The Willowbridge Series

Chapter 1

Maya

My hands shake as I hurl the last cardboard box into my Subaru Outback. Rain drizzles down like the universe agrees my life is a disaster.

The box lands with a wet thud next to my collection of failed dreams. A broken monitor. Three garbage bags of clothes that still smell like Derek's cologne. My grandmother's quilt—the only thing that survived the carnage of my imploded existence.

Well, Maya, I think, slamming the Outback's rear door. At least you're consistent. Consistently a disaster.

The rain picks up. Of course it does. Water seeps through soggy cardboard, destroying what's left of my dignity. My car smells like three days of gas station coffee and this morning's leftover Thai takeout. Because I'm clearly crushing this whole adulting thing.

I slide into the driver's seat. The fake leather squelches under my wet jeans. My phone sits on the passenger seat like an accusation, Derek's last text still glowing:

Hope you figure out what you actually want someday. Some of us don't have time to wait for you to stop settling for mediocre.

Mediocre. The word sits like acid on my tongue. Like the moment three days ago when I walked in on him with his "workout buddy" Stephanie. Apparently, I wasn't just mediocre at relationships. I was also mediocre at reading the signs that my boyfriend was doing his "workouts" in our bed.

"You always do this," Derek had shouted when I threw his protein powder at the wall. "You sabotage anything good because you're too scared to try. That's why you'll never make it in tech. That's why you'll never make it with anyone who matters."

The memory makes my ribs feel like they're crushing my lungs. Maybe he was right. Maybe that's why Bradford fired me yesterday. "Uninspired code," he'd said. "Lacking innovation. Not to mention the Evan Pierce situation."

Maybe that's why I'm twenty-eight, sitting in a car that smells like failure, with nowhere to go except the one place I swore I'd never return to.

Willowbridge.

I press my forehead against the steering wheel. Let out a laugh that sounds more like a sob. Perfect. Maya Bennett, former rising star in Seattle's tech scene, crawling back to the small town she couldn't wait to escape.

The same place where I spent my adolescent years suffocating. Where everyone knew everyone's business. Where Friday night football was the height of excitement.

But it's the only place left. My parents don't know I'm coming—I couldn't handle the disappointed-but-trying-to-be-supportive tone in my mother's voice.

At least I'd snagged a month-to-month rental through some sketchy website.

A little apartment above the coffee shop. Time to figure out my next move.

Just temporary, I tell myself, starting the engine. Get back on your feet, rebuild your portfolio, and get the hell out.

But as I merge onto the highway heading toward Willowbridge, something twists in my stomach that feels suspiciously like going home.

Three hours later, I'm questioning every life choice that led me here. The rain has gone from drizzle to downpour to biblical. My windshield wipers are losing the battle.

Willowbridge's main street looks exactly like it did ten years ago. Except smaller somehow. Same vintage streetlamps. Same brick storefronts. Same overwhelming sense of everyone-knows-everything settling over me like a familiar weight.

I pull up in front of Peterson's Realty, water streaming down my windows. The engine ticks as it cools. People hurry past with umbrellas, faces hidden but their small-town urgency unmistakable.

You can do this. Get the keys, get to the apartment, order pizza.

Mrs. Peterson looks exactly the same. Gray curls, reading glasses on a chain, floral blouse that screams church fundraiser. Her smile falters the moment I walk through the door, dripping onto her pristine carpet.

"Maya! Oh, honey, you're soaked through." She bustles toward me with a towel. "What brings you back to—oh." Her face goes pale. "Oh no. Oh, dear."

My stomach drops. "What?"

"The apartment? I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Terrible mix-up." Mrs. Peterson wrings her hands. "The website you used, it's not affiliated with us anymore. The unit you reserved has been double-booked."

The words hit like cold water. "Double-booked."

"The tenant moved in yesterday. Six-month lease." Her voice gets smaller. "I tried calling, but it went straight to voicemail."

"So I don't have a place to stay." My voice sounds eerily calm. Usually a warning sign that I'm about to lose my shit spectacularly.

"Well, there's the Willowbridge Inn, but it's hunting season. Completely booked. And the motel out by the highway..." She trails off. "Maybe your parents—"

"No." The word comes out sharp. "Definitely not."

Mrs. Peterson looks at me with pity usually reserved for injured animals. This is it. Rock bottom. I'm homeless in my hometown, standing in a real estate office that smells like lavender and sadness.

"I'm so sorry, honey. If there's anything else—"

But I'm already backing toward the door. Mumbling something about figuring it out. The rain hits me harder. I stand there for a moment, letting it soak through my already damp clothes.

Great. Just fucking great.

I look up and down Main Street. That's when I see it—warm amber light spilling onto the wet sidewalk from a familiar bar.

The Willow Tap.

The first thing that hits me when I push through the heavy wooden door is the smell. Whiskey and fried food and something indefinably warm. Like a hug I didn't know I needed.

The second thing is the noise. Classic rock playing just loud enough to feel like a soundtrack. Low murmur of conversation. The satisfying clink of glass meeting wood.

It's like stepping into another world. One where my problems can't follow.

The bar hasn't changed much. Same exposed brick walls covered in vintage beer signs. Same worn wooden floors that creak in all the right places. Same mismatched tables and chairs that somehow make the whole place feel like someone's favorite living room.

But it's different too. Warmer. More lived-in. The kind of place where regulars have their own stools.

I hover near the entrance, suddenly self-conscious. I'm dripping rainwater onto their floor. Probably looking like something that crawled out of a storm drain. Steam rises from my clothes.

"Well, I'll be damned."

The voice comes from behind the bar. Rough with surprise. Tinged with something that might be amusement. I look up.

My breath catches.

Oh. Oh no.

Because standing there, polishing a glass with ease, is Lucas Mason. And he's... Jesus, when did he get so big? The gangly boy from chemistry class has been replaced by someone who looks like he could bench press my Subaru without breaking a sweat.

Broad shoulders stretch the fabric of a black t-shirt. His forearms—God, when did I develop a thing for forearms?—flex as he sets down the glass.

His dark hair is shorter now and slightly mussed. But it's his eyes that stop me cold. The same bright blue I remember, but sharper somehow. More guarded.

He's staring at me like I'm a ghost. Maybe I am. The ghost of Maya Bennett, who left this place behind without looking back.

"Maya." My name sounds different in his voice. Lower. Richer. "What the hell are you doing here?"

The question lingers, loaded with years of silence. Around us, conversations continue, but it feels like we're in a bubble where only the two of us exist.

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. What am I supposed to say? Hey, Lucas, my life imploded, so I thought I'd come home and make things awkward?

"I..." I start, then stop. Suddenly I'm seventeen again. Tongue-tied around the boy who used to walk me to class. Who never seemed to notice I had the world's most obvious crush on him.

His expression softens. Taking in my soaked appearance and what must be the shell-shocked look on my face. "You look like you've had a day."

That breaks something loose in my chest. I let out a laugh that sounds dangerously close to a sob. "You could say that."

"Come on." He gestures toward an empty stool at the bar. "Sit down before you fall down. Coffee or something stronger?"

Just like that, I'm moving toward him. Drawn by the same pull that made me notice him in the first place. As I settle onto the stool, I catch his scent—soap and something woodsy and purely male. I grip the edge of the bar to steady myself.

This was a mistake. Coming here was definitely a mistake.

But I'm too tired to leave. The warmth of this place is starting to seep into my bones, making me feel almost human again.

"Coffee," I manage. "Definitely coffee." I pause. "Actually, make that an Irish coffee, because why the hell not."

Lucas nods with a grin and turns to the machine behind the bar. I use the moment to study him. The way his shoulders move under the dark fabric. The confident ease with which he navigates his space. The small scar above his left eyebrow that I don't remember.

Focus, Maya. Alcoholic caffeine. Warmth. Figure out somewhere to sleep that isn't your car.

"So," he says, not turning around. "Ten years. That's got to be some kind of record for avoiding your hometown. Thought you'd forgotten this place existed."

There’s something in his tone. Not accusation, exactly. But not complete neutrality either. "I've been busy."

"I'm sure." He sets a steaming glass in front of me. Our fingers brush when I reach for it. The contact sends a little shock up my arm. Nothing to do with static electricity. "Seattle, right? Big tech career?"

The coffee is perfect. Rich and hot with just enough whiskey burn to match my mood. But his words make it taste bitter. "Was. Past tense."

"Ah." He leans against the bar, studying my face with those impossibly blue eyes. "That explains the 'I've hit rock bottom' look you're sporting."

I nearly choke on my coffee. "Wow. Tell me what you really think."

A ghost of a smile tugs at his mouth. "You always did appreciate honesty."