Page 23 of Tennessee Trouble

I spin around, immediately finding the owner of said polished voice. A tall, almost lanky, older gentlemen stands in front of me, gently bowing his head, as if deferring to someone distinguished or honored. He’s dressed as if he’s about to attend a formal affair—tasseled dress shoes, navy slacks, a striped button-down that simultaneously matches the navy of his pants and the robin’s egg blue of his jacket. Oh, and the impeccably perfect navy pocket square to complete the look. I don’t know if I should be impressed or left feeling underdressed by his choice of attire—there’s no way my khakis, button-down, and quarter zip sweater compete.

Not that it’s a competition. If it was, I’d lose. No question.

“How may I assist you today?” he asks. My eyes roam over him again, still taking in the whole ensemble, when I notice his name tag. Leland. Because of course someone dressed like this would be named Leland.

“Hi, I’m here to see Ms. Murray.”

“Which one?” Leland asks, his smile turning almost playful. “There are three of them, you know.”

Three? Thinking back to the meeting invite for my calendar, there were three people with the last name Murray on it, but I seem to remember one of them being male. Unless that was a poor assumption on my part.

“Mikayla,” I answer, still trying to figure out if I’m in for some kind of surprise.

“And you are?”

“Brandt Rawlins, Southern Brothers Brewing.”

Leland lights up, like I told him I was the Easter Bunny rather than a semi-competitor of the offices we’re standing in.

“Mr. Rawlins! Well, hello, I’m Leland Leslie Pennington, CELLO here at Tennessee Trouble. I am just thrilled to meet you.”

He takes my hand, clasping it in both of his and holding for a second. I smile, already taken by this guy and the warmth he exudes. Like the grandpa everyone should have. Although, with a name like Leland Leslie, there’s a part of me that wonders why he’s in a little town like Trouble, and not on stage over in Nashville.

“Cello?” I ask.

“Customer Experience Lead Liaison Officer,” he explains, a little bit of sass shining through. “It is my job to make sure that everyone who visits our little slice of heaven has the experience of a lifetime. And I do it with a little flair.”

I get the impression there are moments he does it with a lot of flair, but I keep the comment to myself. I don’t want him taking it the wrong way. Especially since there is a part of me who wants to know if I can steal him. We’ve said three sentences to each other, and I can already tell he’s just the right kind of over-the-top.

“Anyway, Ms. Mikayla asked me to make sure that you got a little tour before your meeting, so if you will follow me.”

I do just that as he leads me through the lobby toward a hallway behind the ticketing office. My eyes linger on the y’all means all sign again, trying to commit the wording to memory so I can recreate it once I’m home.

“You like that?” Leland asks.

“I do. It’s well worded.”

“I designed it myself. I’m not much in the way of design, at least not usually like that—I’m more of a fashion guy—but Ms. Kyra and I had a good time with that one.”

“Fashion guy, I couldn’t tell,” I joke.

He purses his lips, like he’s ready to scold me. “I will have you know, I have half a million followers on the gram, as the kids call it.”

I don’t know anyone who calls it that, but then again, I’m not a kid. I also don’t have social media accounts. Tried that once, and it landed me here, getting ready to grovel. So we’re not going to do that again.

Wait, did he say half a million?

“How many?”

“Five hundred thousand, two hundred and sixty-three.” He beams proudly. He should be proud. Damn proud. That’s one large fucking number. “All organic too. I share my fit of the day—that’s my main content. But I also have a little side thingy where I offer advice. Sometimes people just need to be told straight up that something is a bad idea, and they don’t have someone in their life that will do that. So I started Darlin’, Don’t where I offer up that tough love.”

Well, I’ll be damned. Good for you, Leland Leslie.

“I can give you my handle, if you’re interested.” He looks me up and down, assessing my outfit, looking like he’s getting ready to unleash some of that tough love on my choice of clothing. Not all of us can pull off robin’s egg blue though.

“I’m not much of a social media guy.”

Leland shrugs. “Suit yourself.”