Leaf You Hanging (Kirby Falls #4)

Chapter 1

one

JACK

I wasn’t technically on the schedule for the night.

I was trying this new thing called having work-life balance. Except, Magnolia Bar was my 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 in search 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 little blond 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.

Shit.

This was messy. And the perfect example of why locals should stick to drinking at Mattie B’s. It kept the drama contained. I didn’t need this in my life. I wasn’t even on the damn schedule.

I sighed long and loud.

Kayla grinned. “Bet you wish you’d kept on going to your apartment instead of checking up on us. Too bad you’re paranoid and anal retentive.”

She totally ignored my glare and patted me on the chest before returning to where thirsty customers waited.

“Sorry, boss,” Sasha muttered when she breezed by. “And sorry about your dinner.”

“My what?” I spun around to where I’d left my saag paneer and felt my jaw drop open.

Drunken Barbie Bonnie was going to town on a samosa from my take-out container. Flakes of fried dough littered the shiny bar top as she closed her eyes and moaned around a mouthful, “Ermahgerd, I loooove these.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

Kayla was right. This was what I got for being a control freak. Work-life balance, my ass.

I approached the little dinner thief and plucked the appetizer out of her hand. “These are mine.”

She squawked, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “I already bit off it. Can’t I finish it?”

“No, you may not.” I popped the lid back on the Styrofoam box. “When the cops catch someone in the middle of robbing a bank, Clyde, they don’t just let them finish the job because they already started.”

“It’s Bonnie,” she corrected. “The other half of the duo.”

I shook my head. “No, Clyde fits you better. You’re trouble.”

Bonnie eyed me suspiciously, or maybe she was seeing double and trying to figure out which one of me to focus on. “You’re not how I thought you’d be.”

I tucked away the rest of my food—Jesus, did she already eat all my pakora?—then tied the bag closed.

Leaning forward, I placed my elbows on the bar and met her gaze. It was slightly more focused. “Oh, yeah? And how did you think I’d be?”

Her eyes were interesting—bright honey brown with a dark ring around the outside.

Not something you saw every day. The frown she was trying her best to commit to looked strange on her face, like her muscles weren’t used to the shape, flitting inadvertently toward a smile when she wasn’t paying attention.

Whatever lipstick she’d had on at the beginning of the night was long gone, and now her lips just looked soft and full and pink.

She had a slight gap in her front teeth that was oddly endearing.

Then I remembered she’d swiped the dinner I’d been looking forward to and resumed scowling.

“I thought,” she mused drunkenly, “you’d be less concerned with legalities.”

I felt my brows climb high on my forehead, an uncomfortable weight settling in my stomach. At one time, I wouldn’t have been concerned with something as minor as theft or even breaking and entering. But I’d left those days behind. I hadn’t been a delinquent teenage asshole in a very long while.

But it did make me curious about what she meant by that and how the hell someone who was publicly intoxicated was staring down her nose at me from atop her high horse.

It just went to show you that small towns had long memories. Once you were labeled a loser, it didn’t matter how many successful businesses you owned or operated; you couldn’t shake the convenient brand in the end. Not that anyone, aside from my grandmother, really knew I owned Magnolia.

Bonnie didn’t do the polite thing where you looked away once you’d dredged up someone’s embarrassing past. She kept her gaze right on me.

“You were two grades ahead of me. I had a free period in the afternoon to help with the yearbook, and Mrs. Crowder’s window looked out over the practice field and the field house. ”

I nodded, knowing where this was going. It wasn’t shame churning around in my gut, but it was close enough.