Page 134 of Falling for the Enemy

The second the lights flickered on, she’d attacked her hair with the blow dryer, but it was too late, so she flat-ironed the shit out of the frizz, accidentally burning herself twice. Not that it mattered. In a coastal town, the day after a storm, the air was more water than oxygen and the second she stepped outside her hair swelled up like the untamable mane of a sea witch.

Already an hour behind, she sped into town only able to shoot Soren a quick text letting him know that she was, in fact, crazy for thinking she would be able to pull this off with any sort of calm.

“God, I hate surprises,” she muttered, whipping around a bend as the mason jars clanked in the backseat.

Hauling ass toward town, her brain did a quick calculation of the day ahead. It was already ten o’clock. The surprise went off at two-thirty. Guests would start pouring in at two.

Who was she kidding? There was bound to be a few old birds who would undoubtedly arrive early. It was best to try to get everything guest-ready by one thirty. That would leave her fifteen minutes to freshen up before things truly went crazy.

Four and a half hours⁠—

No, three and a half. Shit.

“Come on, come on, come on, come on.” As soon as the traffic light turned, she sped through the intersection toward Main Street.

Three and a half hours was doable. She only had to transport all the décor, dress the room, and see that all the favors and signage made it to the right places. And the cake. She couldn’t forget about the cake.

“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.