Chapter 1
Willow
I’ve written and killed off almost everyone in Bluebell Falls.
They’re not bad people, but it’s cathartic to throw them in one of my books when they annoy me, just to kill them. It’s sure as hell better than doing it in real life, right?
I sigh, sitting back in my office chair, and stare at the blinking cursor on the blank page.
I have an idea for this book, but for some reason I’m just stuck. This has never happened to me before, and I’m frustrated as hell. Can I write myself into this book and send me to my own demise? Writer’s block has never been in my vocabulary, and my stubborn ass refuses to accept it.
For clarity, I write thrillers—the “emotional, jarring, twists-and-turns galore, and keeps you guessing” type of books. Usually, I’m pretty damn good at it, but today? Today, it feels like I’m in a big, dark hole in the middle of a desert, sinking further and clinging to the remnants of an idea that’s slowly slipping away.
And I have a deadline to hit in two months.
Yeah, totally doable and not stress-inducing at all.
Leaning forward, my forehead thumps on my desk.Thump, thump, thump.
Music. Maybe music will help.
I pull up my favorite playlist full of everything, from eighties’ hair bands to current pop stars to soothing instrumentals. Clicking through the first five songs does nothing to inspire me, and after a further five, I grip my hair in frustration.
What the fuck is happening?
A conversation from a couple of days ago pops into my head. Sheriff Arlo came by my brother, Ledger’s, house asking about some rumor Alice and Mabel were spreading. Now, I usually don’t take anything Alice and Mabel as truth, but maybe I’ll get some inspiration from their tall tales. I don’t remember what they were hung up on, but I do remember the word “assassin” being thrown around. And that’s just intriguing enough for me to go find them to see what fables they’re spinning.
I’m not holding hope to anything assassin related because there’s no way in hell anything like that will ever happen in Bluebell Falls. Our small town is more likely to see a bingo hustle than anything as dangerous as an assassin.
I throw my laptop into my backpack, along with a pen and paper in case my computer is the problem, and head out to Main Street.
Small-town life has always been my greatest source of inspiration. I’ve been making up stories about everyone in Bluebell Falls since I first learned how to write. They’ve continued and grown in the years since, and when I decided to do online college for creative writing and English, it felt like a natural career path.
I’ve never regretted that decision once, until today. Writing has always been the easy part. It’s the marketing and promotion that I don’t love or thrive on. But writing is my escape. I’ve been successful enough to pay my mortgage and bills, and keep a steady stream of income, but this book might just cause all of that to crash down around me.
A few months ago, I woke up from a dream with this vague thought of creating a series about a badass woman. That’s it. Just a badass woman. I don’t know if she’s the good guy, the bad guy, or both. Initially, I was going for anOnly Murders in the Buildingvibe but tossed that out almost immediately.In the months since that dream, I haven’t garnered any more clarity. And now it’s crunch time if I want to stick to my publishing schedule.
The walk to Sal’s is exactly eight minutes. I chose to live closer to downtown because it makes it easier to pop in for a change of scenery while I write. My siblings—Ledger, Rina, and Lennox—live on the outskirts of town because they all wanted their space to grow their business, or in Lennox’s case, to be antisocial and live closer to the wildlife.
I just wanted access to everything because I never know where inspiration will come from.
Walking into Sal’s gives me a view of everyone in the place. When I see it’s mostly empty, except for Old Man Walter, I immediately turn around and head to Grind Time.
“Good to see you, Willow!” Kelly, the owner of Sal’s, yells at my back.
I throw a wave at her. I hear her chuckle, and a smirk tips up the corner of my lip. She’s used to me just dropping by and being in the zone. It’s nice to not have to make small talk all the time.
Grind Time is much busier, and I check my phone to see that it’s ten o’clock in the morning, so that makes sense.
I usually avoid the popular coffee shop because the owner, Oakley, is way too damn distracting. I can still remember when he first opened up Grind Time a little over a year ago. I was so excited to have a coffee shop to write at, to create a little office away from home.
And then I saw Oakley.
He’s unnaturally tall. At my five-foot, two-inch frame, he towers over me by at least a foot. His dirty blond, almost brown hair is a little shaggy, like he doesn’t care enough to get it trimmed regularly. And his eyes. Dear God, his brown eyes have every shade in the spectrum. From gold to the color of the espresso I love so much, they mesmerized me the first time I stepped foot in here.
And it was when he had to ask for my order three times that I knew I couldn’t regularly come in here to work. I would never get anything done if I did. So, I’ve saved Grind Time as a reward for finishing a book. I get to come in and drool over Oakley’s gorgeousness without worrying about a deadline.
I look around, and spot Alice and Mabel gossiping in the corner. I take a step to head in that direction when a voice stops me in my tracks.
