Falling for Red (High Five Novella #5)

Chapter 1

1

Tuesday, July 1st

“ I can’t leave work right now,” I tell the daycare attendant and tighten the grip of my phone.

Glancing at the handful of happy hour regulars, I add, “I’m the only one at the bar.”

Tuesdays at High Five, a reformed small town dive bar in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, are never slammed.

This place is welcoming with newly renovated wood floors and a cozy vibe.

It’s what drew me in to apply.

When I’m bartending, the music is always low, so I don’t have to yell over it.

My noon to six shift has a nice flow, making it worth my time.

I can run the place all by myself as long as no one decides to be an asshole.

“She has a fever.” The attendant’s voice is insistent because yes, I know.

If you have a fever, you have to go home.

Gabby rarely gets sick though.

Closing my eyes, I shake my head at the impossible situation.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I sigh loudly, leaning against the wood bar.

It’s a little after four now.

Hopefully, one of the other bartenders can come in early.

I dial Aaron Olson, the manager, silently praying.

“Hey, what’s going on?” he answers, his voice laced with concern.

I’ve never called him about needing to leave work early, but I understand the unease in his voice.

The only time I call Aaron during my shift is to tell him about an incident—like a drunk throwing a punch.

“Gabby has a fever. I need to pick her up.”

“Of course.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “I can be there in a few minutes.”

Exhaling, I feel a rush of gratitude.

I’m lucky to be working in a place that gets it—that people have lives.

Everyone in Wisconsin is nice, definitely nicer than the people I’ve worked with in Chicago.

“That’s—”

The screech of a fire alarm cuts me off, piercing through the bar’s noise.

A collective gasp ripples through the crowd as people start looking around.

“What’s going on?” Aaron’s voice is faint over the blaring sound.

“I don’t know!” I yell back, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but then I smell the scent of smoke.

My gaze darts around the bar.

If there is a fire, maybe it’s in the bathrooms?

I round the corner of the bar to investigate.

Since I began working here, that’s happened a handful of times—people smoking in the bathrooms.

“Shit!” I scream after yanking open the women’s bathroom door.

One of the garbage cans is ablaze.

Flames are climbing up the wall.

I hang up on Aaron and frantically dial 911.

My hands shake as I turn on the sink and dampen a wad of paper towels, tossing them into the fire.

“911. Where’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice asks.

“There’s a fire at High Five, the bar on Main Street,” I shout into the phone, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

The heat is oppressive, and panic grips my chest as the flames grow.

Fire extinguisher!

I drop my phone on the bathroom sink and sprint back to the bar where we keep one.

I can’t wait for help; I need to put out this fire now.