The last hour passed in a fog.

When the fire marshal leaves, I shut the front door behind him with a decisive click and throw the lock. Leaning against the nearest table, I dig the heels of my hands into my eyes.

More than anything, I want to sink to the floor, wrap my arms around my knees, and give in to the tears that have been threatening since the first awful question was thrown at me like a Molotov cocktail by those reporters.

How could anyone think I had something to do with Boone and Amber breaking up? I didn’t even know him then.

Who would give them that kind of tip? It doesn’t make any sense.

I swallow back the lump in my throat and straighten.

The stack of citations the fire marshal left sits on the bar like the pile of crap it is. In addition to overcapacity, he wrote up the Fishbowl for outdated fire extinguishers, failure to test the sprinkler system regularly, and three other violations that sounded made-up to me.

“What a crazy night.” Carter picks up a toppled stool before reaching for another.

The bar is a wreck. Two tables, three stools, and six chairs—all broken. There’s shattered glass on the floor, along with puddles of spilled drinks, vomit, and what looks like blood from the fight. Cups cover the tables, some tipped over and leaking onto the floor.

Dory, Carter, and I survey the mess with the same daunted look on our faces.

“You guys can go. I’ll deal with this.”

They both look at me like I’m nuts. And maybe I am, but right now I don’t think I can handle making small talk while we clean up this disaster.

“Not a chance. I’ll clear those tables and wipe them down. Carter will get the broken furniture out of here, and you can handle the mopping. Let’s do this.” Dory sounds like a drill sergeant, and they both spring into action.

I stare at the citations for another long moment, flipping through them and tallying the numbers in my head. I don’t know how much we made tonight, but these fines are going to eat up most, if not all, of the cash. But first, I need to make sure Carter and Dory get paid. They rallied tonight with the kind of loyalty that’s worth more than money.

Another hour passes and Dory and Carter have finished their tasks, leaving me with a hug from each and half the floor to mop.

“Call me if you need me tomorrow. My daughter picks up the kids at five, so I’m around after that,” Dory says.

Carter offers his help if it’s needed again too, but I can’t imagine it will be.

Can I even open tomorrow with these citations?

I wave to both of them, and the sick feeling that’s been churning in my stomach intensifies as the question hangs over my head.

It’s the weekend, so it’s not like I can pay the fines or call the city and ask questions. The only thing I can do is get this place back into shape, and hope that some kind of solution occurs to me tomorrow before we’re due to open.

I dunk the mop back in the bucket and squeeze it dry as my brain turns to worst-case-scenario solutions. If the fines take all the money we made tonight, maybe I can close another night a week and work somewhere else to help make ends meet for a while. I bet Hope would give me shifts Tuesday and Wednesday nights at the White Horse . . .

Someone pounds on the locked back door, but I have absolutely no intention of opening it. I’m done with human interaction today. Done.

“Ripley, it’s me. Open up, sugar.”

The deep voice is distinctive enough that there’s no question who it is.

Call it irrational if you want, but hearing Boone Thrasher’s voice after I’ve spent the last couple of hours dealing with the mess he walked out on pisses me off enough to stomp to the door and yank it open.

“What are you doing here?”

He leans back on the heels of his trademark biker boots with his hands jammed in his pockets, his eyes searching my face.

“Can I come in?” He looks around like he’s expecting paparazzi to jump out of the bushes and surprise him.

Given what happened earlier, I step aside and let him in before shutting and locking the door again. When I turn around, I catch him scanning the bar before he turns back to me.

“Everyone gone?”

I nod, my anger and frustration threatening to boil over as his posture relaxes.

“I didn’t want—”

I don’t know what he’s going to say, but I can’t hold it in any longer.

“What the hell happened tonight? You and Frisco decided you’d put on an impromptu concert and didn’t bother to tell me first? I’m assuming you were trying to help, but we weren’t prepared. I didn’t have servers, enough people to help cover the bar, someone to work both doors so I could, I don’t know, prevent the fire marshal from shutting me down!” I’m yelling by the time I get to the end of my tirade, and Boone’s expression tightens and his shoulders stiffen.

“You’re really giving me shit for trying to do something nice? Any bar owner in this town would drop to their knees and beg us to come play. And, yeah, we were here to help. You made a shitload of money tonight, which was the whole point. This place has one foot in the grave, and we thought if you could get some more traffic, maybe you’d have a shot at saving it.” By the time he’s done, he looks just as pissed off as I probably do.

“Yeah, well, you trying to help me save this place might have killed it even faster. Shit blew up in my face and you just disappeared.” I pause to deliver the worst part. “Not to mention now everyone thinks I’m your whore!”

Boone takes a step back, his face morphing into a harsh scowl. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Didn’t you see the reporters out front before you bolted? Couldn’t you hear them yelling at me?”

His brows draw together in confusion. “No. We grabbed the equipment and went out the back.”

I rub a hand over my face and tell him most of what they said. I leave out the part about my mom because I can’t bring myself to repeat the words.

“What in the ever-loving fuck?” Boone explodes, pacing across the freshly mopped section of the floor. He turns and pins his gaze on me. “Someone you know had to have tipped them off. This shit doesn’t happen by accident. Who would’ve seen us here?”

The air leaves my lungs like I’ve been sucker punched.

“You’re blaming this on me?” My voice echoes off the high ceilings, and my temper snaps. “Get out of my bar.”

Boone stalks toward me instead of heading for the door. His black T-shirt stretches over his broad chest and thick arms, and the heat of anger in his gaze has me backing up until my ass bumps the brick wall. Boone keeps coming.

“Get out? Not a fucking chance. I went out of my way to do something nice—twice—for you, not letting you get assaulted in a bar and then coming here tonight, and you’re trying to throw me out on my ass? Not happening.”

His arrogance tips my temper from pissed off to enraged.

“What? You want some kind of thank-you?”

“It would be nice.” His words come out a low growl.

I clench my jaw. “Thank you, oh-so-wonderful Boone Thrasher, for lowering yourself to try to help me. Please, spare me from any more of your favors, because now the media thinks I’m some kind of home-wrecker, and this bar is dying quicker than before!”

Boone presses a hand to the wall beside my face. “Shut up.”

My mouth drops open. “What did you just say to me?”

“I said shut up.”

“How dare you—”

Before I can rip him a new one, Boone’s lips crash down on mine.