Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

Noelle

I debate waiting until morning to drive up to the lake to search for the second clue. But when I close up the library for the evening, there's still some daylight left. And, if I'm being honest, this scavenger hunt's the most fun I've had in months.

While some people might suggest dragging it out to savor it, I'm too excited for such restraint. Or, as Farah succinctly puts it, I have no chill. So as soon as I lock up the library, I race-walk back to my cottage on Poinsettia Way, slide behind the wheel of my little hatchback, and zip over to Santa's Cellar.

The sun hangs low over the purple mountains, its golden glow lighting the water like a flame, by the time I park near the lakeside gazebo. It's pretty and peaceful now. But once the sun dips behind the peaks, it'll get dark fast. And there are no lights on the road back to town. I didn't think to bring a flashlight, either. So I hurry across the gravel lot and search the undersides of the whitewashed benches for an envelope.

As I'm running my hand along the third of five benches, the circling swans out on the lake glide by, and I pause to watch their graceful choreography for a moment. I'm about to turn back to the task at hand, when a glint of light across the lake catches my eye.

The glimmer bobs along the path that leads from the Jollys' fishing cabin to the far side of the lake. There's a silhouette moving down the hillside from the cabin. The light is the setting sun bouncing off glass. If I have to guess, the glass is a set of binoculars pressed up against a face I can't quite make out. But I know it's Nick. I can tell by his gait, his shape.

I raise a hand in a halting greeting. Then, feeling self-conscious and exposed, I smooth it over my windswept hair as if that had been my intent all along. As I brush my hair out of my eyes, Nick's attention shifts and he jerks his head toward a loud noise in the woods. I hear it, too. Sound carries up here, echoing off the mountain behind the lake. I write off the sound as a group of mountain bikers or a family of deer. So I'm surprised when Nick veers off the path and runs into woods.

The sun dips a little lower, and I remember why I'm out here. If I don't find the clue before the sun sets, I'm unlikely to find it until tomorrow. Putting Nick out of my mind, I resume my search of the gazebo. Nothing. Nada. Bupkus.

Frustrated, I fist my hands on my hips and think. While this pagoda has the best view of the swans, there are other vantage points on the property—and off it. The swans are visible from the restaurant's outdoor seating area up the hill and from Nick and Noelle's dock. It's dinner time, so I don't want to traipse up to Santa's Cellar and start checking under the chairs, but I could drive around to the other side of the lake and check the Jollys' dock. And if I'm quick about it, I can look around and get off the property before Nick returns from the woods, avoiding an awkward conversation.

Mind made up, I hurry back to the car and follow the looping drive around the lake. I flick my gaze repeatedly to the woods to my left, searching for a glimpse of whoever's in the woods, but see nothing. I park near the lake and get out of the car, scanning the immediate area for a likely spot to hide an envelope. It has to be someplace protected from the elements and wildlife. There aren't too many options here. I eye the wooden platform that holds Merry's ten-frame beehive. The structure abuts a riotously blooming pollinator garden and would be a logical spot to hide the next clue, but there's a zero point zero percent chance, I'm sticking my hand anywhere near that thing. If I can't find the envelope without braving the hive, I'll ask Merry to check the next time she's up here gathering honey.

Giving the hive a wide berth, I continue along the path. There's a birdhouse and a squirrel feeder further up the hill. I'm willing to take my chances with non-stinging wildlife, so I shield my eyes from the glare of the fading sun on the water and head up the hill.

"Noelle."

My name is a whisper on the wind. I whirl around, expecting to see Nick. There's nobody there. I give a shaky laugh and try to write it off as a birdcall or a chittering squirrel. But the skin on the back of my neck is prickling and goosebumps rise on my arms. I stand rooted to the spot, listening hard.

There it is. A soft crack, as if someone has stepped on a twig. This is different from the noisy thwacking and thrashing I heard earlier. This is a stealthy sound. It sounds like someone is trying to sneak up behind me. My heart thumps and my mouth goes dry as I turn my head slightly and register motion at the periphery of my vision. A figure slips between the trees.

"Nick?" My voice is a rasp.

There's no answer, and I turn to stare into the woods. The branches of the tree closest to me sway slightly as if they've been brushed aside by movement. I jerk back. There's every chance I'm imagining things and spooking myself. But after Italy, I promised myself I would always honor my intuition. And right now, my intuition is screaming at me to run. Run.

But the trees are between me and my car, and I can't force myself to go past them. Instead, I lower my head and sprint toward the cabin on shaking legs. My throat burns and tears fill my eyes. I launch myself up the stairs to the front porch, where, for the second time in three days, I run smack into Nick Jolly's broad muscular chest.