CHAPTER ONE FALLON
C HAPTER O NE
FALLON
“Please tell me you finally got some white wine in stock,” I say, flopping onto one of the many dilapidated barstools in Beggar’s Hole, the only bar in the little town of Canoodle, California.
A platinum-blonde pixie haircut pops up from the bar, and Jazlyn, my best friend, wiggles her eyebrows.
In my opinion, she looks like the singer P!
nk’s long-lost twin sister. “Refilled just this morning. I threatened Tommy with no payment and a quick slash to his tires if he didn’t have any on his truck. ”
“I’m sure he thanked his lucky stars he had white wine—you have a reputation for seeing through on your tire-slashing threats.”
Jaz winks and moves around the bar with ease, pulling up a wineglass for me—one of twelve she has in stock—and then filling it with wine and seltzer before topping it with a dash of lime.
My mouth waters at the sight.
“Long day?” she asks.
“If you consider wallpapering your hand to the men’s bathroom wall while your foot is stuck in the toilet, then yes, I’d say a long day.” I bring the drink to my lips and take an eager sip.
“Care to explain how you got in that predicament?”
My eyes meet Jaz’s. “One word: Sully.”
She holds her hands up. “Say no more.” She moves around the bar. “Waffle?”
“Obviously,” I say with a roll of my eyes.
She chuckles and heads to the kitchen to put in my usual order of a candied bacon waffle with extra syrup.
Yup, waffles at a bar named Beggar’s Hole.
The thing about Canoodle, California, is that we do things our way, and we don’t step on each other’s toes.
Everyone has a place in this town, and we live harmoniously as one big group, population: 2,510, tucked away in the San Jacinto Mountains between two large rock formations that are almost as grand as the terrain that surrounds us.
Straddling the famous Harry Balls hiking trail, Bald Nut Rock hangs on the edge of the mountain, offering a steep decline, while Ancient Nads Rock extends high up the mountain, offering a very lifelike depiction of, well. .. a man’s dangling bits.
Beggar’s Hole is the town’s bar, situated on stilts just above Bald Nut, so if you drunkenly fall off the side of the deck, you’re tumbling to your alcohol-infused death.
Thankfully, since the opening of the historically seedy yet charming bar, there has yet to be a deck-related casualty.
Just outside the door leading to the deck hangs a gold-framed chalkboard showing a running total of “days since rock formation death.” Currently, the town of Canoodle is sitting on 22,630 days of no deaths.
An accomplishment widely congratulated through the whispering streets of our town.
Sipping my white wine spritzer, I turn in my chair, pressing my back against the bar top and crossing one leg over the other while I take in the wonderfully dingy space, only a light hum of classic rock and roll playing in the background.
Jaz keeps the music just loud enough to be heard, but not too loud to drown out conversations.
The wood-paneled walls have never seen one hint of renovation, but they have acquired fist holes and bent planks, lending the space an eerie but still charming ambiance.
The uneven and sticky wide-plank floor resembles the deck of a pirate ship: knotty, splintery, and full of bodily fluids.
But, like most of the townspeople, we gladly embrace “the Hole” and retreat here for an evening of spirits and breakfast for dinner.
“Other than papering your hand to the wall,” Jaz says, reappearing and resting a giant waffle infused with candied bacon bits in front of me, “how are the renovations coming over at the Cove?”
“Not great,” I answer, spinning around again and grabbing a fork.
Friday nights are for waffles and wine, an odd combination that somehow works.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, taking this all on while being Grandpa Sully’s sole caretaker.
It’s a bit overwhelming.” I feel a pang as I glance back toward the table in the far left corner, Sully’s table, where he’s “shooting the shit” with his best pal, Tank, the owner of Village Hardware and Jaz’s grandfather.
“Today, Sully asked me at least seven times to unload the dishwasher. When I said it was already unloaded, he’d make a grumbly sound, and then I’d walk into the kitchen to hear it running.
I stopped it every time to not waste water, but Jesus, Jaz, he’s getting worse. ”
“Have you talked to the doctor at all about the new developments?”
I shake my head. “Between trying to keep the guests at the Cove happy, the renovations, apologizing for the renovations, and stopping the dishwasher, I haven’t had time.”
“I thought you shut down for renovations.”
“After this weekend, we’ll be shut down so I can focus on the renovations.” I cut into my waffle and gather a large bite on my fork.
“Do you think you need some—”
WHACK!
The door to the bar flings open, adding to the handle hole that’s already made quite the dent in the wood paneling.
The bar goes silent as a tall dark shadow emerges from the plank, the bridge that connects the street to the bar.
The figure slowly comes into view, starting with light-blue shoe—yes, shoe, singular; his other foot is sheathed in a light-blue dress sock (which is not the least bit attractive: the shoe, not the sock)—followed by matching light-blue pants, light-blue suit jacket with accompanying vest, white shirt, and tie.
“Beer,” the man grumbles as he comes up to the bar and takes a seat on a stool two spaces away from me. “Lots and lots of beer.”
Jaz flings a coaster at him. “Does it matter what kind?”
“Nope,” he says, reaching into the bowl of puppy chow in front of him. “Odd,” he says, lifting up one of the powdered sugar–coated Chex squares before popping it in his mouth.
The few people in the bar immediately begin to chatter again, and I know exactly what they’re chattering about... the mysterious man in the flamboyant tuxedo.
He might not know it.
But Jaz and I do. We exchange looks while she pours the man a beer from the tap.
“Watcha runnin’ from?” Jaz asks, setting the beer down in front of him.
He downs half the beer before setting the pint glass back on the bar top and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. This one seems to be lacking etiquette—surprising, given the pristine press of his suit pants and the gold cuff links peeking past his suit jacket.
“Who says I’m running?”
Jaz leans on the bar top. “We might be small-town people, but we’re not stupid.
” She flicks the corsage pinned to his suit jacket.
“From the freshness of this corsage, to the hold-strong gel in your hair, to the desperate demand for beer, I’d say you either left someone at the altar—or they left you. ”
Ohh, very observant.
From my position, I can only catch him from my peripheral view, but I can easily note the tension in his jaw as he stares down his pint glass and then lifts it to his lips. After a few seconds of silence, he finally answers: “I ran.”
Jaz smacks the bar top. “We’ve got a runaway groom, folks!” she shouts to the rest of the crowd, which boos him uproariously, chucking a few used napkins his way.
“What?” the man says, shaking his head. “No, I was the groomsman .”
Jaz pauses. “The groomsman?”
“Technically, best man,” he says, finishing his beer and pushing the glass toward Jaz for a refill.
“But you ran from the wedding?” He nods. Confused, Jaz asks, “Did a swarm of bees chase you out? Possibly the fashion police, attempting to slap you with a fine for an abomination of a tuxedo?”
“Something like that,” he mutters before shoving more puppy chow in his mouth.
Jaz leaves it at that, fills up his drink, and then comes back to me. She jabs a thumb toward the man. “Seems like someone wronged him.”
I take my first true glance at him. Square, muscular jawline, not an ounce of scruff or five-o’clock shadow; laugh lines dancing near the corners of his eyes; blond hair, styled to the right and short on the sides, a hairstyle that could look good on any man.
But... from the sight of him, something familiar starts to bubble up in my stomach. Recognition.
Why do I know him?
Why is that passive way he speaks so... familiar?
“I feel like I know that guy,” I whisper, leaning across the bar.
“Really?” Jaz asks. She glances over at him. “He seems like a tawdry dud. Did you see the shoe?”
“I did. Absolutely dreadful. But beyond that, he looks familiar. Like I’ve met him before.”
From his deflated position two spaces over, he turns to us. Fear creeps over me that he heard us talking about him—Jaz couldn’t care less, but I have some semblance of social decorum. Though when he asks us a question, I know he didn’t hear a thing. “Is there lodging around here?”
Boy, is he talking to the right person. Lodging... of course we have... GASP!
It hits me.
Those tired blue eyes.
That thick blond hair.
The small crook in his nose.
The man hunched over the bar, inquiring about lodging, Mr.Matchy Pant-Shoes... I went on a date with him.
Yes, it’s true. I, a sophisticated and engaging woman, went on a date... with him .
One single date.
A date that lives rent-free in my brain as the worst date I’ve ever been on.
Now, before you start conjuring up ideas as to why the date went sour, I’m going to set the record straight right here, right now. I am not the reason for such a foul memory. No, I was an absolute delight that night.
But the apparent runaway groomsman, on the other hand... he was less than desirable to be around.
“We do have lodging,” Jaz says. “In fact, it’s your lucky day. The owner of the Canoodle Cove Cabins is sitting right here.”
The man turns and looks at me straight on for the first time.
I brace for impact.
For the heat of embarrassed recognition to settle over him.
For him to announce to the bar, with a pointed finger in my direction, that he knows me.