Total pages in book: 125
Estimated words: 120631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120631 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 603(@200wpm)___ 483(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
“You’ve totally got this,” she muttered to herself, stealing the spot right in front of Vine & Barrel.
Jocelyn crammed what she could into her tiny hatchback, but half the centerpieces and both boxes of favors still sat stacked in her foyer at home. She reminded herself to snatch her makeup and hair straightener on her next trip, figuring she’d need to freshen up again, once all the running around was done.
God, she wanted a fucking drink already, but had a hard rule there could be no cocktails until the majority of the work was done.
Two more quick trips—maybe three—back and forth across town and she’d have everything there by eleven and a cocktail in her hand before noon.
“Hey, Jocelyn,” Simon waved as he crossed the street. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Perfect timing, Simon. Here.” She shoved a box in his arms. “Take this inside, then come back and help me unload the rest.”
“On it.” Simon was always a good extra set of hands to have around.
They had the car unloaded in no time, but that still left them short-handed until the rest of the décor arrived. She should have taken Soren up on his offer to borrow the Escalade. Maybe if she called him on his way over, she could flatter him into swinging by her house and grabbing the rest of the boxes—saving her a few trips.
She tried calling him again, but it went to voicemail. Frowning, she wondered why he hadn’t responded to her two earlier texts. That wasn’t like him.
Maybe his phone died too.
She laughed before even finishing the thought. Knowing Soren, that was impossible. The man had the Batmobile of phones and probably a whole generator to keep his house plugged in during any storm.
She carried the last box inside.
Vine & Barrel anchored the quiet end of Main Street. Leather and mahogany whispered sophistication beneath dark wood beams. Deep emerald velvet booths tucked into the corners, built for candlelight and low conversation.
It was the perfect setting for her shower theme, and she couldn’t wait to decorate. Brass anchors and vintage fishing gear mounted along the walls with curated, refined care that backed off a beat before things got tacky. Her baby-blue and ivory touches were going to make this place abso-freaking-lutely adorable.
The restaurant wore its maritime bones like a tailored coat, and Jocelyn had run three ticketed events under these beams before, so she was familiar with Richard, the owner, and the staff. She knew every outlet, every restroom, and every server by name.
Shouldering through the door with her arms full of tote bags and centerpieces, she tried not to drag in any more wet leaves, but it came down to either tracking in a mess or busting her ass on the pavement trying to kick the slick foliage off her shoes.
“We’re gonna need a mop up front,” she called, dropping the box with the others on the tables closest to the doors.
Wet October air dissipated as the door shut behind them. That was when it hit her like a bait bucket to the face.
She instantly covered her nose. “What the hell is that stench?”
Fish. It was rotten fucking fish.
“Yeah, I thought something smelled off,” Simon said, as if this wasn’t a catastrophic crisis.
“Ya think?” She scanned the back with wide eyes. “Is Richard here yet?”
“Who’s Richard?”
No time to waste on introductions, Jocelyn rushed to the back kitchen where the stench only got stronger. Richard was dressed in black rubber gloves and a soiled apron, tossing rotten fish out the back door into a trash bin.
“Richard, what the hell happened?” she said, breathing through her hand.
“Power went out, and the generator never kicked on. I’m working on the situation.”
Her eyes widened at the sight of so much food being thrown away. “What are the guests going to eat?”
“I already called every supplier within forty miles. But it’s Saturday. Nobody’s picking up. I’m hoping we can borrow some frozen options from the Chowder House to get us through, but they don’t open for another hour.”
That was never going to work with the fall festival still going on. The Chowder House needed their own food. “I might be able to get you some backup fish.”
He dragged an arm over his sweaty brow, holding the black rubber glove away from his face. “That would be great.”
She pulled out her phone. “You just keep working on the smell.”
No fish meant no menu, and she had fifty guests to feed in a few hours. Esther’s cake and a bowl of mixed nuts were not going to be enough.
Her stomach turned from the odor as much as it did from tension. She texted Soren, asking him to call her as soon as he got her text. He was the CEO of Hawthorne Fishery. He had VIP access to all the fish in Hideaway.