This book is for everyone who’s had to start over.

Flirting with Disaster

      Victoria Dahl

CHAPTER ONE

      ISABELLE WEST EDGED her SUV up the steep driveway and winced as she heard a grocery bag tip over. She tried to identify the dull rolling sound that followed. Probably the cantaloupe. But maybe just a can of soup. It’d be a little surprise for her when she opened the hatch and saw what sprang out and tumbled through the snow toward the trees.

      She was getting tired of that particular surprise and promised herself she’d order the cargo net as soon as she got inside. She’d been meaning to do it for...maybe two years now. But today she’d remember. She was trying to teach herself to be proactive. Or at least to manage the small things that every other adult seemed to have no problem with.

      As she rounded the last curve of the drive and spied her little cabin, she wrinkled her nose. Not because of the cabin. She loved that. It was perfect for her in every way with its dark log walls and big windows and front porch. What made her wince was the sight of the manual garage door past the haze of snow sifting from the sky, a reminder that she’d also been meaning to call about getting a garage-door opener installed. That one had been on her mental to-do list for at least four years. Definitely not five.

      “I’ll do that, too,” she said to herself as she pulled close to the garage door and tugged up the hood of her coat. “As a matter of fact...” She dug her phone from her pocket and held down the button. “Phone, remind me to order a cargo net and call a garage guy.”

      The phone beeped and said, “I’m sorry—I didn’t catch that.”

      Gritting her teeth, Isabelle hit the button again. “Remind me to buy a cargo net and call the garage guy.”

      “I’m sorry—did you need me to find a mechanic?”

      “Fuck you,” Isabelle growled. She ducked out of her car, thankful that the giant, wet flakes of this morning had given way to the dry Wyoming snow she was more used to. The snow sounded like sand as it bounced off her jacket and slid to the ground.

      She wrenched up the garage door and got back to her car without getting wet at all. But she couldn’t say the same about her cantaloupe. As soon as she opened the gate of her SUV, it rolled past her outstretched hand and straight into a snowbank.

      “Fuck you, too,” she said to the cantaloupe, then felt immediately guilty. It took her only a minute to rescue the melon and dust off as much snow as she could. It hadn’t really caused that much trouble. It took a lot more time to repack the bag that had tipped over and haul it inside.

      Next time, she’d remember to put the boxes of art supplies she’d picked up from the post office into the back; then she’d have room to store the groceries on the floor of her backseat, where they’d be less likely to—

      “Art supplies!” she gasped and rushed back out to the truck to haul in the boxes of goodies.

      She grinned as she set the first box on the kitchen table and slit the tape to reveal the treasures inside. She’d been out of yellow ocher for three days now, and even though she hadn’t needed it, the lack had hovered at the back of her mind like a foreshadowing of tragedy to come. She snatched up the tube and breathed a sigh of relief. Disaster averted. She was whole again.

      After unpacking the box and carefully laying out each precious item on the kitchen table, she retrieved the other two boxes from the backseat and went through the same routine. She beamed at the sight of the bounty spread over the table. Seven more tubes of color, a new studio light to get her through the winter, a dozen prestretched canvases and her favorite brush conditioner that smelled like something close to sandalwood. It made the task of looking after her brushes almost soothing. Discovering it last year had been a treat.

      Satisfied with her unveiling of the goods, she made five trips to the room she used as her studio, shelving the paints she didn’t need yet and getting the new lamp set up at her current workstation. She played with the LED settings for a while, still dubious about the idea that she could get good color temperatures, but the settings seemed sufficient. Nice, even.

      “Hmm.” Isabelle crossed her arms and stared at the unfinished painting, trying to decide if the daylight setting was pure enough. There weren’t new technological advancements in the world of oil painting very often, so she’d be happy if she could get excited about this one. Still, she’d have to work under the light for a couple of hours and see how it felt.

      During the summer, she wouldn’t need it much at all. This room was meant to be the great room of the cabin, and windows climbed up the two-story wall to the peak of the roof. The windows faced south, and during the summer, she had good light here for nearly twelve hours of every day. But during the winter, there were only a few decent hours of sunlight, and that was assuming the sky was clear.

      As a matter of fact... She glanced out, hoping to spot an approaching break in the clouds, but it was solid white out there. A good time to try the lamp, then. It was almost two, so she should force herself to grab lunch first, but then she’d have hours to work.

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the heavy slide of fur against her ankle. “Hey, Bear,” she said to the cat, surprised by his affection. He was an ornery twenty-pound stray who’d wandered into her cabin three years before, and he didn’t cuddle often.

      He meowed loudly for attention, but when she leaned down to scratch his chin, he sidestepped and eyed her scornfully. “I suppose you just want food?” she asked. She’d run out of wet food yesterday, which was why—

      “The groceries!” she gasped, but her heart barely managed a quick leap before she calmed it down. The bags in the SUV were fine. It was cold enough that she could leave them overnight and not lose anything. Except bananas, maybe. Those weren’t as hardy as people thought, not in the cold. If it were summer, though... Yeah. She’d lost hundreds of dollars of food that way over the years. But this time the only bag in danger was the one on her kitchen counter.

      She rushed to the kitchen and unpacked that bag, happy to find that, aside from that damp cantaloupe, everything else was perfect. She shoved a frozen meal into the microwave, opened a can of food for Bear and went to haul in the rest of the bags. Half an hour later, she was organized, full of chicken piccata and happily planted in front of her canvas, adding a glistening highlight to a long stretch of a man’s triceps.

      Glancing from the canvas to a spread of photos hung on a board next to it, she nodded. “Perfect.” Her eyes swept down the triceps muscle to the hard knot of elbow beneath it. What a beautiful line.

      Her attention twitched for a moment, and Isabelle glared at the gleam of the light on wet paint, but then she shook off the random irritation and dipped her brush in white again. Just the tiniest drag of paint, just—

      Her hand jerked, nearly touching the canvas before she pulled back. “What the hell?” she snapped as she finally registered that a sound had interrupted her. A loud sound. The staccato knock of some stranger come to screw up her workday.

      She wanted to ignore it. It definitely wasn’t Jill, her neighbor and the only person who dropped by unannounced. Jill didn’t knock like that. She rarely knocked at all, because she knew Isabelle wouldn’t hear it. But it could be one of Isabelle’s other friends. Lauren. Or maybe even Sophie, who was supposed to be back in town soon.

      Had Isabelle forgotten another meetup? It was possible. She vaguely remembered Lauren mentioning something about a new girl they might be able to bring into their little group of friends since Sophie was usually on the road these days.

      Isabelle set down the brush, wiped her hands on a rag and decided she’d have to