one
JACK
I wasn’ttechnicallyon the schedule for the night.
I was trying this new thing called having work-life balance. Except, Magnolia Barwasmy life, so I couldn’t exactly say I was nailing this new outlook.
It was even more difficult to maintain my distance from the bar I owned because I lived upstairs, directly above my workplace. It was easy enough to pop my head in when I was coming or going instead of just taking a straight route through the building lobby.
Logically, I knew that Sasha, Luca, Kayla, Sebastian, and my part-timers could handle things. The bar was busy tonight. It was a September weekend in Kirby Falls, so, of course, the place was packed with tourists visiting our small mountain town.
Magnolia Bar specialized in cocktails, wine, and local craft beers from every brewery between Charlotte and Weaverville. The kitchen whipped up upscale appetizers, including a charcuterie board that had recently been featured on a famous travel blog.
The place was a well-run machine and a Kirby Falls staple for every leafer who visited our part of Western North Carolina insearch of sweeping long-range views and photo-worthy autumn foliage.
But since I was an obsessive asshole, I couldn’t resist the urge to give things a quick once-over before heading upstairs with my takeout from the Indian place down the block. Yet, when I stepped into the modern space with sophisticated décor, smooth jazz playing overhead, and low mood lighting, I did not expect to see over a dozen people crowded around the end of the bar yelling “Chug! Chug! Chug!” while a petite blond woman tipped her head back and polished off what looked like a pint of that new IPA from a brewery in Saluda.
Sasha, the no-nonsense twenty-eight-year-old bartender I’d hired right out of grad school, met my eyes and slowly lowered her pumping fist to her side. She ceased chanting and did her best to nudge Sorority Wannabe Barbie off the bar top.
My other female bartender, Kayla, caught a panicked elbow from Sasha and turned in time to see me making my way across the bar in quick, determined strides.
With wide eyes and a word from Kayla, Luca—the kitchen manager—rushed around the wide oak bar and helped the woman back onto a high-backed leather barstool as the crowd voiced their displeasure at the end of their fun.
Then someone passed Barbie another beer, and cheers resumed as she brought it to her lips.
I placed my plastic bag of to-go containers on the end of the bar and walked through the swinging half door to confront my staff.
Luca wisely scurried back to his kitchen domain while Sasha and Kayla attempted to look busy with customers on the other end of the bar. I turned to the small crowd gathered behind the littleblond chuggernaut and gave them my best I’m-in-charge-and-you-should-fuck-right-off glare.
They got the message real quick. The group—mostly men, I noticed belatedly—dispersed, but the woman kept drinking, downing her second beer, since I’d walked in less than three minutes ago, like a frat party champ.
But she wasn’t a college kid. As I took the time to really look, I realized she was familiar. And she was closer to my age—thirty-three—than any undergrad. Her short blond hair was styled in loose waves that reached just below her chin. She wore a dress that was fitted down to her waist. The spaghetti straps fell across pale shoulders and delicate collarbones. But I could see a red cardigan draped along the back of her stool to ward off the autumn chill.
Oblivious to my inspection, the woman finished the beer and thunked the glass onto the surface of the polished bar before saying “Whoopsie,” and then moving the glass onto a coaster.
My brows rose involuntarily, and I finally turned away to corner Kayla, who was pulling a brown ale from the tap below the bar.
“What the hell is going on?”
Kayla winced. “Um, well. The thing is ...” She trailed off as she leveled out the glass, focusing on not overfilling it.
If customers wanted to sit on bar tops and chug PBR like frat boys, then they could damn well walk two blocks east over to Mattie B’s. That was the townie bar where locals shot pool and sang karaoke. The floors were sticky, the jukebox was too loud, and the owner had a baseball bat under the counter. And that was all well and good. If I were going to catch a basketball game, hell, that was where I went.
But those were not the vibes at Magnolia. We served a different clientele. We held ourselves to different standards. Sasha or Kayla should have broken up whatever the hell had been going on out here before it ever got far enough to organize and start chanting. Instead, they’d joined in, and I wanted to know why.
I took the brown ale from Kayla’s hand and passed it to Sasha, who was attempting to slink by to get to the point-of-sale machine. “Deliver that,” I said tersely.
Then I pinned Kayla with a don’t-even-try-to-fuck-with-me glare and ordered, “Talk.”
Kayla glanced over my shoulder quickly before taking a step toward me and lowering her voice. “She came in on a mission, okay? Her divorce is final, and we felt sorry for her.”
I released a breath, something suspiciously pity-shaped lodged itself in my throat. But I ignored it. “You overserved her.”
“Jack, I’ve known Bonnie all my life. She is literally the best person. She came and got me and Larry sophomore year when our ride ditched us at a concert down in Greenville. She filled my dad’s freezer with casseroles for three months when my mom died. Bonnie takes care of everyone. She deserves to blow off some steam. She is allowed to celebrate her freedom from that asshole she married.”
I swallowed.
That was why she looked familiar. She was Bonnie Clark—or Bonnie Whatever-Her-Married-Name-Was. The Clarks were leaders in Kirby Falls. They owned one of the biggest farms and agritourism stops in Western North Carolina. I played rec league softball on a team with Bonnie’s cousin Will.
