Page 63 of Juniper Hill (The Edens 2)

I grinned and hit the stairs, following my sister to the lobby.

Eloise pointed to the man standing beside the roaring fireplace, taking her seat at the front desk while I went over to introduce myself.

The guy stood with his back to me, his frame covered in a tweed blazer and his neck wrapped in a thick plaid scarf.

“Good morning,” I said, maneuvering around the couch to stand by his side. “Knox Eden.”

“Morning.” He pulled off his brown felt hat, revealing his dark, bald scalp. He clasped the hat by the brim as he turned, his hand extended. “Lester Novak.”

Lester Novak.

Fuck. Me.

I shook his hand, taking in the mustache above his lip. That mustache was the logo he used in his magazine articles and on his website.

Lester Novak, a wildly popular food critic, was standing in my family’s hotel. And he wanted to talk to me.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, my steady voice betraying the racing of my heart.

“Same to you.” He motioned toward the couch. “May I have a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

Lester didn’t ask if I knew who he was either because he expected a chef to know his name or he’d seen the recognition on my face. Probably both.

We settled on the leather couch, twisting to face each other.

In the hearth, the fire roared, chasing away the late-fall chill that blew in whenever the lobby’s doors opened.

The scents of coffee and cedar and charred pine filled the room. Scents that would normally give me a sense of peace. But I was sitting across from Lester Novak and his dark eyes gave nothing away.

“I believe we have a mutual acquaintance,” he said. “Cleo Hillcrest.”

“We do. Cleo was a guest here a couple years ago. She, uh . . . well, she took over my kitchen one morning and made enough breakfast pastries to feed the entire county.”

He chuckled. “That sounds like Cleo. Her bakery is a favorite stop o

f mine whenever I’m in Los Angeles.”

“She’s damn talented.”

I’d wanted to strangle Cleo the day I’d found her in my kitchen. Matty had let her in to do a little baking. She’d used more flour and sugar in a morning than I did in a month. But one bite of a muffin and another of a cinnamon roll and I’d gotten over my irritation. Then I’d stood back and just let the woman bake. It was her gift.

In her latest email, she’d mentioned that she was trying to plan another visit to Quincy with her bodyguard turned husband. Cleo didn’t know it yet, but Austin had already arranged to bring her to Quincy after Christmas.

If Lester Novak gave me a positive critique, I’d comp Cleo and Austin’s entire holiday vacation at The Eloise.

Hell, I should anyway simply because she’d sent me Memphis.

“Cleo told me about this charming hotel in Montana,” he said. “I had a break in my schedule and decided to make a quick stop. As per usual, Cleo has exquisite taste.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying your visit.”

“That I am.” He grinned. “Knuckles. Interesting name for a restaurant. The atmosphere was . . . unexpected. It reminds me of something I’d find in a city, not a small, country town.”

Was that a good thing? I couldn’t tell from his tone. “I could have put cattle skulls on the walls and let people toss peanut shells on the floor, but I’ll let the bars on Main do what people expect.”

“Good.” His grin widened. “I had dinner at Knuckles last night.”