Page 91 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“Hmm.” I nodded solemnly.

Around us, the lawn buzzed with movement. By the time I looked up from my coffee, most of the white folding chairs were already filled. The front rows belonged to the inn guests, the Pearls & Pints crowd, dressed like they’d coordinated in a secret group chat titled Rich and Ready. Pearls everywhere. Sunglasses perched dramatically on heads. Programs in manicured hands. They leaned together, whispering, comparing cards, and occasionally glancing up at the platform like predators waiting for a signal.

Behind them sat… everyone else.

Townspeople if I had to guess—curious locals, people who had absolutely not paid for the weekend but were here for the entertainment value alone. I saw couples, groups of friends, and a few men who looked like they’d been dragged here under protest. At least two hundred people in total, easy. No wonder Helen had insisted on hosting this outside. The dining room would’ve exploded, possibly literally.

I scanned the crowd, trying to place faces but failing completely.

Right. New town. New life. Still no idea who anyone was.

At the very front, Lola held court.

She sat like she’d been born to it, her legs crossed and posture immaculate, wearing a pearl-blue sequined dress that hit mid-thigh and reflected sunlight like a disco ball. She adjusted her boobs openly, unapologetically, and with the confidence of a woman who knew exactly what she was working with.

I took another sip of coffee. Around the edges of the lawn, clusters of people stood chatting, drinks in hand, circling like sharks who hadn’t committed to bidding but wanted front-row seats just in case things got weird.

Then I noticed it. The looks.

Several of the women in the front rows weren’t watching the platform anymore. They were glancing sideways, smiling, checking their cards, and then glancing again.

I followed their line of sight.

Near the far side of the lawn, just past the flower arrangements, stood a small group of men.

Ah. The bachelors.

They stood clustered together casually, hands in pockets, shoulders loose, laughing like they didn’t realize they were about to be emotionally and financially evaluated.

Mid-thirties to mid-forties, from what I could see. All fit, with a mix of rugged and polished. One had sun-lightened hair and a permanent squint like he spent his weekends outdoors while another had dark hair and sharp-features. There were broad shoulders and easy confidence, tailored jackets and rolled-up sleeves. Light skin. Olive skin. A couple of days’ worth of stubble on more than one jaw.

They were the kind of men who looked good standing still.

Around me, auction cards rustled. Someone cleared their throat. Someone else muttered, “Oh wow,” under their breath.

The women weren’t doing anything particularly suspicious, just sitting there, talking quietly and laughing at something one of them said. But the energy around them was unmistakable.

Posture straightened. Hair was adjusted. Lip gloss appeared out of nowhere. One woman actually fanned herself with her auction card.

I watched as one of the men caught a woman’s eye and smiled politely. She nearly dropped her card.

Okay then. This was happening.

Two hundred people. An ocean backdrop. A platform built to handle enthusiasm.

And a group of men about to be auctioned off like very attractive livestock.

I sank back in my chair, my head still pounding. “This is so fucking weird,” I muttered to no one in particular.

“Tell me about it.”

I looked up to find Becca sliding into the chair beside me. She wore a white sleeveless pantsuit with a gold belt along with matching clutch and shoes. She handed me a bottle of Tylenol.

“Thought you might need some,” she said.

I grabbed it reverently. “Bless you, you fine, generous creature.”

I popped the cap with my thumb, poured two pills into my palm, and chased them with a sip of coffee like a professional.