The direct, cut-the-bullshit trait Melanie loved most about Miss Gina did a fair job of raising the hair on the nape of her neck. Even though she knew the woman was right.

“It wasn’t my plan—”

“Change the freakin’ plan.”

Jo sat silent until then. “She has a point.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

“For a high school reunion,” Miss Gina reminded her.

“I might stay.” The emerging stars above started to pull down as two of the most influential people in her life stared in judgment.

“Might means shit in my book,” Miss Gina said.

“I don’t have a job here.”

“So get one.” Miss Gina wasn’t letting go.

“Fine!” Melanie sat high in her chair, the hair on her neck now a hard stone ready to ward off any impending doom. “I need a job, Miss Gina. Is the inn hiring?”

A soft lift to Miss Gina’s left eyebrow and a twinkle in her eye told Melanie she’d been outsmarted by the older woman. “I could use some help. Not getting any younger.”

“Good! This place could use some help.”

“It could.”

“Good!” Melanie wasn’t sure why she was upset. She’d managed a job while sitting on the back porch drinking spiked lemonade.

“Good!” Miss Gina finished her glass and poured another.

Jo lifted her glass. “Well, that was entertaining.”

“I’m a chef,” Zoe all but yelled at the TSA agent. “My knives are an extension of my hands.” She’d ship her pots and pans if they weren’t so bulky.

The man judging the contents of her checked bag looked as if he lived on McDonald’s and Budweiser—which she could relate to and appreciate—but he had no idea what her set of knives meant to her.

She’d learned, years before, to simply identify herself, the contents of her bag, and her reason for shipping her personal arsenal with every business or extended trip she took. A return to River Bend for a week away from her personal life she considered an extended trip. There was no way she wouldn’t find herself in someone’s kitchen cooking something while visiting . . . hence, the knives.

“What show did you say you were on?” The secondary TSA agent who’d been called over had his balding head bent over his phone.

“Warring Chefs, season one.” She didn’t bother telling the man about the dozen-plus other shows she’d been featured on since. Warring Chefs had made her . . . if Google was going to pick up any hits with her name, it was that.

The confusion on the agent’s face lifted and his eyes narrowed.

“You came in second,” he said, his voice flat.

Right! Thanks for the reminder.

“Can I get on the plane now?”

The second TSA agent waved at his colleague and her luggage was shoved back in her bag before being zipped up and moved onto the conveyer belt behind the counter.

Dallas to Eugene wasn’t a long flight, and thankfully she’d managed enough frequent flyer miles to sit in the first-class cabin. The fact that she was returning to her ten-year class reunion with a suitcase full of knives that had set her back well over a thousand dollars, and wearing a dress that cost over three hundred bucks, and heels that cost half that, wasn’t an accident.

She hadn’t been back to River Bend in seven years. Sheriff Ward’s funeral.

What a crappy week that had been.

A town in mourning, one of her best friends taking a swan dive off the deep end.

And Luke.

The real reason she never returned to her hometown. She kept hoping she’d hear about him hooking up with some lucky woman and making her a mama.

Maybe she’d learn of a Mrs. Luke on this trip.

Maybe Jo was avoiding the Luke conversation on their occasional phone calls in an effort to save Zoe’s feelings.

She wove through security, taking the fast-track service that came with a first-class ticket, and made her way to the terminal for her departing flight.

Airports had become her second home. Between guest spots on Chef Monroe’s weekly show, talk shows, and special events where she would slave away for hours or days on end for a charity event in a foreign country, Zoe was a seasoned traveler.

Her frequent flyer miles almost always upgraded her ticket, and when they didn’t, she would spring for first class if the flight was longer than a couple of hours. No one wanted to resemble a sardine after traveling if they could avoid it.

Zoe could afford to avoid it.

She stepped into her designated window seat, tucked her purse in the space provided in front of her, and slid the lap belt over her hips.

The flight attendant handed her a glass of wine before the coach passengers boarded. For the longest time, Zoe thought she’d have a silent trip home, until halfway through the coach seating a middle-aged man sat beside her. He offered a quick hello and attempted to tuck his carry-on in the overhead compartment.

He sat with a little flourish. “I hate Dallas traffic.”

“Could be worse,” she told him as she glanced out her window at the baggage handlers loading the plane.

The man wore cotton pants and a T-shirt with a parka. He looked nothing like those in Dallas. “Compared to New York and LA . . . yeah, could be worse. But not much.”

“I take it you don’t live here.”

“Couldn’t pay me to,” he told her. “Live just north of Eugene. Ten acres of silent, wooded bliss.”

Dallas wasn’t Eugene—that was certain. But both cities had their share of traffic and issues. In terms of her line of work, Dallas offered more.