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common area of the lodge. She wanted to get started on the review as soon as possible, that way she could finish writing it before the week was over and be free to thoroughly enjoy her vacation.
    First thing she needed to do was meet her host.
    Good smells came from the kitchen so she headed that way. Alex spotted a half-full coffeepot on the warmer and practically danced toward the cabinet tosearch out a mug. One sip and the scent of the rich brew had her toes curling inside her insulated hiking boots.
    Her vanity ruled when she traveled, forcing her to always look her best because one never knew who might be sitting beside her on the plane or whom she might meet in the airport. But these boots were well-broken in and perfect for the temperatures and tromping about when even her vanity knew high heels wouldn’t do.
    Besides, who was Dylan to judge her shoes wearing expensive boots like his? The heels on his boots had looked to only be about two inches shorter than hers.
    She sipped the coffee on her way to the refrigerator, remembering Dylan’s comment about breakfast only being hot at six. She wasn’t picky. She caught a brief flash of something in the living-dining area and stopped short of her destination. Alex walked to the doorway and searched the empty room. Huh?
    Obviously you’ve gone too long without caffeine and food .
    Shaking her head at herself, she turned toward the fridge when something scuffed along the floor behind the couch. No mistaking that. She stopped again. Surely an animal hadn’t gotten into the lodge? “Is someone there?”
    If it’s an animal, do you really think it’ll respond?
    All of a sudden a small dark head fractionally taller than the couch ran down the same hall as her bedroom, startling her and sending her heart rate into orbit. So that’s who it was. Dylan’s son? Walter and Ansel had both mentioned the boy during the flight from hell. So where was Dylan’s wife?
    Interested much?
    No, her musings were purely research for her review.
    Yeah, right.
    Relegating the subject of Dylan and his marital status to the realm of none of her business, Alex studied the kitchen and noted it was clean with recently washed dishes drying in the sink. The countertop was neat and orderly, and a pot of something was cooking atop the stove—it smelled wonderful but didn’t look quite ready to eat. Spying something covered in the oven, she bent over to take a peek.
    Oatmeal, biscuits, bacon, some fried apples. Breakfast was served. She’d meant what she said. She wasn’t a picky eater and growing up, her overnight stays at her grandparents’ house had often included similar selections. Her granddad might have been a doctor, but he’d grown up a Tennessee farm boy who liked home cooking, and everyone in the family appreciated simple foods as well as they did fine dining.
    Alex fixed an apple biscuit and took a bite, leaning her hips against the counter. Outside the window she could see Chakachama Lake and its admirers.
    Ansel and Walter were dressed in waders and positioned along the lake’s edge. Dylan was the only one with a beard and not in the water, and he was pulling tools from a shed and loading them into the back of the green truck.
    Alex finished the last of her biscuit sandwich and downed the coffee, pouring herself another cup to carry with her as she explored the lodge. She took some shots of the interior, noting the aged, wide plank floors were worn to a soft golden-brown sheen. The stone hearth was welcoming and obviously old but well preserved, a low fire in the grate behind the screen.
    The sitting area was covered in more rugs like the one in her bedroom, and the couches and chairs had scratches and scrapes from frequent use, but were very comfortable. She made mental notes for her review and headed outside to get photos of the exterior. Her readers counted on the images she provided as much as they did her words. Her reviews were typically photo-heavy, with an overview of her