Folk Around and Find Out (Good Folk: Modern Folktales #2)(52)

“Well, first of all,” he drawled, “you just said ‘fuddy-duddy’ non-ironically, which I’m pretty sure proves my point. And so, I rest my case.”

“Fuck off. I’m barely thirty. I’m adventurous and I’m fun, goddamn it,” I snapped, gesturing for Genie to bring me another beer. “And take my keys. You’re driving me home.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t fun, but you’re only fun and adventurous when it’s scheduled or you’re given a heads-up beforehand. God help anyone who surprises you.”

“That’s not—”

Beau cut me off with raised eyebrows and a smirk, but he wasn’t finished. “Which was—is—why I figured you’d be mad at Charlotte for lying about her reasons for wanting to work at The Pony.”

“Because it was a surprise,” I filled in.

“Correct. And based on what I know about Charlotte,” he said reasonably, “it’s probably not the last of her surprises.”

“You think she’s still lying about something?” I trusted his judgment, and if he thought there was something else, I wanted to know.

“No. But you know, she’s always doing and saying the last thing people expect.” He was back to rubbing his chin. “Some folks find that fun. Sienna loves it, so does Jet. But you . . .” His eyes lost focus, giving me the sense he was pondering weighty matters. Without looking at me, he continued, “It’s good she’s leaving. I’m not so sure her brand of unexpected would agree with you or your management style”—his eyes cut to mine—“in the long-term.”

I returned my scowl to my empty beer, nodding as I considered Beau’s words, layering them over Patty’s statements from yesterday.

In every way that mattered—lifestyle, choices, temperament, values—Charlotte and I were incompatible. This assertion wasn’t a surprise, but acceptance settled like clay in my stomach and grit on my tongue.

It was going to be a long two weeks.





Last night, we left Genie’s around 10:00 PM and I fell asleep on the way home. I didn’t remember Beau rousing me to walk inside, but I did wake up Sunday morning in my own bed with a Post-it note stuck to my forehead.

Clear the air with Charlotte before her last day so family dinners aren’t more awkward than Cletus’s constant sausage references make them. Everybody except you likes her. Make it right.

I wasn’t hung over—not at all—so when I chuckled at his note, at the metric ton of irony contained on one small slip of paper, my head didn’t hurt. Beau thought I didn’t like Charlotte? I should’ve been an actor.

Telling Beau, confessing my attraction for the woman, this—this . . . thing, this troubling fixation for and on Charlotte Mitchell, would’ve been pointless. Patty had been right: I was a reprobate, I’d always be a reprobate, and Charlotte was a saint, an angel. Even if by some miracle she reciprocated my interest, nothing could ever come of it. No use bringing up a wish that was doomed from the start.

However . . .

Crumpling his note and tossing it in the trash, I decided that if my ability to concentrate didn’t improve, I’d have to consult Beau and ask for his help. He didn’t need to know Charlotte was the source of my fascination, but he had experience regarding hopeless attraction. If anyone knew how to move past a woman, it was Beau.

My dead cell phone couldn’t tell me the time, and based on the light filtering through the blinds, I reckoned it couldn’t be any later than seven or eight. But when I moseyed to the kitchen for coffee and glanced at the clock on the microwave, it announced that I’d overslept. By a lot.

“Shit!”

Coffee forgotten, I plugged my cell into the wall socket and jumped in the shower, not bothering to trim my beard as I quickly towel-dried off. Running back to the phone, I powered it on and hurriedly dressed, cursing the whole time.

First thing I needed to do was call Louis, the new bartender starting today, and apologize for being so late. I’d tell him—

Several texts made my phone buzz. With dread clawing up my throat, I picked it up to read them.

865-555-9090: This is Charlotte. What’s your ETA? The new bartender is here about a half hour early. I let him in and gave him the new hire paperwork to fill out. When he’s done, do you want me to give him a tour?

865-555-9090: I’m giving him a tour

865-555-9090: I can’t seem to get the AC to come on. It’s real hot. Do you want me to call Beau?

865-555-9090: I’m calling Beau. This thing is broken and Serafina is baking bread ????

865-555-9090: Sorry for all the messages but are you okay? You’re really late and you are never late





I finished reading her last text and a new one came through.

865-555-9090: Beau is on his way over to you, but if you don’t text me back in the next 5 mins, I’m calling Jackson to drive over and check on you in official capacity. Better hide the bongs and thongs





Rolling my eyes, even as I breathed a laugh of both humor and relief, I messaged her back.

Hank: Phone was dead. On my way in. Thanks for taking care of Louis





As soon as I hit send, I realized what I’d just done. It hadn’t occurred to me to use a text emoji instead of words to respond. Typing out words had felt natural, normal, and not at all irritating, and that made absolutely no sense.