Chapter three
Willow
“Sleep. You need sleep and tomorrow this should all be over, Willow.” The stressful breath that leaves my lips as I exit the small-town bar I stumbled upon when I arrived in Carrington Cove a little less than an hour ago has me feeling unsure about being here all over again.
And the owner—all broody and judgmental from the moment he laid eyes on me—he’s the exact kind of person I want to avoid while I’m here.
One of the things I like about living in the city is the fact that people don’t give a rat’s ass about who you are or what you’re doing. Everyone is too busy with their own lives, their own to-do lists and priorities, to be bothered about what’s going on in the lives of others.
But in small towns like Carrington Cove, people make it their business to know your business, and that is not something I want to flirt with while I’m here, especially if those people look anything like that man, someone I definitely wanted to flirt with.
I’ve watched enough Hallmark movies to know what to avoid in a small town, and the man in question was wearing a freaking flannel.
That’s like red flag number one!
It’s not as if I’ve never seen a good-looking man before.
I mean, I live in the capital of our country.
They’re everywhere—dressed in custom tailored suits, clutching briefcases like they hold all their power, smirking over cups of gourmet coffee, and eye-fucking you as you walk down the street in your heels and pencil skirt.
Until they find out you’re the owner of a multimillion-dollar business, and they only see you as a threat to their manhood.
Speaking of manhood, the image of that restaurant owner pops back into my mind for the fifth time since I left his bar, including the noticeable bulge in his jeans, indicating the size of his own manhood.
Jesus, Willow. Get a grip.
Ogling the citizens of this town while I’m here is definitely not on my to-do list, so I do my best to block out our brief interaction, start my car, and pull out of the parking space I found down the small one-way street near the building.
I just needed a drink to take the edge off after the six-hour drive from Washington, D.C.
, and the eerie feeling I got as I crossed into the town limits—like this place held secrets and feelings, both of which I’ve been avoiding most of my life.
Turns out two drinks still wasn’t enough to keep those feelings at bay.
After receiving that letter, let’s just say unresolved feelings are all I’ve been able to focus on for the past few days—feelings a woman like me doesn’t have time for.
I make my way down the two-lane road that winds along the coast, passing by small shops and businesses nestled tightly together along the boardwalk while the cove that offers the town’s namesake glistens under the moonlight.
Part of me wonders what it would have been like to grow up in a place like this, where everyone knows your name, life is a lot slower, and people born here rarely ever leave.
Would my life be different if I grew up here?
The sign for the Carrington Cove Inn comes into view on my right just another mile up the road, so I take the exit and then pull into one of the empty parking spaces left in the lot. For a small inn, this place sure seems to be popular.
“Good evening.” The cheery gray-haired woman behind the counter greets me as soon as I step inside.
“Hello. I have a reservation.” I reach into my purse for my wallet.
“Okay, great. Can I have your name, please?”
“Willow Marshall,” I reply, pulling out my credit card as the woman clicks away on the keyboard.
“I’m Dolly,” she offers with a smile before glancing back at the screen. “Ah, yes. There you are. Good thing you called ahead. We’re booked solid for the weekend.”
“It did look like the lot was full out there.”
“Tourists. Our little town depends on them for survival.”
“Well, I’m not here for a vacation, that’s for sure,” I mutter under my breath.
The woman narrows her eyes at me, but a smile remains on her face. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
“What gave me away?” I grin, appreciating how friendly this woman is compared to the bar owner from earlier.
Her eyes dance up and down my body. “Business attire, a purse that costs more than my mortgage probably…”
I decide not to give her a response to that remark because I’m pretty sure the answer is a resounding yes.
“What brings you to town then?”
I hand her my credit card and she finishes checking me in. “Just tying up some loose ends,” I reply.
“Loose ends? Sounds messy.”
“Messier than I need it to be or have time for.” I flash her a tight-lipped smile as I take my card back from her. “So what room am I in?”
“104. It’s the fourth room down that hallway to your right.”
“Perfect. I’m guessing there’s no room service in a little place like this, huh?” I’m partially teasing, but the other part of me is becoming increasingly aware that I’m not in the big city anymore and that means certain amenities I’m used to will be few and far between.
The woman winces through her smile. “No, dear.”
“Didn’t think so. Thank you, though.” I hold up my silver key—not an electronic keycard like most modern-day establishments—and then turn toward the front door of the small lobby that smells of stale carpet and ocean air.
“We do have fresh muffins and coffee for our guests in the morning, though!” she calls after me. “Think of it as a continental breakfast, if you will.”
“Good to know. Thank you.” I tell her over my shoulder before I head for my car. I grab my suitcase from the trunk and stop to take in my surroundings. The vast, dark sky is a breathtaking expanse of twinkling stars.
Stars—gosh, when’s the last time I saw actual stars, or even bothered to look up at them?
I shake off the thought and the twinge of sadness that resonates in my chest and wheel my suitcase to the door of my room, inserting the key in the lock, and jiggling it around a little before it finally turns and the door creaks open.
Oh my God. This is where I’m going to die.
As I take in my surroundings, all I can picture is the scene of a movie where a woman stays alone in a cheap motel and answers the door when someone knocks, only to be kidnapped and murdered just for the main character to search for her body throughout the rest of the movie.
“This was a mistake,” I mutter to myself as I close the door and lock it behind me, walking further into the room.
The bedspread is made of rough cotton in a classic paisley fabric of reds, blues, and greens.
The walls are a dark beige, and I can’t tell if that’s the color they were painted, or that color is a product of salty ocean air and age.
The bed is centered on the wall to my right, with a nightstand on each side complete with bedside lamps, and a red cushioned chair in the corner under the window.
The room has one of those AC units under the window with the vents that blow up into the curtains, and on the wall to my left is a small tv stand and a box television that looks like it escaped from the ’80s and is still surviving.
“I’m definitely not in D.C. anymore.”
Once I’m changed, showered, and my teeth are brushed, I open my laptop, respond to emails that came in during my drive down here, and make sure my schedule is clear for tomorrow.
When I’m done, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, thinking back over the last few weeks—how I ended up here in the first place, how this meeting tomorrow might go, and the letter that started it all.
And as I drift off to sleep, those familiar images come back to my mind—a woman with blonde hair like my own, a man whose smile I swear I can still remember, and the other memories I allow my brain to conjure up every once in a while—the ones I would have had if my parents hadn’t died.
***
“There’s not a Starbucks around here?” I ask Dolly when I make it down to the lobby, ready for the meeting I came all the way down here for.
She shakes her head. “Nope. Carrington Cove residents shut that idea down before it even made it to the town council.”
“How did that happen?”
Dolly flashes me a knowing grin. “You’d be surprised what a group of strong-willed people are able to accomplish when they set their mind to something.”
I try not to react, but instead swallow hard. “Noted.”
“Anyway, that coffee on the table is the best you’re going to get in town. Keely delivers it fresh every morning. She owns Keely’s Caffeine Kick, the coffee shop on the boardwalk.”
“Charming.” I spin around to see a stack of Styrofoam cups and black plastic lids next to two insulated coffee dispensers, along with a basket of muffins complete with a red and white checkered cloth lining the inside.
“And the muffins are made fresh each morning by Greg and Jenny over at Sunshine Bakery.”
“Well, okay then.” I move to the table and help myself to the goodies as I feel the heat of Dolly’s stare on my back.
“So what are you up to today?”
“I have a meeting,” I mutter as I fill my cup to the brim with coffee.
“With whom?”
“Timothy MacDonald.”
“The attorney?” There’s a note of surprise in Dolly’s voice.
I twist to see her eyebrows reaching her hairline. “Is there another one?”
“No. Just odd for an out-of-towner to be meeting with Tim.”
“Well, like I said, I’m here on business.”
Dolly hums in thought. “Well, you best get along. Traffic will start to back up along the parkway at this hour—tourists headed toward the beach and all that.”
“Good to know. Thank you for the coffee and muffin,” I say, and the memory of the bar owner chastising me about my manners pops up. But I don’t have time to go down that road right now.
“Happy to oblige. Have a good day, Willow.”
With one last smile in her direction, I hustle out of the lobby and back down to my car. Once I’m settled, a loud growl from my stomach reminds me I should probably eat, so I break off the muffin’s crumble topping and plop it in my mouth.