The Backup Plan


 
 
 
 Dedication
 Dedicated to The Bean and The Spicy Peanut. Having a one- and two-year-old in the house during the writing of this book was complete chaos but also the most wonderful, amazing time of my life. Love you both to the moon and back.
 
 
 Contents
 Cover
 Title Page
 Dedication
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Chapter 10
 Chapter 11
 Chapter 12
 Chapter 13
 Chapter 14
 Chapter 15
 Chapter 16
 Chapter 17
 Chapter 18
 Chapter 19
 Chapter 20
 Chapter 21
 Chapter 22
 Chapter 23
 Chapter 24
 Chapter 25
 Chapter 26
 Epilogue
 P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
 About the Author
 About the Book
 Read On
 Praise for Jill Shalvis
 Also by Jill Shalvis
 Copyright
 About the Publisher
 
 
 Chapter 1
 Alice’s To-do List
 Buy potato chips. The family-size bag. If anyone eats them, act appropriately grief-stricken at their funeral.
 After two days of driving, Alice Moore needed to make a pit stop to stretch her legs but ended up in a drive-thru instead. Hey, it wasn’t her fault that exercise and extra fries sounded alike. She’d just finished licking the salt off her fingers when she realized she was nearly at her destination.
 She was either experiencing heart palpitations or her tummy had regrets about supersizing her order. 
 Probably it was both.
 What was it people said about the past—don’t look back? Well, she’d tried not to. Valiantly. But as she drove along the north shore of Lake Tahoe, surrounded by 360 degrees of sharp, majestic, still snow-covered peaks, she felt her past settling over her as heavily as the storm swirling overhead.
 It’d been four years since she’d been in Sunrise Cove, the small mountain town where she’d been born and bred. She’d spent most of her adolescence at her dad’s work, the Last Chance Inn, nestled in the hills above the lake. But that’d been a long time ago. She’d been braver back then, full of hope. These days she was more of a slap-an-out-of-order-sticker-on-her-forehead sort of person.
 She’d been driving for two days, blasting old 1980s rock so she wouldn’t think too much. But the closer to Lake Tahoe she got, the more her heart began to pound in her ears. Or maybe it was just the squealing of the clutch in Stella, her 1972 Chevy Blazer, proving that she needed a throw-out bearing replacement even more than she needed gas. 
 Turning off Lake Drive, she headed up Last Chance Road. At the end of the street, the ostentatious gate in front of her was wide open. She drove along the muddy and still snow-patched land surrounded by thick groves of towering pines that made the place smell like perpetual Christmas.
 The old Wild West Last Chance Inn had been standing tall and proud since 1885, complete with a wraparound porch and wooden signs above the windows labeled SALOON, JAIL, GRAVEYARD, etc., all making her feel like she’d just stepped back in time. She knew every nook and cranny of the place like the back of her hand. She’d learned to drive here, and was proud to say she’d only hit the mailbox three times. She’d ridden her bike here, and had helped her dad fix up anything with an engine. Convinced she could fly, she’d climbed the trees and jumped from the high branches. It’d taken a broken ankle at age ten to figure out that maybe she wasn’t meant to be airborne.
 She parked in front of the inn, but her gaze went to the barn, a hundred yards to the south. Beyond that was a creek where inn guests had once panned for gold, but it was the barn that had always called to Alice. Along with her car racing older brother and dad, she’d lost hours and weeks and months working on the inn’s incredible collection of antique and old muscle cars.
 If there was a heaven, it looked just like the inside of that barn. At least in Alice’s mind. With a sigh, she stared out her windshield at what had once been the very best part of her childhood. Not the buildings, but the searingly intense woman who’d lived in them. Eleanor Graham had been a lot of things to Alice; pseudograndmother, teacher . . . enforcer. Her recent death had blown Alice’s heart into little bits, leaving her feeling a whole bunch like the inn in front of her.
 Badly in need of fixing.
 And now she, a woman who owned little but the big, fat chip on her shoulder, also owned one-third of the Last Chance Inn and all its surrounding property. Boggling, and . . . terrifying. 
 The stipulation of the will stated that all three inheritors needed to come to the inn for the necessary renovations, or forfeit their individual one-third of the holdings. Today was the deadline in which to show up. Decisions needed to be made. 
 Not exactly Alice’s forte, at least not good decisions anyway.
 She slid out of Stella just as a light snow began to drift down from the turbulent sky. Par for the course for April in Tahoe. Or maybe it was because her armor of choice, three coats of mascara, wasn’t waterproof. 
 There was a metaphor about her life in there somewhere, and her stomach tightened the way it did whenever she had to go to the dentist, murder a spider, or face her past, because it seemed no matter how hard she tried, the past always caught up with her. And right on cue, hers pulled up in an electric Nissan LEAF, a big decorative sunflower on the dash.
 Lauren Scott.
 Her one-time BFF got out in a clear rain jacket, hood up over her shiny blond hair, a pretty white sundress with pink tights, an open matching pink cardigan, and dainty ballerina flats. The heart-shaped sunglasses perched on her nose were a nice