For the Thrill of It (Bluebell Falls Book 2)

1. Chapter 1

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 an Only Murders in the Building vibe 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.

“Good morning, Willow. Can I get you your usual?” Oakley’s rich baritone seeps into my bones, and I have to close my eyes to focus.

“Sure, that would be great,” I tell him with an overly large smile pasted on my face. The man remembers every single person’s ”usual”, regardless whether you come in every day or once a month. It’s unnatural.

I make my way to the table next to the tall tale committee and sit, carefully pulling out my notebook and laptop. I make sure not to look over at Oakley making my latte with his dark grey Henley sleeves pushed up to his elbows. I definitely don’t look at the geometric tattoos covering his left forearm that flexes every time he reaches for something.

Nope, I definitely don’t do that.

Shaking my head, I turn my attention to the ladies at the table next to me.

“And he just walked down the street like nothing happened,” Mabel says in disbelief.

“Unbelievable,” Alice tsks. “What happened to helping your neighbors?”

I roll my eyes, not even caring about whom they’re referring to because I would bet my next book they’re offended by something that didn’t actually happen.

“Did you talk to the sheriff about that man again?” Alice says in a loud whisper.

My ears perk up. Anything that has to do with Arlo might be something up my alley.

“I did, but he told me he would handle it. I don’t believe that for a second. We need to keep vigilant, Alice. Who knows who is really walking around our town.”

I almost burst out laughing and have to cover my mouth in an effort to stop it.

“Here you go, Willow.” Oakley startles me as he places my latte on my table along with a slice of lemon loaf.

I look down at the cup and see he’s tried to make one of those foam hearts with the steamed milk, but it looks more like a blob, and I roll my lips inward in an attempt to not smile at his effort.

Listen, the man makes killer drinks without the fancy foam artwork, but it’s adorable that he tries. I look up at him to tell him thanks and see his cheeks are tinged with pink.

He’s so fucking handsome it’s ridiculous. The embarrassed blush only makes him more attractive.

“Thanks, Oakley, I appreciate it. How much do I owe you?” I try to keep it cordial because I know if I think too hard about talking to him, I’ll be a mess of awkward conversation and run-on sentences. I don’t do well with men, especially ridiculously attractive men.

I much prefer my introvert status.

“On the house today. Haven’t seen you in a while, so it’s my treat.” He bows his head and then snaps it up when he hears the bell above the front door. “Sorry,” he says, his tone more apologetic than necessary.

“No worries.” I wave him off and try way too hard to appear busy writing nonsense on my notepad.

“Long time, no see, Oak.” The voice of the man who just entered the door is friendly but unsure.

I peer up at Oakley and see the color visibly drain from his face.

“Follow me,” Oakley says, all business, and from his tone, I’d say he’s pissed.

“Oh my God, it’s him.”

Mabel’s hurried whisper draws my interest as I watch the two men walk to the back of the store, where I presume Oakley’s office is.

“Him, who?” Alice asks.

“The assassin.”

My eyes move to the door both men are now behind, and I am more intrigued by the minute.

“He doesn’t look like an assassin,” Alice muses, and I tilt my head back to stop from laughing out loud.

I wonder what an assassin looks like in the eyes of the older women. Because there could be a case for Oakley looking like one with his muscled build and tattoos. I, for one, would be cool with it. It would be like one of my books come to life.

“Well, he seems to know Oakley, so that’s concerning,” Mabel dismisses Alice.

“We should just call the sheriff.” I hear Alice shuffling around, presumably grabbing her phone.

The bell above the door rings again, and Arlo walks into the unsuspecting barrage that is Alice and Mabel.

“We were just about to call you. Oakley is in the back with that man we were telling you about.” The overdramatic concern in Mabel’s voice almost does me in.

“The man you think is an assassin,” Arlo deadpans.

“The very same!”

I bite my lip so hard I’m shocked I don’t draw blood. These two will make anything front-page news, I swear.

“And he knew Oakley, so maybe they’re both assassins.”

The women talk over each other and my laughter bursts from my chest, unable to keep a lid on my amusement.

“Willow Marie, I know you are not laughing at your elders,” Mabel scolds, and I turn to face her.

“I would never.” I place my hand over my chest in faux indignation. “I was just laughing at something Rina texted me.” I look up at Arlo and see the side of his lips tipped up in a smirk.

I arch one eyebrow, daring him to call me out, but he wisely refrains. We’ve known each other since we were little kids. With him and Rina being friends for most of my younger years, he acts more like a big brother than Ledger does some days.

“I’ll talk to Oakley when he comes out,” he offers the tall tale committee before walking to the counter to order his coffee.

“Miss Willow, will you make sure the sheriff talks with Oakley? We’ve got to get to the Bluebell Center for bingo.”

“I absolutely will.” I smile.

Watching them as they walk out the door, still huddled together, chatting about a possible killer in our midst, pulls at the tendrils of a storyline but nothing sticks.

“You really shouldn’t encourage them,” Arlo says as he sits in the other chair at my table.

“But it’s just so much fun. Who could blame me?”

“So, what’s this situation really about?” he asks before he takes a sip of coffee.

“Not sure. A new guy came in, and Oakley appeared to know him. Took him around the back, and that’s all I know.”

“I swear, sometimes I wish there was real crime here instead of this made-up bullshit.”

“You’ll be eating your words on that one, I’m sure. They do make for some great material for my books, though.”

“When’s the new one coming out?” he asks.

“If I can get my ass back on track, it should be out in four months.”

“Well, I look forward to it.”

Oakley and the new guy emerge from the back office, drawing Arlo’s attention.

“That’s my cue. Good to see you, Willow.”

“You too, Sheriff.” It’s still weird calling him “Sheriff” because I’ve known him since I was a little kid, but he does a damn good job dealing with the made-up drama this town naturally produces.

I observe the interaction as I finish my coffee, watching their body language to gauge any information I can.

The only thing I can tell for certain is that whatever Oakley said to the sheriff has him interested.

Oakley doesn’t need to be more interesting to me, but this situation is holding my interest enough to want to dig a little further. Maybe there is something I can use in my book, but I’ll never know if I don’t dig.