Presley smiles at the bartender as she takes a seat on one of the white leather stools.
“Welcome to Billy’s Bar. What can I get for you?”
She opens her mouth to ask for a club soda with a lime twist and out spills, “Casamigos on the rocks, please.” She rarely drinks alcohol, but after an unsettling day, she needs something to take the edge off.
“Excellent choice.” He pours tequila over a block of ice in a lowball glass and sets it down on a cocktail napkin in front of her.
She lifts the glass, shakes the ice cube, and sets the glass back down without taking a sip.
She checks out the bartender, who has turned his back on her and is stacking glasses on the shelves lining the walls. While none of his features are striking, she finds the combination of reddish-brown hair, strong jaw, and electric blue eyes appealing. Black pants hug his tight butt and his starched white shirt fits snug to his torso, hinting at six-pack of abs.
What’re you thinking, Presley? You didn’t come here for love. A man is the last thing you need right now.
He finishes stacking glasses and returns his attention to her. When he sees her untouched tequila, he asks, “Is something wrong with your drink?”
Leaning her head down, she sniffs the tequila. The strong fruity aroma is tempting. “I’m still deciding whether to drink it. I’ll pay for it either way.”
“No way! I can’t charge you if you’re unsatisfied.” When he tries to take the glass, she tightens her grip.
“The drink is fine.” Presley gestures at the memorabilia on the wall behind her. “So . . . who’s Billy? I assume those are his guitars.”
“Billy Jameson. He’s a legend around here. You’ve probably never heard of the Wild Hollers, an alternative rock band popular in the late eighties and nineties. He was their lead singer.”
She slaps the bar. “You’re kidding me? I know exactly who Billy Jameson is . . . was. Didn’t he die recently?”
“About nine months ago. Billy’s great-grandfather built this inn. His daughter’s running it now. Have you met Stella?”
“Not yet. I just arrived an hour ago.”
“You’ll meet her soon. She’s supercool.” He leans back against the opposite counter, crossing his legs and folding his arms over his chest. “So, you’re a rock and roll fan.”
“I love every genre of music. But I’m from Nashville. Country is in my soul. Outlaw country is my favorite.”
He nods his approval. “We have that in common. Are you in the music business?”
Shaking her head, Presley looks away. “My mother was. She passed away recently.”
Genuine concern crosses his face. “I’m sorry to hear that. How’d she die?” he says and holds up his hand. “Sorry. None of my business.”
She smiles at him. “No worries. Mom died of liver cirrhosis. She was a terrible alcoholic. Highly functioning until a few years ago.”
When his blue eyes travel to the tequila, she pushes the glass away. “I don’t know what made me order it. I’m not much of a partier. You learn a lot about what not to do when you live with an alcoholic.” She decides not to tell him about the period in college when her drinking bordered on abusive, and one particularly ugly blackout drunk that scared her into sobriety.
“I don’t drink much myself,” he says, dumping her tequila in his bar sink.
“Oh really? Why not?” She holds up her hand. “Sorry. Now I’m being nosy.”
He shrugs. “It’s fine. I don’t like the person I am when I drink.”
She cocks her head to the side. “Don’t you find it tempting being around alcohol all the time?”
“On the contrary. Being around drunks all the time reminds me of what I’m not missing. Besides, I enjoy meeting new people. Give someone a drink, and they’ll speak more freely about themselves. I like hearing their stories.” He slides a bar menu toward her. “Let me fix you something else. I have a keen knack for mixology. I can make any of the menu items sans alcohol.”
She scans the menu. “I’m impressed with your use of fresh ingredients and herbs. Some of these sound yummy.” She gives him back the menu. “But I’ll just have club soda with a lime twist for now.”
“Coming right up.” He fills a glass with ice and soda, adds a chunk of lime, and hands it to her.
She glances around the empty barroom. “This place is a ghost town. Do you ever get any customers?”
“Business picks up on the weekends, when all the Jefferson College parents come into town for football games.” He chuckles. “And I’m here to tell you, parents of college kids are a rowdy bunch. They’re definitely living their lives vicariously through their children.”
Presley thinks back to when she was in college at the University of Alabama. Her mother never missed a home football game. Renee was the life of the party, embarrassingly so at times. “I’ll take that as a warning, since I’m staying through the weekend.”
He fidgets with a remote control, turning on soft jazz music. “So, what brings you to Hope Springs? You’re way too young to have a child in college.”
Presley laughs out loud. “No children.” She debates how much to tell him. He’ll think she’s lost her mind if she confesses she flew here on a whim to track down a lead regarding her birth mother. Running a finger around the rim of her glass, she says, “I just needed to get away. These past few months have been a challenge with Mom’s death and settling her estate. Now, with the leaves changing, seemed like a pleasant time to come to the mountains.”
“What do you do for a living?”
“Good question.” She drains the rest of her soda. “I have a bachelor’s degree from the University of Alabama, but I’ve been handling my mother’s affairs for the last three years. Now that she’s gone,
