Chapter One
“I can’t believe it!” Birdie Bebe squealed so loud it made me nearly slosh hot espresso down the front of my apron. I jerked the cup back just in time, but Bunny Bowowski clapped her hands over her ears as if Birdie had hollered straight into them.
Birdie Bebe, Loretta Bebe’s granddaughter, stood behind the Bean Hive counter where she worked most afternoons, bouncing on her toes with her usual offbeat flair. Her platinum-blond pixie cut gleamed beneath the coffee shop’s pendant lights, and today’s outfit included orange-and-black striped tights under a shredded-denim dress with tiny dangling plastic bats on it. She was thin as a rail, but her personality could fill the whole boardwalk.
“What is wrong with you?” Bunny huffed, adjusting her pillbox hat as if it had been dislodged by a sonic boom as she was about to leave from her morning shift. “Don’t you know we’re in a place of business?”
Bunny Bowowski wasn’t exactly the epitome of calm herself most days, but when she got frazzled, her frazzledness was… contagious. She waddled away in her thick orthopedic shoes, her pink shawl slipping halfway off her housedress, muttering about how her ears were still ringing and how her arthritis didn’t need the shock.
“I mean it!” Birdie practically danced in place. “Granny didn’t tell me who she was expecting to come to town for the Neewollah Festival!”
Right there in the middle of the Bean Hive Coffee Shop stood Loretta Bebe herself. She’d swept in like she owned the place, which, in some social circles, she did. Loretta Bebe was like a one-woman parade of Southern ambition.
Loretta wasn’t just a fixture in Honey Springs, she was the chandelier, the velvet drapes, and the crown molding, all wrapped in one. With her jet-black hair teased high and sprayed stiff as concrete, and a tan that gave her the glow of a burnt-orange candle even in January, she made an entrance that turned heads and stirred opinions. She claimed Cherokee blood, but everyone in town knew her color came straight from Lisa Stahl’s garage tanning bed, betrayed by the pale skin between her fingers and on her neck.
Her bracelets jingled from elbow to wrist, her hot-pink nails were filed into tiny daggers, and every one of her fingers sparkled with a chunky ring, each the size of a jawbreaker, as she animatedly talked to the three young people with her. She always wore heels that clicked like punctuation. The glossy black handbag, crooking from her elbow like a trophy, swayed.
Today, she wore a mustard-yellow dress under a tapestry coat, and her expression had that tight-lipped smile she reserved for when she was about to bulldoze someone with charm. Loretta ran the town’s Beautification Committee and the Southern Women’s Club, sat on every possible church and civic group, and owned the only jewelry store in town, Diamonds, which she never worked at.
Loretta loved being the center of attention, and today she had three perfectly filtered reasons to be glowing: the social media influencers trailing behind her.
“It looks like to me Low-retta has some competition,” Bunny snickered as we noticed the two women and one male seeming to take over the coffee shop.
Each one of them was dressed in high-gloss, carefully curated outfits with matching oversized sunglasses, and clothes I couldn’t afford even if I sold every pie in the case, and phone gimbals already recording every move.
“So who are they?” I asked, setting the espresso cup on the counter and grabbing a towel to wipe the splash.
Birdie leaned in so close her bangles tapped the countertop. “Those two women with Granny are not just anybody. That’s @WillTravelForSnacks, @BoozyAndBooked, and the guy is @TrailMixAndTrends.”
I blinked. “What now?”
“They’re like… the biggest influencer accounts in the country, Roxy! They’re the ones competing for the Kentucky tourism contract. The one with the million-dollar prize.”
“Oh, that,” I groaned.
The Kentucky Tourism Commission had announced a huge fall-winter media push back in July. The state was offering a million-dollar campaign budget to one influencer team, and in an unusual twist, they were turning it into a contest. Competing influencers would spend two weeks in various small towns showcasing festivals, food, local charm, whatever made Kentucky special in autumn and winter. Honey Springs was a critical stop on this campaign where the competition went from three to two influencers moving on to the last round that was ending in Louisville.
Loretta had flown into action like a rhinestoned tornado after she left the meeting and had scrambled to apply. I remembered her in the Bean Hive one morning, waving a glittery folder and saying, “It’s our time to shine, sugarplum. We’ve got the lake, the coffee, and enough Southern charm to butter a biscuit from fifty paces.”
Apparently, she’d convinced someone. Because now those influencers, each with millions of followers, were here. In Honey Springs. In my coffeehouse.
“I thought when Granny said she needed help with a few guests, it was just, like, low-level bloggers,” Birdie whispered. “So I told her I was too busy working today. I didn’t realize it was them.” Her eyes were as wide as the saucers stacked by the espresso machine. “Roxy, they’re already posting stories. One of them tagged the Bean Hive. Tagged us.”
“Oh Lord,” Bunny groaned from across the room. “Does that mean we’re on the Instabook now?”
Loretta breezed up to the counter and gave us all her usual don’t-make-a-fuss expression. “Girls, smile pretty. We are officially the first stop on the Influencer Immersion Tour.”
I glanced around the coffeehouse, noting the slightly crooked chalkboard menu and the fact that the left thermos at the self-serve coffee bar had a slow, steady drip. My eye twitched. I suddenly felt the urge to run and rebake every muffin in the case, refold the tea towels, and scrub the grout between the tile floorboards.
Before I could reach for the towel again, the three influencers peeled away from their cluster by the front windows and approached the counter. One of them, tall and angular with sleek red hair tucked into a beige beret, gave a polite smile and lowered her phone.
“Hi there! I’m Addison, @WillTravelForSnacks.” Her voice was smooth and trained, like she’d said her handle enough times it belonged on her driver’s license. “I’ll do a Pumpkin Caramel Crunch Latte, oat milk, if you’ve got it.”
“Of course,” I said, clicking into action behind the espresso machine.
The second woman, who was wearing a floaty black-and-orange maxi dress and rhinestone cat ears, leaned onto the counter with both elbows. “I’m Marlowe, or @BoozyAndBooked. I’ll take a Dirty Chai with two shots of espresso, and if you have any pastries with bourbon in them, I’m legally obligated to buy one.”
“Bourbon Pecan Pie Muffin,” I said, already jotting it down on the order pad.
“Ooh, yes. Very Kentucky.” Birdie nodded in agreement.
The third stepped up last, a young guy, maybe mid-twenties, with silver-dyed hair styled in a messy quiff and a faded thrift-store tee that read “Bee Kind” under a mustard-colored cable-knit cardigan. He had black cuffed jeans, high-top sneakers scuffed just enough to look intentional, and a vintage camera slung over one shoulder.
“I’m Tilden, @TrailMixAndTrends,” he said with a breezy grin, eyes scanning the chalkboard. “What’s the most photogenic drink on the menu that also tastes like fall but doesn’t scream basic?”
“You want cozy aesthetic or caffeine kick?” I asked, grabbing the spiced syrup.
“Give me both,” he said, holding up his phone and adjusting the lighting. “I’m filming a ‘first sip, final word’ series today. You’ve got ten seconds to impress me.”
“You’re getting the Honey Harvest Latte,” I told him. “Made with local honey, cinnamon whipped cream, and a touch of sparkle. It photographs like a dream.”
Tilden gave a low whistle. “Now that’s content.”
“You got it,” I said, reaching for the mug with the Bean Hive’s honeybee logo stamped on the side.
If they were going to feature my drink, I wanted my logo in there.
“I reckon you’re gonna need me to stay,” Bunny Bowowski said as she pulled off her pillbox hat with a sigh then hung her pink shawl on the back hook behind the counter and put an apron on. “The way folks are pouring in, we’ll be out of everything but decaf and napkins if we’re not careful.”
The door had barely stopped jingling. Word must’ve gotten out they were here because more customers came in, their phones already up, scanning the coffee shop for the influencers. A few whispered and pointed, one group even lining up near the window to take selfies with @WillTravelForSnacks, who was obliging with a grin.
Behind the counter, it became an all-hands-on-deck moment.
“I’ll get started on the Pumpkin Caramel Crunch,” I said, grabbing a clean steaming pitcher and checking the syrup levels. “Birdie, can you do the Dirty Chai with the bourbon pecan muffin plate?”
“Already on it,” Birdie chirped, sliding on gloves and moving with purpose, her usual quirky energy dialed up by a thousand watts.
Bunny took over the register and then moved right into prepping to-go drink carriers. “I’ll finish plating these scones and get a fresh pot of French roast going,” she said, already filling the carafe.
The espresso machine hissed to life, milk frothed and swirled, and the sweet-spicy scent of fall flavors filled the air like a warm blanket. I drizzled caramel in a tight spiral and topped it with a crumble of cinnamon graham dust. A light sprinkle of nutmeg made the drink pop just enough under the café lights.
“Gimme that edible glitter!” Birdie said, practically singing as she added a finishing dusting to the Honey Harvest Latte.
“I swear, y’all are turning this place into Willy Wonka’s coffee lab,” Bunny muttered, though the edges of her mouth were twitching upward.
As we slid each drink onto the tray, customers leaned over to sneak pictures, and more phones went up like lighters at a concert.
Addison, Marlowe, and Tilden gathered around like it was a photo shoot instead of a coffee pickup. Addison raised her latte to the light, turning it slowly in her hand before snapping three rapid photos.
Marlowe took a dramatic sip of her Dirty Chai, eyes closed like she was on a food competition show.
Tilden knelt down on one knee by the window to get a “cozy shot” with the lake in the background. Their commentary ranged from “This foam art is everything” to “I’m gonna tag this #SipOfTheSeason.”
Birdie, her face flushed from the rush of customers and sugar glitter, muttered, “Be right back,” before slipping into the kitchen through the swinging door, just as Loretta meandered over to the counter.
“She didn’t even drink it,” Bunny grumbled pointing to Marlowe. “She took a picture, waved it around, and left it sittin’ on the table.”
Loretta ignored her and turned to me with a gleam in her eye. “We’ll need extra pies. Something photogenic. And you might want to add a new signature drink. Something with dry ice, maybe. I want this festival trending by supper.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but what came out was more of a resigned sigh.
I laughed, even as my brain spun in twelve directions. It looked like Neewollah Festival wasn’t just going to bring in the usual autumn crowds.
Across the room, the three influencers had taken up residence by the front windows like they were on set for a lifestyle shoot. Addison, @WillTravelForSnacks, held her Pumpkin Caramel Crunch Latte aloft, angling it just so to catch the light filtering through the glass panes. “It’s giving… cozy caramel dream,” she said into her phone, her voice lilting with the ease of someone used to narrating their life in snippets.
Marlowe, @BoozyAndBooked, twirled in place with her Dirty Chai balanced in one hand, describing the Bean Hive as “a hidden gem tucked into the Kentucky hills” while her dress floated like a Halloween movie poster. Tilden, @TrailMixAndTrends, was already perched on a barstool, elbows on the windowsill, his Honey Harvest Latte untouched as he typed furiously into his phone with one thumb, camera in the other, probably editing a post before the foam had even settled.
“They’re real polished, I’ll give ’em that,” Bunny murmured, joining me behind the counter with a fresh batch of lemon scones she’d just retrieved from the kitchen. “But I’d like to see one of them try to keep a sourdough starter alive through a Kentucky July.”
“I think they’re more used to oat milk and photo filters,” I replied, reaching for a fresh stack of saucers.
“Well, I hope Loretta told them this festival isn’t all Instagram stories and costume contests. There’s a lot of heavy lifting. Literally. I heard someone has to haul the pumpkin carver’s scaffolding down to the Cocoon Inn this afternoon.” Bunny side-eyed me.
“Oh no,” I said, catching her look. “You’re not wrangling me into anything with scaffolding. I’m still recovering from hanging the pumpkin garland across the shop windows last week.”
“We can call Patrick,” Bunny referred to my husband, which was an excellent idea.
The door chimed again, and this time it was Mayor Callie Hartwell, striding in with the no-nonsense energy of someone juggling five committees before lunch. She wore one of her signature jewel-toned cardigans, emerald today, with a clipboard tucked under one arm and a stack of glossy Neewollah flyers in the other.
“I need six large coffees, three caramel lattes, and two iced teas,” she said, barely pausing at the counter. “I’m taking them to some of the volunteers at Central Park. They are working hard to get it even more spectacular for the paw-rade in the morning.”
“Coming right up,” I said, already pulling cups. “How are things looking down there?”
“Busy. Which is what we need. We’ve got to make the most of this while we’ve got national attention. These influencers could single-handedly keep the tourism booming through March. Did you know they each have over four million followers?”
“That’s what Birdie said.” I turned to fix her drink order.
By the time I slid the drink tray to the end of the counter, Callie had moved on to straightening a table sign and giving me a thumbs-up.
She scooped up the tray and disappeared into the coffee-shop crowd.
I leaned an elbow against the counter and looked around at the shop.
Pepper, my salt-and-pepper schnauzer and the unofficial Bean Hive mascot, trotted over from the fireplace with a soft huff.
For a moment, everything was still, the clink of coffee spoons, the steam rising from the urns, the gentle sound of the lake outside the windows. It was fall in Honey Springs. The kind of season we all waited for.
And this year, it just happened to come with hashtags.
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