Page 3 of Lost in the Moonlight

ME: No. With everything that went down with Felicity, it’s probably better for me to keep off the campaign trail. They don’t need me anyway. Dad’s numbers are good. He’s a shoo-in for reelection at this point.

KATERINA: No one is ever a shoo-in these days. But his numbers are good.

None of us would say aloud what we were all thinking, but thethank God this is the last campaign we’ll ever have to live throughstill hovered unspoken between my twin sisters and me. The bulk of our childhood had been spent surviving one election after another. Now, as our dad’s first term as President of the United States wrapped up, we caught glimpses of the end tothe excruciating political process we’d lived through. Dad had achieved the mountain top, stayed there for as long as possible, and would soon be taking the easy road downward. While I admired him for choosing the difficult and unforgiving job of leading a country that seemed one step away from falling to pieces, I’d be grateful when it was finally behind us.

ME: Are you tagging along with them for any of the stops out West?

KATERINA: Just a couple events in California. We start shooting on a new film week after next.

ME: What about Juliette?

KATERINA: She’ll pop in when her schedule allows, but she’s so close to finishing her residency she can taste it. You’d know that if you texted her yourself.

It was a well-used but gently tossed rebuke. Texting was nearly impossible when I didn’t even know where my phone was half the time.

ME: Stop throwing shade and go get some sleep. You’re not as young as you used to be, and those nasty bags under your baby blues are becoming permanent.

KATERINA: I do NOT have bags, Mr. Grouchypants. You’re the one who needs to drink some tea and slide under the covers for a few more hours before you turn pale and pasty like the vampire you really are.

I snorted at the Mr. Grouchypants nickname, pleased I’d needled her enough to use it.

I turned the electric kettle on, and while I waited for it to boil, I slit open the top box in the stack next to the island. I pulled out the contents, setting them on the rustic table I’d bought with thoughts of future dinners with my parents and siblings in mind. I’d dreamed of us eating, teasing, and playing cards at the roughhewn planks as a normal family once Dad’s career was behind us. Except a normal family would never have the Secret Service hovering at the doors and windows as ours always would.

While the Secret Service would forever be a part of my parents’ world, I’d had my fill of them. I’d sent my detail packing, and I wasn’t sure yet if it had been the smartest or stupidest thing I’d ever done. Only time would tell, and I had plenty of it to spare. Plenty of privacy to go along with it.

I wasn’t foolish enough to believe the privacy would last. Eventually, my presence in this tiny town would be discovered, and the media would swarm, especially once I opened a new gallery on Main Street. But for now, I could pretend I was just a regular man building his life in a quiet village where nothing bad ever happened and where the paparazzi weren’t watching every move.

By the time my tea had been steeped, stirred, and grown cold again, I’d put away half the kitchen boxes. Thanks to my insomnia, in a few days the house would look like I’d lived in it for a lifetime. Then, I could turn my attention to the gallery.

I was still stumbling to find a direction there. The right vibe. But it would come into focus.

It had to.

While everything I’d done in the D.C. gallery had been for Sienna, the one here was for me. It was a chance to find my own footing, my own happiness. I just had to keep Sienna’s ghost away long enough to make sure it happened. Because Felicity had been right about one, and only one, thing in our time together—I had to drag myself away from the dead and find my way back to the living.

Chapter Two

Willow

CRAZY ANGELS

Performed by Carrie Underwood

The scent of citrus filled theair as I spread the icing in quick strips over the last batch of lemon-poppyseed scones. The motion was automatic, leaving my mind to explore the ideas I had for combining my miniature desserts with images of an old mosaic I’d taken this morning. Something about creating edible art was floating just out of reach. I itched to finish my shift so I could go home and play with it.

I dropped the frosting bag into the sink and shouldered the tray of scones, pushing through the swinging door between the kitchen and the café. The hiss of the espresso machine and soft chatter of college students greeted me. Hector’s voice boomed out a name as I slid the tray into the display case alongside a variety of other pastries.

No miniatures in sight here…at least not yet. Just the possibility of The Tea Spot carrying my miniatures sent my heart cartwheeling around in my chest.

Hector’s café was a favorite amongst residents, students, professors, and tourists because of its homemade goodies, unique teas, and specially blended coffees you’d never find at the average chain store. Not that Cherry Bay had any chain stores lining its streets. The town council adamantly refused to budge on the zoning laws preventing anything but locally owned businesses from existing inside the town limits.

When I’d first moved here with Mom almost six years ago, not finding the familiar shops and brands I was used to had been just one more loss. Now, I loved that the town supported their businesses and how the locals acted like one big family, watching out for each other. It was why, after finishing culinary school, I hadn’t hesitated in returning to Cherry Bay.

I was happier here than I could remember being since before Dad had died. Every day, I had a hand in making the pretty treats sitting in the case, got to live in a town that felt like a fairy tale, and had people I called family welcoming me through the doors.

Hector joined me, examining the new set of scones. He had a few inches on my average height and was boxy all over. His arms and chest were muscled and contoured from years of pounding dough. Because he was in such great shape, he looked younger than the flecks of white in his black strands might have otherwise insinuated. The corners of his chocolate eyes crinkled when he grinned, which he was almost always doing, but they also told a story of heartbreak. I recognized the lines because they mirrored my mom’s—grief had marked them both. The fact Hector could so easily smile even after all he'd lost was one of the things that had encouraged me to find my own happiness again.

“Those look perfect,” he said, bumping my shoulder with his. “You’re better at making my creations than I am now.”

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