Grab your favorite fall candle, cuddle into a comfy blanket, and travel back in time to 1997 autumn in Vermont in this cozy, slow-burn romance. My new next-door neighbor seems to have everything figured out. Small town golden boy? Check. Single dad extraordinaire? Check. Hot baker forearms? I didn’t notice them, I swear. I, on the other hand, don’t–at all–have anything figured out. Trust me, I didn’t think taking over my mom’s dream bed and breakfast in Copper Run Vermont was going to be easy. It should be a good place to heal after my divorce. But apparently my scones belong in the garbage with my small talk skills. As pointed out by none other than Cliff. Cliff is inescapable. He knows exactly what people need–always. His charm, the way he wears flannel, and even his pastries, make not wanting to be friends with Cliff and his daughters pretty hard. Friends? I can make friends. That’s safe. Except I’m leaving in three months to pass the inn off to my little sister and get the promotion in Seattle I’ve been working towards. So ask me why I’m thinking about kissing my hot neighbor.

Autorentext
USA Today bestselling author Julie Olivia writes cozy love stories filled with humor, spice, and friendships that feel like a warm hug. She is a roller coaster fan, avid romance reader, and rainy day enthusiast. Julie lives in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and their very opinionated pets.

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*An Instant USA Today* Bestseller!

Grab your favorite fall candle, cuddle into a comfy blanket, and travel back in time to 1997 in this cozy, slow-burn romance set in the autumn glow of small-town Vermont.

Now with exclusive bonus content!**

My new next-door neighbor seems to have everything figured out. Small town golden boy? Check. Single dad extraordinaire? Check. Hot baker forearms? I didn’t notice them, I swear.

I, on the other hand, don’t–at all–have anything figured out. Trust me, I didn’t think taking over my mom’s dream bed and breakfast in Copper Run Vermont was going to be easy. It should be a good place to heal after my divorce. But apparently my scones belong in the garbage with my small talk skills. As pointed out by none other than Cliff.

Cliff is inescapable. He knows exactly what people need–always. His charm, the way he wears flannel, and even his pastries, make not wanting to be friends with Cliff and his daughters pretty hard.

Friends? I can make friends. That’s safe. Except I’m leaving in three months to pass the inn off to my little sister and get the promotion in Seattle I’ve been working towards. So ask me why I’m thinking about kissing my hot neighbor.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Cliff

I have a bad habit of staring at the phone. Arms crossed. Tongue in cheek. Foot tapping. Maybe it's unfair, but the thing doesn't ring when I need it to, so who's really the victim here?

"You sure there were no messages for me this morning?" I ask, leaning over the bakery counter, where my sister is staring as intently as I am at a framed cupcake painting. "Carol?"

"It doesn't look good," she announces.

"The painting?"

"It doesn't look good," she repeats.

"Sure it does," I answer. I swing open the half door to the linoleum-tiled lobby and wipe my hands on my apron. "It's great."

I honestly can't tell the difference between this and the last painting she picked, but with Carol, there can't be hesitation.

Carol's been redecorating the bakery's interior for weeks now. Green walls became pink, then yellow. Iron chairs were traded for dark wood, then light. The display cases have somehow remained untouched, but I give her another week until those are gone too. This place could have neon beer signs for all I care, but that's why she's in charge of presentation and I'm not. My job is to bake.

She's Burke's Bakery's brains; I'm the hands.

Carol swivels her eyes toward the bakery's floor-to-ceiling windows. Winston, our resident painter, is perched on a small stool on the sidewalk, creating the final strokes on our seasonal window art. It's a mural of autumn leaves, scarecrows, pumpkins, and apples. I told him to add a pie, but he said he couldn't draw pies, so plain apples it is.

Carol lets out a wistful sigh. "I couldn't do that."

"Of course you couldn't. That's why we hire Winston. The art looks fine," I reassure her again.

I look at the counter phone. I thought I'd heard a ring. Maybe I didn't.

"It's not working." Carol snatches the cupcake painting off the wall, places it on the floor, and power walks outside.

I follow her out, leaving the door cracked open so I can hear if the phone rings.

A breeze picks up. I tuck my hands into my denim pockets. Copper Run isn't even remotely as cold as it will be in future months. It's the beginning of September, and the leaves have begun shifting from summer greens to deep auburn and burnished golds. It's the first real blustery day, wind knocking leaves down around my feet.

"What do you think?" Winston asks from the sidewalk, gesturing to the glass mural, paintbrush poised in the air.

"Stunning," I say. "Your best work yet."

"Carol looks stressed."

"She's upset she's not as talented as you."

Winston chortles. "Everyone wishes they were as talented as me."

I clap his back in passing. "Good job not getting a big head, buddy."

He salutes me in response.

I follow Carol across the street to the town square. She reaches into her back pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. I raise my eyebrows.

"Shut up, Clifford. I'll quit tomorrow."

I hold up my hands. "I didn't say anything."

Carol flicks her lighter, takes in a breath, then blows the smoke through the corner of her mouth in the opposite direction.

"I'm a basket case," Carol moans.

If people were pastries, Carol would be a cannoli. When you take a bite of a perfect cannoli-even though it's perfect-it cracks apart, and all that's left is a gooey center. Carol is always on the verge of showing her soft side.

I sigh, dropping my arm over her shoulders. "You're not a basket case."

"I never get anything right."

Carol's always critical of herself, but she's been too critical lately. We've all been on edge since Birdie Cadell passed this summer, and we all cope in different ways. I overbake. Carol smokes. At least she does it far enough from the bakery that the smell of her smoke won't permeate the store.

She flicks her hand around, smoke trailing with it. "Do you ever feel like that? Like a loser?"

"No."

She shoots me a look, and I grin.

"Listen, we make sure the croissants are fluffy and that the door opens at six." I grip her shoulder with my palm and shake. "If we get that right, there are no problems. It's just a bakery, Carol."

She tilts her head to the side. "Just a bakery," she mocks. "You're such a liar."

She's right. Of course it's not any old bakery; it's our bakery-a bakery I dived into headfirst two years ago and one that thrives more than it has any right to. Burke's Bakery is both my biggest accomplishment and one of my biggest problems. I love it.

"The cupcake painting doesn't matter, all right? You're doing great. Promise."

Carol gives a weak smile. I pull her in for a side hug.

"Thanks," she mumbles.

"Now, let's get going."

Carol scrunches her nose. "You're not the boss of me."

I bark out a laugh. "Technically, I am."

"I hate you sometimes."

"Not as much as Emily does."

She snorts. "Are you kidding? Emily idolizes you."

"Oh, right." I snap my fingers. "Forgot it was the opposite. My daughter loves me."

"You ass," Carol hisses through a reluctant smirk, pushing my shoulder. "One day, she'll be a normal teenager and see th…