I hated this. The minute my high-heeled boots hit the pavement of Willow Ridge, a sinking feeling filled the pit of my stomach. I’d said goodbye to this place–and all the things in it–a long time ago, and I wasn’t pleased to be returning.
It was just my luck that the firm I worked for sent me right back here. With a heavy sigh, I dragged my suitcase behind me after I’d retrieved it from the trunk of the cab that I’d paid a fortune for.
That was the other thing I’d always hated about Willow Ridge. It was smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It took forever to get away from this place.
In my case, it had taken eighteen years and a full ride to a city college to get away. I’d enjoyed life in a place that didn’t roll up its sidewalks at eight.
For four years, I’d reveled in eating out at eleven at night, being able to grab a bottle of aspirin at one in the morning, and entertainment that consisted of more than the local theater group’s latest attempt at a Broadway musical.
When I’d scored a gig as a junior interior designer at a big city firm, I’d rejoiced at my ability to stay in the city I loved.
My first solo gig? A historical restoration in Willow Ridge.
I recalled being given the project in vivid detail. My boss called me into her office first thing on that fateful Monday.
I’d rushed in with my coffee still in hand after dumping my tote bag in my tiny office.
“You wanted to see me?” I asked as I hovered in her doorway.
