Gin Fling (Bootleg Springs Book 5)

by Lucy Score

  Myrt waved him over, and I saw him hesitate for a moment. His negative feelings toward me seemed to be strong enough to make him consider avoiding the town elders. Interesting. The analytical part of my brain wanted to test which situations were more or less distasteful than a civil conversation with me. I scratched out a quick note in the margin of my notebook to consider it later.

  He ambled over to the far end of the table. “Ladies. Jefferson,” he said with a nod, pointedly avoiding further eye contact with me.

  “We were talking, and we think it’s time you find some gym space,” Louisa announced.

  The rest of the ladies nodded their heads emphatically.

  “That seems to be the sentiment of the day,” Jonah said cryptically.

  “I know not a one of us looks a day over fifty,” Gert said, patting her white hair. “But we shouldn’t be tripping over tree roots and free-range chickens to get to our Happy Hour workout.”

  Happy Hour was the name residents over the age of sixty voted to call Jonah’s senior fitness class.

  “Mona Lisa McNugget Number Five sure is more adventurous than Number Four,” Jefferson commented.

  “Now, you wouldn’t just be trying to get me to settle down, Gram-Gram. Would you?” Jonah asked with a wink. Gosh, his smile was nice. No wonder the ladies loved him. Heck, I liked him, and he wasn’t even nice to me.

  Gert, Cassidy and June’s grandmother, feigned innocence and pathologically lied her cute little butt off. “I have no clue what y’all are talking about. I’m looking out for your welfare. Why, imagine if Estelle here took a header over a chicken in the park and broke a hip.”

  Everyone at the table, except for me, knocked on wood.

  “What about the high school gym?” Jonah prodded. He was a personal trainer, and I doubted there was a single lady within town limits who wouldn’t be interested in him personally training her. I’d taken one or two of his boot camps before he became woefully misinformed and decided to dislike me. It was a shame. He was an excellent teacher, and I was in need of some athletic guidance.

  “We just think you would do a better business, especially with the summertimers, if you had a dedicated gym space,” Mrs. Varney insisted.

  “I’ll think about it,” he promised, smiling at the table. His gaze skipped over me.

  I wondered if he would think about it. The man had come to town to get to know siblings he had never met only to find out that his biological father was the primary suspect in a years-old missing person case. Growing up without a father and then discovering the man might be a criminal? Unless he cemented his bonds with the rest of the Bodines, Jonah wouldn’t have a reason to stay in Bootleg. No reason to own real estate.

  “You do that, Jonah,” Myrt insisted. She batted her lashes at him, and her glass eye glinted under the table’s chandelier.

  “Care to join us for brunch?” Estelle offered.

  “I’d love to ladies—and Jefferson—but I’ve got a family thing to take care of. You all have a nice weekend,” Jonah said and headed up to the counter where his to-go order was waiting for him.

  I bet it was egg whites and veggies. Gross. The man was a paragon of health, and it showed. Rumor had it a pork rind had never crossed his lips.

  “Henrietta Van Sickle is due in for supplies,” Jefferson announced, restarting the gossiping portion of the meal.

  “Think Gert will get her to talk again?”

  “You mean force the poor woman to demand to be left alone?”

  “I am a delightful conversationalist,” Gert sniffed.

  “You blocked the woman’s exit from the grocery store with your cart until she had to ask you to move,” Louisa argued.

  “Still counts. She talked to me.”

  I’d grown up in Charlotte and spent the last several years in Pittsburgh. The idea of a hermit sneaking into town once a month for supplies piqued my interest.

  To be fair, just about everything in Bootleg Springs did. Including Jonah Bodine, I thought, idly watching him hustle out of the restaurant. He shot me a parting look before disappearing into the spring sunshine.

  “Shelby, honey. Don’t you think it’s time to come clean with that boy?” Estelle asked.

  I shrugged, tucking back into my eggs Benedict.

  “I agree. The Bodines are practically the heart of this town. You need them if you’re going to write your fancy paper,” Mrs. Varney piped up.

  They had a point. A small one.

  “Your brother cracked the door open by moving in with June Tucker,” Jefferson noted. “Use that to your advantage. Show the Bodines they were wrong about you.”

  “And I know just where you need to start,” Gert said slyly.

  * * *

  Q. What’s the most neighborly thing you’ve done for someone in your community?

  Jefferson Waverly: I rear-ended Wade Zirkel last year at a stop sign to show my support for that Scarlett Bodine girl. Told the sheriff it was an accident cause of my bifocals. But that Zirkel fella knows the truth.

  3

  Shelby

  T he sounds coming from inside the cottage suggested I’d arrived at a bad time. Someone was swearing. Something was ringing. And something else was yowling.

  I rapped briskly on the cottage door and pressed the doorbell.

  There was a crash followed by a lot more swearing, and then the door opened.

  “Well, what in the hell do you want?”

  Scarlett Bodine glared at me and puffed out a breath to blow the mahogany hair out of her face. There was a cat attached to the leg of her jeans.

  I flashed her my friendliest I’m Not a Threat smile and held up the platter of donuts and breakfast pastries I’d ordered to go from The Brunch Club. “Hi,” I said chipperly.

  Scarlett detached the cat from her leg and nudged him back into the house with her work boot.

  I could hear her boyfriend, Devlin, on the phone somewhere behind her.

  “I repeat. What in the hell do you want?” she demanded coolly.

  But I noticed how her eyes tracked to the goodies which, after my horrific run this morning, were starting to weigh heavily on my weakened arms.

  “Scarlett, I think we got off on the wrong foot,” I began cheerfully.

  “If you mean you being a low-down, no-good, dirty, gossip-mongering, she-devil of a reporter trying to infiltrate my family and dig up dirt on us as the wrong foot, then yes. Yes, we did.”

  Undaunted, I removed the plastic wrap from the tray of carbs so the scent could escape and overwhelm her brain. Olfactory function was on my side. No one could stay angry when they were sniffing sugar. “I’m not a reporter. I’m not writing about Callie Kendall. And I promise I’m not trying to infiltrate your family.”

  Scarlett looked at me with suspicion. But the scent of French cruller was distracting her. It smelled like victory to me.

  “You write for magazines,” she pointed out. “You showed up in town with the rest of your soulless, heartless, loafer-wearing journalistic weasel friends. I don’t care if your giant brother is dating one of my very best friends in the whole wide world. That does not require me to be nice to you.”

  She snatched a pastry from the tray.

  “I do freelance write,” I agreed. “For academic psychology journals. I’m writing a thesis involving field study on the bonds that exist between neighbors in small communities and how these relationships can often be as strong as and as binding as actual biological or romantic relationships.”

  Scarlett bit off a corner of the cruller and blinked. “Say what now?”

  “I’m getting my doctorate in social work. I’m writing my thesis on Bootleg Springs. On how your town chased off a pack of soulless, heartless, loafer-wearing journalistic weasels. GT can vouch for me,” I promised, hoping my brother wouldn’t mind playing character witness for me if need be.

  I was staying in Bootleg Springs until I had everything I needed for the best damn thesis ever written on small-town psychology. And th
e Bodines might as well get used to the idea. Because I wasn’t leaving town without their input in my survey.

  Scarlett was still eyeing me like she didn’t trust me any farther than she could pitch me off a dock. “You may come in,” she said finally. “But one wrong move, one word that I don’t like, and I will chase you off my property with my daddy’s shotgun. It’s not loaded, but it still looks real scary. And I can swing it pretty damn hard.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I followed her inside. The cottage was adorable, tiny, and… stuffed to the rafters. Boxes lined one wall of the skinny hall. I turned sideways and edged past them holding the tray aloft, making my back and shoulders scream in protest. The space opened up into a minuscule kitchen and teeny tiny living room. Both of which were overflowing with stuff. There were more boxes, some labeled, some open with their contents spilling out.

  Two clothing racks of smart suits bookended the small couch. Plastic totes and file boxes were built up in a wall in front of the TV.

  The cat zoomed in and out of stacks of books and magazines before sinking his claws into a cardboard box labeled Case Files 2010.

  “You stop that, Jedidiah,” Scarlett ordered, whipping out a spray bottle and aiming it at the cat.

  The cat looked at her, and I swear it grinned. He continued shredding the box until Scarlett sprayed him right in his little face.

  He yowled and sprinted off down the hallway.

  “If you’d just listen the first time, I wouldn’t have to do that to you,” she called after him.

  Devlin, tall and impeccably dressed, was standing in the kitchen with a phone pressed to one ear and a finger in the other. He spoke attorney fluently into the phone and gave me a distracted smile. He dropped a kiss on Scarlett’s head and ducked into the bedroom shutting the door.

  “I’m pouring you some sweet tea. But only because it’s polite. Then we can go out on the porch where you can attempt to win me over, at which you will undoubtedly fail, leaving me no choice but to escort you from my property.” She sniffed.

  I wasn’t a fan of sweet tea. It made my teeth hurt. But I didn’t feel safe admitting that to her.

  “Sweet tea would be so nice,” I said cheerfully.

  She glared at me and stomped into the kitchen where she produced glasses and a pitcher of sugar. She put it all on a tray and carried it to the sliding glass door. I pulled it open for her, earning a curt nod, and followed her outside.

  This was the kind of experience I needed to absorb and somehow translate in my dissertation. This adherence to tradition and etiquette while still being borderline rude. It was fascinating.

  I found myself in a cozy screened-in porch that faced the sparkling waters of the lake that kissed the end of Scarlett’s land.

  My hostess dumped the tea on a small table for two. I added the pastries, and we sat.

  “So, what the hell do you want?” she asked, pouring the tea. “And don’t even think about asking me one single question about that body those folks in New York found this week.”

  “Like I said, I’m not a reporter.” Scarlett was a no-nonsense kind of woman. I liked that about her.

  “The hell you say.” She reached for another pastry.

  “I’m a grad student, not a journalist,” I told her. “I’m working on a thesis for my PhD in social work.”

  She chewed and studied me with suspicion. I felt compelled to keep talking.

  “Those writing credentials that Deputy Tucker found? Those are all articles for psychology journals. The academic world puts a lot of weight on being published.”

  “So you’re not a weasel reporter?” she clarified.

  “I am not,” I promised.

  “Well then, what are you doing here?” Scarlett asked, relaxing perceptibly.

  “Bootleg Springs managed to eradicate a predatory crowd of journalists in a time when sensational headlines are the only thing that matters for most news organizations. This tiny little town in West Virginia took on some of the biggest publications and blogs in the tri-state area and won.”

  “Hell yes, we did.”

  “I’m here studying how your community came together, how you’re socially structured. I’m writing a paper about it. One that should earn me my doctorate.”

  Scarlett sipped the tooth-hurting tea thoughtfully. “Then why exactly did you turn tail and run out of town when Cassidy broke the news that you were a reporter?”

  I blinked, not expecting that question. I wasn’t big on lies. But I also wasn’t looking to spread my personal life all over town. “I had some academic things to take care of.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. I had visited my advisor. It’s just there were other things on my to-do list. Things I didn’t think Scarlett Bodine needed to know. On cue, my back began to ache. I shifted on the seat trying to alleviate the discomfort.

  “Mm-hmm,” she said, still watching me carefully. “Then why were you cozying on up to Jonah? What were you trying to get out of him if it wasn’t some exclusive on our daddy?”

  My laugh surprised us both.

  “I just thought he was cute,” I confessed. Really, really cute.

  “Of course he is. All of my brothers are. So you’re just saying you were flirtin’ for the sake of flirtin’?”

  I nodded. “Well, yeah. He’s so tall, and he has those green, green eyes. And his smile is really nice.”

  Shut up, Shelby, I ordered myself. I could feel my cheeks flushing. I had a big, fat crush on Jonah Bodine. Fortunately, he thought I was a low-down, no-good, something or other Southern insult. So there was no requirement to actually act on the crush.

  I wasn’t exactly in the position to get myself a boyfriend. After my degree. After I got the rest of my life in order. After I handled this latest round of bad news. But for now, I could enjoy admiring Jonah from afar.

  “Fair enough. So why are you here today? Besides tellin’ me how pretty my brother is?” she asked, kicking back in her chair. The lake sparkled through the trees behind her. The late spring breeze blew warmly through the screens.

  I took a deep breath and plunged. “I need a place to stay. The inn is great and all, but I need something semi-permanent with room to spread out a bit for the summer.”

  Scarlett snorted. “Tell me about it. Crews just broke ground on our new house two weeks ago, and I am countin’ down the days until Devlin has a closet as big as a shopping mall so I don’t have to trip over a dozen suits on my way to the coffeemaker.”

  “Congratulations,” I said. “Since you brought it up, ask anybody in Bootleg Springs about real estate and rentals, and they’ll tell you Scarlett Bodine is the woman to see.”

  “I might be able to help you out,” she said cagily. “But first we should make small talk. It’s the polite thing to do.”

  * * *

  Scarlett: Quick question for y’all.

  June: Why do you announce the fact that you have a question? Why not simply ask the question?

  George: What can we do for you, Scarlett?

  Scarlett: Your sister, Shelby. Is she a homicidal maniac or a compulsive liar or a real bad person?

  June: I find these questions concerning.

  George: Shelby is none of those things. I think if you’ll just give her a chance, you’ll really like her.

  Scarlett: Would I like her as a potential sister-in-law? Like could I stomach seeing her at the Thanksgiving dinner table for the rest of my life?

  June: I am uncomfortable with this line of questioning.

  Scarlett: Are you two sitting on the couch next to each other texting?

  June: We are attempting to take advantage of our hot springs time slot. You are interrupting.

  Scarlett: Sorry, JuneBug! I just had this idea, and I need to know if I’m gonna have regrets.

  George: I’ve never regretted having her as a sister, if that helps.

  June: Which brother are you planning to mate her to?

  Scarlett: Who says I’d do such a thing? Now if y’all will excu
se me I have a new tenant to orientate.

  4

  Jonah

  “What do you think? Is it big enough?” Bowie asked.

  I peered over his shoulder. Bowie and I were the same age, half-brothers who shared a father who’d disappointed us in different ways. I’d have expected him to have the biggest problem with me when I’d showed up in Bootleg Springs last year.

  But it had been Gibson, the oldest of all of us, who’d had the hardest time warming up to me. At least Gibson didn’t seem to warm up to anybody, so I couldn’t take it too personally.

  His usual cheerless mood had taken a nose-dive in recent days. He hadn’t wanted to come on this outing and was scowling over Bowie’s other shoulder.

  “Can you go bigger?” he asked, rubbing a hand over his forehead like he’d rather be anywhere but here.

  “Size definitely matters,” Jameson agreed, leaning his elbow on the glass. “You want one that could take an eye out.”

  “Yeah, but Cassidy isn’t gonna want to have to push some mammoth thing around in a wheelbarrow. Not with her line of work. You need to get her something she can have at work. Something that won’t hinder her from chasing down a drunken lawn mower driver or locking up Gram-Gram,” I pointed out.

  Devlin leaned in on my right. “I agree with Jonah. That one sticks out too much.”

  “You’re the expert here,” Bowie said to the woman in front of him. “Is it too big? Not big enough? Does it stick out too much?”

  The jeweler was staring at us with wide eyes. “Uh, what does your fiancée-to-be do again?”

  Bowie sang Cass’s praises as sheriff’s deputy, and the jeweler took in the new information. She nodded. “I’ve got some ideas. If y’all will sit tight, I’ll be back in a minute.”

  “I can’t believe you’re finally buying a ring for Cassidy Tucker,” Jameson teased his brother.