which is exactly how they make them in Paradise at a little dive restaurant with the campy name of the Garden of Eatin'. I mean, talk about not judging a book by its cover. That restaurant is the same hidden gem Paradise is.

On the other hand, Paradise's best feature is not the dilapidated auto shop my friend Georgia has been trying to convince me to buy since the first time I visited this town last summer.

"Keep an open-mind, Cassie," she says from the warmth of her giant truck as we both stare at the old building at the end of a row of more old buildings. "You've gotta trust my vision. You've got dreams, and I can make them come true. I promise."

I glance from her wide smile back to the building she's described to me in more glowing terms than its red brick and white, falling-down awning deserve. A garage door with white peeling paint fronts the store, along with a boarded-up door with a crack running down its glass pane. Two vacant windows on either side of the door stare blankly into the distance. Large letters at the top of the building spell out Auto Sh.

I shake my head. "You're over-promising."

I want to believe Georgia, if for no other reason than I feel a camaraderie with the shop. Looking at it, I sense days of former glory that have been forgotten. Maybe it would still be living those days if someone had believed in it. If anyone had wanted and appreciated it.

Instead, it's worn-out, broken, and ignored. Only noticed when someone needs it.

I send Auto Sh a sympathetic smile and an I feel you, Sister.

But only in my head. I don't want to give Georgia any ideas that I might actually buy this place.

As much as I dream about leaving the police force and LA to open a small-town bookstore, it's just that: a dream. I can't actually imagine leaving behind the place I've lived my entire life or the job I used to love. Most of all, I hate the idea I'm a quitter if I walk away from the fight required to keep the job I used to love. That's not who I am.

Not that I don't believe in Georgia, even if I don't believe her. If anyone can turn an LAPD detective into a small-town bookstore owner, it's the star of her own home reno show, At Home With Georgia Rose. In the past year, Georgia has taken a run-down Danish-inspired resort—Little Copenhagen, it's called—on the shores of Smuk Lake and turned it into a trendy vacation home destination. Which, in turn, has made Paradise a popular place for people wanting to permanently escape cities like LA.

People like me.

Except we're not all Georgia.

"Give it a chance." Georgia opens her truck door and hops to the ground.

I step out of the truck with less enthusiasm and follow her to the front door of the shop, or, rather, the Sh. "You're going to break your ankle jumping out of that thing. Why'd you get such big tires on it?"

"When in Rome." She shrugs.

Georgia's head barely comes to my shoulder, and I have no idea how she'll get back in the giant truck she drives. But if I do move here—and that's a big if—I want one just like it.

"I can't believe I let you drive me here in that thing."

"I can't believe I wanted to drive you. How did I forget you're the worst backseat driver ever?" Georgia talks while digging in her giant purse until finally pulling a key from it.

She jams the key in the lock on the front door. While she wiggles the key, trying to get the lock undone, I notice the sun-faded list of services painted on the glass door and point to a line.

"Is that supposed to say window tint? It's missing the n."

Georgia rolls her eyes at the same time the lock clicks open. "We'll scrape it off or put in a new door." As if to emphasize the necessity her second idea might be, she rams the current door with her shoulder to get it open.

I blink, my eyes adjusting to the dimly lit space. The only light is the sliver that comes through the door behind us.

"Gimme a second." Georgia slides her hand along the wall, then flips on a light. "Voila!"

I gasp.

It's worse than I'd imagined.

The walls are a dirty gray and the floor is grimy black and white checkerboard linoleum that's peeling where it meets a tall counter. The counter stretches halfway across the room with a small lounge area and restrooms taking up the other half. An old cash register rests on the counter, and a stool with a cracked-leather seat sits in front of it.

The smell, though, is the worst part. I can't quite place it. It's part motor oil and gas, part sweat, and part… cornflakes, maybe?

Georgia walks around the counter, and even though I fear what's on the other side of the counter, I still follow her.

She raps her knuckles on the back wall. "The studio apartment is behind here—entrance is in the back, but there's an interior one too. The living space is small, but it'll be the perfect place for you to live while we renovate the garage. A perfect live-work space, very on trend."

My face must give away the doubt I'm still feeling, because Georgia doesn't pause long enough for me to say anything. She just keeps on with her hard sell.

"It's really not as bad as it looks. This is all cosmetic stuff." She runs her fingers along the dusty counter, then brushes her hands together. "You've already got restrooms, so you won't have to add those. We can tear out this counter and the wall separating this area from the garage, so you have more open space."

"This smell is more than a cosmetic fix." I wipe my fingers under my nose, which doesn't help because they have the same scent as the BBQ chips I devoured during the final two hours of my fourteen-hour drive from LA to Georgia's front door.

But I allow my eyes to travel to the wall she's talking about tearing out. I don't see her vision, even with all her yous, as though I'm here to buy, not just entertain a crazy dream.

Except, as she continues to throw out ideas, I start to see some of what she does.

Kind of.

What I can picture is the idea of being my own boss; not taking orders from anyone who underestimates my abilities because of my gender and my looks; having control of my own future.

That picture I enjoy very much.

That dream fitting inside this place, not so much.

"There's nothing that can't be fixed." Georgia opens the door to the garage area, and I follow her.

"Isn't that a tagline from your show?" I stop short and take in the open space, which is even worse than the lobby area. "You may need to come up with a new one for this place."

Cement, cinderblock, and junk. That's all I see. Nothing that comes close to resembling a bookstore or being my own boss.

And it reeks even worse of oil and gas than the lobby did.

In the center of it all is an old car with missing tires, torn upholstery, and the hood and doors open. A red tool chest—its drawers open and cluttered with tools—stands sentinel in a corner, surrounded by oil bottles, gas cans, and old rags. The plywood workbench bolted to the wall is covered in more tools and rags, plus a TV that looks older than me—it's three feet thick and probably weighs eighty-five pounds.

And that's just what I can make sense of. Everywhere I look there's stuff. Barrels, coveralls, gloves, empty soda, and beer cans toppling out of a trash can, half-full water bottles. Old notices posted to corkboard on the walls, engine parts. The chaos of it makes me break into a nervous sweat, despite the near-freezing temps.

"I thought you said nobody used it. Those beer cans didn't drink themselves." I kick a can at my feet.

Georgia lets out a breath. "Some of the family are in and out sometimes for this tool or that, and I'll admit it's worse than I thought, but still not impossible. We can definitely work with this."

She ignores my side-eye and keeps talking. "You've got to picture it with the car gone. The floors painted a fun color, shelves lining the walls and in rows. That little spot in the back could be the kids' area, with plush rugs and beanbag chairs, and lots of fun pictures. Kid-sized desks and chairs. A big easy chair for Mrs. C's story time." Her eyes glaze over, but I stop myself from getting sucked into her vision of my dream.

"Who's Mrs. C?"

Georgia comes out of her daze, still dreamy-eyed. "Mrs. Christianson, my second-grade teacher. You'll love her. And she's going to love reading to the kids."

I stare at Georgia's smiling face, waiting for her to blink. She doesn't.

"Georgia," I say finally. "Kids aren't safe here. This place should be declared a hazardous waste site. Also, how do you still know your second-grade teacher?"

She tips her head back and laughs. "Zach and I used to play in this old shop as kids, when Grandpa Sparks kept all his electrical stuff and really dangerous tools in here, plus his boat. I promise we can make it safe enough for kids. And I know all my old teachers who still live in Paradise, but Mrs. C. was my favorite."

"I don't even remember my second-grade teacher's name." I take a few more steps inside and decide to give Georgia's idea a chance. At least I can look around.

"How long since it's been used as an auto shop?" I ask, circling the old car, a classic Mustang.

"At least thirty years. Since Great-Grandpa Sparks retired." Georgia tucks the tools into the tool chest drawer and slides it closed with the sound of groaning metal that tells me it would have rather stayed open. "Grandpa was an electrician, so he didn't want to take it over from his father. No one else wanted to buy it either, so they just boarded it up and kept it in the family."

"You mean Zach's family?"

Georgia's new husband has been her best friend since they were kids, so she knows his family well. I don't have much family myself, so listening to stories about them is like indulging in a Hallmark movie. Way too sweet, but I love it anyway.

Georgia nods. "Grandpa held onto the property after his dad died for sentimental reasons, but he and Granny Sparks want to winter in Arizona now. The market's too good right now for him not to sell the shop and buy a place there."

"Hmm." I try to see what Georgia described.

Cars and junk gone. White oak bookshelves. Comfy chairs. Maybe a counter with coffee and pastries.

I close my eyes, trying to imagine Mrs. C. and the excited voices of children ready to hear the story she's chosen for them. My vision sort of swallows me.

When I open my eyes, they're drawn to the garage door. "We could open that door in the summer, have seats out there. People could read and eat in the sunshine."

"Yes!" Georgia claps, rising on her toes. "Now you're seeing it for what it can be!"

I turn in a slow circle, my own bookstore vision slowly growing more tangible until I land on the car. Then everything speeds up. I walk to it with an idea already brewing. By the time I really examine the car—noticing for the first time it's a convertible—my idea is ready to pour.

"If we put this top down, and fixed up the upholstery, turned the bucket seats around so they face the back seat and add a table, we could make this really cool gathering place." My brain revs with excitement as I give voice to thoughts swirling in my head. "It could be a nod to this building's history. I could have an automotive books section."

When I glance at Georgia, she looks ready to burst. "I love it! I can't believe I didn't think of it. "

That pulls a real smile from me. It is a good idea. I kind of love it too.

"Does the car come with the property? Is it Grandpa Sparks's?" All kinds of light bulbs are going off in my brain now.

"It's not, but we can work out some kind of deal. That's the advantage of having Zach as your real estate agent—my part is just to help you catch the vision, he's the one that's going to know the details on what's included and what's not and the other contract stuff," she waves her hand as though that's a tiny detail, which to her, it probably is. "Plus, he knows the family pretty well." She winks, then wiggles her shoulders. "I promised you'd catch my vision. You're getting stellar ideas of your own now."

I lose the fight with the grin trying to escape. "Don't get too excited yet. I'd have to find the money and be convinced I won't lose my shirt. Is there even a market here for a bookstore?"

"Not yet, but that's about to change." She takes my arm and leads me to the back door.

She opens it to a gravel alley with a line of trees that separates it from an expanse of empty field. A few houses are scattered in the distance beyond the fields, including one bright blue one, which Georgia points to. "Lynette Baker—the one I told you about with the squirrels—lives there and owns all this land. Zach's working with her to sell this land to interested developers. My show has created a huge demand for houses. And two buildings on this street have already been renovated. You've got an antique store and a flower shop as close neighbors."

The air inside the shop was chilly, but outside it's pure ice. A shiver runs down my spine, and I pull my jacket closer.

But it's not just the cold making me shiver. At least fifty percent is driven by excitement. A bookstore in an old brick shop instead of a strip mall and within walking distance of a neighborhood is every reader's dream.

Is it a reckless fantasy for a potential bookstore owner to imagine they can succeed that way? That's the real question.

"Is that the door to the studio apartment?" I point to a door about six feet from the one we came out of.

"Yep. There's one in the shop, too." She's already crunching through the snow toward it. "No one is living in it right now. Bear uses it occasionally, but you can move in as soon as you close. Probably before, if Grandpa says it's okay."

Georgia tries the doorknob, and it opens without a key.

"It's not locked?" I peek over her shoulder as she leans in, but she pulls back and slams the door shut before I can see anything.

"No one bothers with keys around here, but I'll get Bear to clean it up before I show it to you. You don't want to see it in locker-room condition."

She's right about that, especially if it smells worse than the shop. But there's something else she said that I can't wrap my head around.

"What do you mean, no one bothers with keys? How do you keep people out?" I stare at the door like it's some magical portal to a Fantasyland of bookstores and no criminals. There isn't even a deadbolt on the door, just the knob-lock which can be picked in about point four seconds by someone who knows what they're doing. Where's the alarm? The cameras that connect to the owner's phone?

Georgia shrugs. "I don't know. Too many people talk, I guess. If you don't respect someone's property around here, someone will find out and snitch on you and then you're in for public communal shaming, which is not pretty." She raises her eyebrows and gives me a wide, guilty grin. "Ask me how I know."

I laugh, but before I can ask her to tell me the story, her phone rings.

She glances at the screen and sighs. "So sorry. I've got to take this and I'm going to do it inside, because winter."

I watch her step back inside before I walk to the studio door. I just want a little peek. I mean, if this is going to be my home, and I can see past the mess of a shop, surely I have the vision to sort through this … what did Georgia call it? Locker room?

My hand is on the doorknob when barking startles me. I whip around to see a black dustmop thing charging toward me. I press myself against the door and put my hand on my hip, only to remember I left my sidearm at Georgia's. I'm ready for the worst, but instead of ripping my throat out, I only have to endure muddy paws all over my pants.

A loud voice yells, "Molly!" and the dog runs to a blonde giant rounding the corner.

He has a long, shaggy beard—well, shaggy for LA—and is absolutely enormous. The reason people should lock their doors! Molly—I'm assuming that's who the dustmop is—jumps on his legs, then darts back to me to do the same again, doubling down on the mud she's already got on my jeans.

"Molly! Sit!"

The dog drops to all fours, turns in a circle, then sends her owner a sad look before obeying a second command to sit.

When the giant reaches her, he pats her head, and says, "good girl," then turns a more wary eye on me. "Can I help you with something?"

I brush mud from my pants, then my hands, before looking at him. In LA I might be scared to be caught alone in an alleyway at dusk with a guy this size, but I'm not in LA and realize in the next instant that I know this guy; Georgia's brother-in-law. His beard is a lot bigger and his hair longer than the last time I saw him, but it's definitely him. Bear Thomsen is hard to forget.

His real first name is also hard to forget, and since we're definitely not friends, that's what I use instead of his nickname.

"Hi. Bjorn, right?" I hold out my hand. "We've met."

"I remember." His mouth twitches beneath his beard, and his gaze drops to my dirty hand.

I pull it back and wipe it on the last remaining clean area of my jeans, which happens to be the butt. His eyes follow my hands, reminding me of our first meeting.

I was in Paradise for the wrap party for At Home With Georgia Rose's first season. I didn't know anyone there besides Georgia, and I'd only come because she'd invited me to Paradise for, in her words, the break I needed from my job.

I'd wandered off to get away from the crowd. I took out my phone to play a game. That usually calms my nerves. But a few minutes later, when I glanced up from my phone, this huge guy was coming toward me. Normally, I wouldn't have been bothered, but I'd backed myself into a spot between a gigantic oak and an old cottage.

He approached with a smile, but my pulse was already racing. I'd been cornered too many times at the station. The man had something in his hands, which he held out to me as he got close. Then his foot caught on a tree root. He stopped himself before he fell, but the drink flew from his hands and landed on me.

Iced coffee spilled down my brand-new white blouse.

I gasped as the cold liquid hit me, then began scooping ice from between my boobs where my bra had trapped it. When I looked up, the giant was staring at my chest.

"Eyes up, buddy," I said, and his gaze immediately darted to my face.

"I'm so sorry…" he stuttered. "I… here…" With a fistful of napkins, he began wiping at the coffee from my neck down the open space of my blouse, all the way to my cleavage. As if I didn't already feel violated enough.

"What are you doing?" I grabbed the napkins from him and pushed him away. "Are you some kind of pervert? Keep your hands off me!"

I didn't mean to yell loud enough for people twenty feet away to turn and stare, but they did. Ignoring their looks, I wiped frantically at the front of my shirt.

"Give me your shirt and—"

"Give you my shirt?" I kept my hand crossed over my chest and stared him down. "I don't think so… and don't tell me what to do."

"I didn't mean… I'll pay for it." His face lit up red and—possibly—guilty.

"That's right, you'll pay for it. I don't know what you're playing at here, but back off!" I said all the words to Bear Thomsen that I couldn't say to Captain Markham when he pulled similar stunts to corner and touch me.

After I went back to LA, I sent Bear the bill for a new shirt, explaining the coffee didn't come out of the other. And maybe my explanation was terse, but I really loved that shirt.

Over the next few months, however, I questioned whether I'd blown things out of proportion and taken my anger at Markham out on Bear.

I planned to apologize when, six months later, I came back to Paradise for Georgia and Zach's wedding. I was a bridesmaid and Bear was a groomsman, so I figured I'd have an opportunity. But he spent the entire week glowering—glow-er-ing—at me, as though I'd ruined his favorite splurged-for-item-of-clothing while—possibly—making a pass at him, instead of the other way around.

To make matters worse, at the wedding reception he muttered something under his breath about "entitled Californians and their hundred-dollar shirts."

And, look, I am aware of the perceptions that people in Idaho (and every other state Californians are migrating to) have of us. But it still wasn't nice.

So instead of apologizing to him, I replied, "And only creepers pretend to spill coffee down a woman's shirt so they can help her clean it up."

Even in the dim lights of the dance floor, I could see a dark shadow of maroon cover his face.

"Why are you such a--?"

Bear's cousin, Seb, pulled him away, and his words got lost in the music. But I could fill in the blanks.

Both interactions—at the wrap party and at the wedding—surprised me because Georgia always talks about how sweet Bear is. Maybe he is to her, but that hasn't been my experience.

And the look he's giving me right now is anything but sweet.

"Did you need something?" He asks again, no apology in sight for what his dog's done to my pants.

"I was just going to have a look inside here." I play it cool.

Georgia didn't say I couldn't go inside, after all. Just that I should wait. Also, it's not locked.

"Is there a reason you're poking around my place?" Bear bends down and pets his dog, not quite glaring at me, but not smiling either.

"Your place? I thought it was your grandpa's place." I keep my tone neutral, refusing to be intimidated by him.

"I'm the one who uses it and maintains it, and I guarantee Grandpa wouldn't be any more impressed than I am for some out-of-towner poking around." He scratches his dog's ears, matching my tone without looking at me.

"You maintain it? That's how you describe the state this building is in?"

Bear stands so quickly that I flinch. My eyes dart to the shop door where, I hope, Georgia will reappear. She doesn't.

When my gaze comes back to Bear, he's giving me a strange look. He takes a few steps back, widening the distance between us, and allowing my breath to return to normal.

"I'm thinking about buying the property and moving into this apartment," I say, mustering my confidence.

"It's not for sale." Bear's bark is sharper than Molly's, and the dog eyes me like I should listen to him the way she does.

But I'm not Bear's pet.

"That's not what Georgia said." I shove my hands into my coat pocket and widen my stance without breaking eye contact or moving from in front of the door. Making myself look bigger is one of the first things I learned to do as a female police officer. "She's the one who's insisted I see it, in fact. Zach is the agent I'll work with to buy it."

His jaw works back and forth while he stares through me. "Is she here?"

I open my mouth to answer when the shop door opens and Georgia steps out. Molly darts to her, and Georgia crouches down to greet her, cooing, "Hi Molly Dog. How's my girl?"

The dog does not, I notice, jump all over her and get mud on Georgia's pants.

Georgia rubs Molly's ears and sends Bear the adoring look of a big sister. "Hey Bear."

"Um, hi," Bear says, shifting his weight and glowering at me. "What's this about the shop being for sale? Does Grandpa know? Because he hasn't said anything to me about it." Bear clicks his tongue for Molly, but she stays at Georgia's feet.

Georgia stands and crosses her arms—not in a confrontational way. Closer to a mom who's about to scold a naughty child. "Bear, Zach told you a while ago Grandpa was thinking about selling."

"Grandpa said I'd get first chance to buy if he did." His voice reflects none of the softness in his eyes, and his face is still set fast as cement.

When Georgia raises an eyebrow, he shifts his weight like he might crack, but the moment passes and their stare off continues. "When did he tell you this? A couple years ago?"

Bear doesn't answer, but I can see that Georgia's right.

"My car is in there," he says, finally. "I use this place all the time. You and Zach know that. So does Grandpa."

He pummels Georgia with blame and accusations without looking at her.

She's short, but she's fierce, and she stares Bear down. The tension between them is thick as the foggy marine layer on a June morning at the beach, and my immediate reaction is to cut it by helping Georgia.

"Look, Bjorn, I'd love to buy the car too," I blurt. "If you don't have anywhere else to keep it."

The Mustang looks like it hasn't been touched in years, but my effort has the exact opposite intended effect. Instead of being grateful, Bear's scowl deepens.

"The car isn't for sale. Neither is this building." His voice is as low as the earth shifting during an earthquake. Quiet and dangerous at the same time.

"Bear, don't freak out. We're just throwing around ideas. You know Grandpa wants to buy a place in Arizona, right?" Georgia walks to him—Molly close at her heels.

She doesn't come close to matching him in size but, as Georgia gets close, Bear takes the same obedient stance Molly did a few minutes ago, his eyes almost as gentle.

Face-to-face—or, rather, face-to-chest—the contrast in size between the two of them is stark. Bear is more than a foot taller and wider than short, curvy Georgia, every inch of him muscle and chiseled features.

Too bad his personality is even harder to crack than his rock-hard body. He reminds me of the Greek statues at the Getty villa in Malibu; the embodiment of physical perfection and just as warm and friendly.

Georgia is the first to speak. "Nothing's been decided for sure, but Grandpa's getting antsy waiting for the city council to make their decision," she says matter-of-factly. "This might be the best solution for him."

His eyes change from gentle to glaring as they move from Georgia to me. "The Mustang isn't for sale."

"I heard you the first time." When I cross my arms, I'm very much aggressive about it. "That's fine. Let me know if you change your mind."

I haven't decided for sure whether to buy, but Bear doesn't need to know that. I'll let him squirm for a while.

He presses his lips tight, then turns his attention back to Georgia. "Are you going to be here for a while? Or can I get to work on my car?"

Without waiting for an answer, he goes to the shop door and opens it before looking back at her.

She cocks her head and gives him a look that makes him drop his eyes to the ground and shift uncomfortably. "We're leaving, but you need to clean up that studio. The team's made a huge mess."

"They'll have nowhere to suit up if Grandpa sells this place." There's more than a hint of irritation in his voice when he meets her eyes again.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there," Georgia says kindly, but firmly, before turning to me. "You're probably starving. Should we go?"

I nod and follow her through the door, squeezing past Bear, who refuses to move from the doorway. Or maybe it's just that he takes up a lot of space. And there's no way not to notice that I have to look up to meet his frown.

This is new for me. I'm used to gazing down, not up, to look people in the eye, including most men. Maybe that's why I feel anxious around Bear in a way I don't usually. He's taller than I am and matches Captain Markham in size.

But once I'm past him, my pulse goes back to normal and my confidence returns. I guarantee Bear doesn't outsize me in stubbornness. If I decide I want this shop—and his Mustang—he'd better be ready for a fight. Bear Thomsen has met his match in me.