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)
“Okay. Where am I picking up the fish?”
“At the warehouse.”
He frowned. “Hawthorne’s?”
“Yes. I need you to pull some strings and call whoever you can at the fishery to make it happen.”
He winced. “That’s more of a job for Soren or Greyson.”
“Well, considering that Soren is out of town and the party’s a surprise for Greyson, it looks like you’re up to bat, Logan.”
“I wouldn’t even know who to call—”
“Well, figure it out! We can’t feed guests air—especially when it reeks like a bait bucket that’s been rotting in the sun all day!” She snagged Simon by the sleeve. “Simon, change of plans. Take my car, drive to the Hawthorne warehouse in the commercial district, and tell whoever’s working that Logan Hawthorne already spoke to whoever is in charge and you’re there to pick up the order.”
He nodded and took her keys. “What’s the order?”
“Fifty portions of whatever they can offer, and we need it an hour ago. Go now. Keys are in my bag.”
Logan continued to make excuses. “Wait, Jocelyn, I wouldn’t even know who to call.”
“So help me God, Logan, if you don’t figure this out and find me some fucking fish I’m going to start breaking things, starting with your head.”
“Damn, woman, calm down. Fine, I’ll make a call. But I’m not making any promises.”
“Thank you.” She blew out a breath and hated herself for thinking if Soren were here he’d handle everything.
Well, he’s not here, so stop wishing he was!
She went in the back to check on the kitchen. The bad fish had left the building, and the stench was finally starting to dissipate.
“Can we set some fans up in here and get the air moving?” she asked a busser. “I don’t know if we should point them inside from the door or point them out. Maybe both and get a little draft action going.”
The staff was amazingly helpful, pulling fans from all over the restaurant and delivering them to her. She’d barely finished arranging the wind currents to hopefully move the stale air out and some fresh air in when she realized her big mistake.
“God, damn it,” she swore, realizing she’d loaned her car to Simon, which meant the last boxes were stranded in her foyer until he returned and unloaded the fish.
“Logan, I need your keys.”
He held up a finger, his phone pinned to his ear. “No, not Greyson. Magnus’s other son. Logan.”
She reached in his pocket, and he slapped her hand away.
“What the hell are you doing?” he hissed, covering the phone, then he frowned, his attention back on the call. “Not you. Someone else. Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I need your keys,” she repeated, but Logan covered her mouth.
“Fifty servings.” He rolled his eyes. “Yes, I understand, but the market isn’t open today, and this is an emergency.” He paused as the person on the other line said something that apparently triggered him. He paused to take a long, calming breath when he looked like he’d rather throw his phone. “Logan. Hawthorne. Yes. Magnus’s youngest son.” Another pause. “Yes, he had three sons!”
Snatching the phone out of his hand, she took charge. “Hi, this is Jocelyn Collins, personal assistant of Soren Hawthorne.” She paused, letting that sink in. “Yes, that’s correct. He needs you to prepare fifty filets of salmon immediately. A man named Simon Mosely is on his way to pick them up. He should be there in about ten minutes.” She waited. “Thank you. Mr. Hawthorne appreciates your help.” She ended the call and shouted, “Fish will be here soon!”
Logan stared at her, stunned. “Personal assistant, huh?”
“Hey, whatever works. Now, I need your keys. I have one more trip to make to get the last of the decorations.”
By the seventeenth hole, Soren wanted to walk off the course and hurl his clubs in the pond. He’d been tempted to quit an hour ago.
The morning had curdled into a slow-motion catastrophe he couldn’t accelerate. Warren still hadn’t made the commitment he needed while the hours were leaking away, and Soren still had a long drive ahead of him.
The future of Hawthorne Fishery currently rested in the hands of a man who savored his leisure, while its CEO was finding it harder and harder to appear relaxed. Warren treated every mile like a rite of passage, while Soren suffered his endless patience and leisure like a painful backward birth he couldn’t escape.
Soren’s eyes never left his watch. He spent the back nine hacking through his swings, choking down on the club, and punching drives low and short to shave away strokes and minutes. All the while, Warren insisted on playing at a Sunday stroll.
Marie texted at ten-forty to confirm the rental car had been dropped off and the key was waiting for him with some paperwork to sign. Once they wrapped this endless torture on the green, he would be back in Hideaway Bay in just over four hours. There was still time to salvage the day. He just had to get off the course by eleven-thirty and be on the road by noon.