**Evergreen, Colorado – 6:01 a.m.**
The bell above the café door jingled softly.
Sophie didn't look up. She was already rolling dough, sleeves pushed to her elbows, apron smudged in flour.
“You're early," she said automatically.
Bootsteps. Measured. Confident. Familiar.
“I heard the croissants were worth waking up for," came the deep voice.
She froze.
Then looked up.
Arthur Morgan stood at the counter—alive, taller than memory, slate-gray eyes steady. Except this wasn't Arthur Morgan. He wore flannel, jeans, a harmless smile.
“Daniel Cole," he said, extending a hand. “Rented the cabin across the street."
Sophie wiped her palms on a towel before taking it. “April Stanford," she replied without blinking.
He gave the faintest smile. “You're a long way from a charity gala."
She did
