Chapter One
Willa
Y ou have got to be kidding me. Ugh.
My iPhone lost reception forty-five minutes ago, and the dashboard GPS shows that I’m off-roading. Which I’m clearly not doing.
“Please, please, please, God, let me find civilization soon. I’m too busy to be the main character in a roadside horror film,” I utter the desperate prayer as my low-fuel light blinks urgently at me.
For the last few miles, I have been envisioning myself being kidnapped and murdered while stuck on the side of the highway in nowhere Missouri without cell reception to call 911 for help.
Relief flows through me as my eyes fall on the sign for gas up ahead, off of the next exit.
I really need to stop listening to these true crime podcasts while traveling alone.
I pull my white convertible Porsche 718 Spyder up to the rusty old pump at a small, run-down station, grab my credit card, and exit.
My lower back screams as I stand for the first time in eight hours. Taking a moment to stretch my aching muscles, I get a look at my surroundings. Depressing.
No fast-food joints or restaurants in sight.
Great .
Looks like I’ll have to settle for a pack of crackers and a diet soda for lunch.
I round the car and approach the pump. I remove my sunglasses and place them on my head as I stare in confusion at the contraption for several moments before I hear a throat clear.
My eyes follow the sound to an older man in a pair of grease-covered dark blue overalls, standing at the door to the convenience store.
“You need some help, miss?” he asks.
I sigh in relief.
“Yes. I must be more tired than I realized because I can’t seem to find the card reader on this pump,” I tell him.
He reaches up and removes his battered ball cap from his head and swipes at his eyes with his dirty sleeve.
“That’s because we don’t have card readers,” he informs me.
I frown and look back at the pump in awe.
“How do I get gas?” I ask what I believe to be a valid question.
“You come inside, and I’ll ring you up and turn your pump on,” he tells me.
“Oh,” I say in surprise.
I don’t think I’ve ever had to go inside to pay for gas.
He stands there, grinning at me, while I return to the driver’s door, fetch my purse from the seat, and then shut and lock the car. I walk to him, and he politely opens the door for me as I walk inside and he follows.
“Do you have a restroom?” I ask.
He reaches behind the counter and takes hold of an old sneaker with a key ring attached to one of the lace holes.
I stare at it as he holds it out.
“It’s outside, around the back.” He nods toward the left side of the concrete building. “I just cleaned it,” he informs me as he urges me to take the shoe.
“Thank you,” I say before I rush to the small, dark bathroom that smells heavily of pine.
I use the facilities as quickly as possible and wash my hands. Then, I return the shoe and grab a few snacks and a Diet Coke.
“I’d like to fill up my tank as well,” I say as he punches buttons on the cash register.
“Go ahead. I’ll hold your card, and you can come in and pay once you’re done.”
I do just that, and then I come back to settle up with him.
“Are there any nice hotels near here?” I ask.
I planned to drive at least another four hours before retiring for the night, but now that I’ve stopped, I can feel the exhaustion taking over my body and my mind. I promised Dad I wouldn’t overdo it.
Better safe than sorry .
“There are a couple of motels down this road, but from the looks of you, I’d say you’d be more comfortable if you drove on into Sedalia and found a fancier hotel there,” he advises.
“Do you know about how far that is? I can’t seem to get a cell signal out here.”
I wave my phone at him and then raise it above my head and from side to side to see if I can get a single bar.
“It’s thirty miles ahead. You’ll see the signs on the highway, and your phone should start working by the next exit. We’re in a dead zone here,” he explains.
“Thank goodness. I don’t know how people around here survive without using their phones,” I say.
He hands my card back to me and deadpans, “Yeah, it’s a real hardship, but somehow, we get by.”
“Thank you for the service and the help,” I say.
His face softens, and he sighs. “You be careful out there, young lady.”
I place my card in my purse, my designer sunglasses on my face, and take my bag of empty calories.
“I will.”
“You’re in room 600. Just take the elevator to the right. I hope you enjoy your stay with us, Miss Arrington.”
I take the key card from the front desk employee, grab the handle of my suitcase, and proceed to my room.
I wanted to make the journey from Miami, Florida, to Lake Mistletoe, Idaho, in two days. The distance is roughly twenty-five hundred miles, and it is technically possible to travel over a thousand miles a day but only if there is zero traffic and you don’t sleep, eat, or stop for the bathroom. So, here I am, at hotel number two on this cross-country trip from hell.
As I make my way to the elevator, my eyes scan the lobby of the hotel.
It’s pleasant enough. A tiny lounge area with a fireplace is located right inside the sliding front doors. Not exactly ideal. They should have a simple seating area there and added the fireplace and more comfortable lounging options deeper into the establishment and closer to the bar. That way, couples could get cozy and enjoy each other and their cocktails in a more intimate setting.
The bar is sleek but small with approximately six barstools and one rather bored-looking bartender. It could do with more aesthetic lighting and maybe a television set to the local sports station.
I wonder if they have a suggestion box somewhere.
Hotels are my specialty. I graduated top of my class from Florida State University’s hospitality management program six years ago. In the time since, I worked my way into managing one of South Beach’s most glamorous resort hotels. We hosted some of the world’s top rich and famous clientele. Our nightclub was the hottest red-rope ticket in town for two years running, and anyone who was anyone wanted on that guest list.
It was my dream job. That is, until our owner was caught up in a drug-smuggling scandal and his assets, including the Oasis Beachfront Resort, were seized.
Suddenly, I found myself unemployed and spending my time lying on the beach with my stepmother, studying hotel design, blogging, and working on my tan and my résumé.
Last week, I received a call from my grandmother’s estate attorney to tell me that as her only living relative, I had inherited her small lakefront inn, tucked in the Rocky Mountains near Sun Valley, Idaho.
Wilhemina Deaver was my mother’s mom. Mom died from breast cancer when I was eight, and Grammy passed away in March. She was eighty-seven years old and died peacefully in her sleep. It was a blessing after watching my mom suffer through two surgeries and months of treatments, only to lose her battle in the end. Grammy’s heart just gave out, and it had the mercy to wait until she was in dreamland to stop beating.
So, I’m on my way to Idaho to pack up Grammy’s belongings and take over the inn. I plan to do a few small renovations and hopefully get it on the market after this holiday season, which is booked solid, according to Trixie, Grammy’s best friend and full-time employee at the inn.
Per my stepmother, Savannah, my father is planning on opening an all-inclusive resort in Belize next summer. His development firm purchased the beachfront property this past summer. According to her, Dad wants me to come on staff to manage the property, but I have a bigger goal in mind. I intend on being an investor and partner in his venture. The money from the sale of the inn and the inheritance money that Grammy left me will come in quite handy when I approach the subject with him. I have saved a nice nest egg as well, but every penny will help, and maybe my dad will take me seriously if I have more capital to contribute.
I have room service bring me a chicken salad for dinner, and then I scarf down an order of milk and cookies as I open my laptop and map out the rest of my journey. If I leave early enough, I can make it to Wyoming before I have to stop again. Then, the next day, I’ll make it to Idaho.
I shoot off an email to Trixie to give her my ETA and close the computer down.
After I take a hot shower and settle in for the night, I FaceTime Dad.
“Willa, I was about to call in the cavalry,” he says in lieu of a greeting as his face appears.
“Sorry. I just made it to civilization and cell service.”
“Where are you?”
“Somewhere in Missouri. I stopped to get a good night’s sleep, and I’ll head back out first thing in the morning.”
“I still don’t understand why you drove. A flight would have had you there in a matter of hours,” he scolds.
I shrug. “I’m going to be in Idaho for close to two months. I’ll need a car, and renting one for that long would have been a small fortune. I want to put every dime I have into the inn.”
“I don’t like you on the road alone, and I don’t think you need to put too much money into the inn at this point. Remember that you are selling. Let the new owner spend their own money on the old place.”
“First off, I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself. Second, I don’t plan on putting too much money into it. I just want to spruce it up a bit and get the best selling price I can for it. I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“I know you’re an adult, but I’m your father, and I’m allowed to worry.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m fine, but I’m exhausted, so I’m going to call it a night. I’ll touch base with you in the morning.”
“All right. Sweet dreams. I love you.”
“I love you too. Talk to you tomorrow.”
I plug my phone into the charger and grab the remote control. I let the sounds of late-night television lull me to sleep.