Page 2 of Death of a Grill Master

Betty looked relieved.

“But if you do steal my chocolate bourbon pecan pie recipe,” Hayley added, “I’ll burn you in effigy on top of Cadillac Mountain.”

“Fair enough,” Betty said with a wink, then hugged her. “I knew you’d understand.”

As she hurried off to rejoin Kelton for more cake-cutting mayhem from the now-lopsided cake melting under the hot sun, Hayley lingered, staring at her herb garden without really seeing it. The truth was, she did understand. Too well.

She loved her restaurant.

She loved her life.

But lately, she couldn’t help feeling like other people’s dreams were blossoming all around her while hers were … well, wilting slightly around the edges.

A loud cheer erupted from the patio, and Hayley turned to see Liddy Crawford making her entrance.

And what an entrance it was.

She wore a navy-blue polka-dot sundress with a red belt cinched tightly at the waist and oversized sunglasses perched atop her caramel-blond curls (recently dyed—she had been yearning for a change). She looked like a pinup poster from the forties had walked off the wall and ordered a martini.

“I’m here!” Liddy declared, hands in the air. “Fashionably late and criminally overdressed.”

“Both true,” Hayley muttered under her breath, watching as Liddy zeroed in on the bar.

There, standing tall and unmistakably out-of-town in a linen sports coat and suede loafers, was Doug Marsh. Southern accent, devastating smile, and eyes that practically winked on their own. He and Randy had become drinking buddies at Drinks Like A Fish over bingo night and bourbon. Now here he was, sipping a cucumber gin fizz and looking very much like a man who knew he’d be flirted with before dessert.

Liddy glided over, her red lips curving into a grin. “And who do we have here?”

Doug tipped his glass. “Doug Marsh, ma’am. Friend of Randy’s.”

“Ooh,” Liddy purred. “I do love Southern manners. So rare in these parts.”

Hayley left them to their banter—there was only so much charm she could witness before needing carbs—and wandered over to the cocktail station, where Chelsea Mahoney was holding court like she’d been tending bar in Bar Harbor for years instead of weeks.

Chelsea’s strawberry-blond hair was pulled up into a messy bun, and her I MAKE POUR DECISIONS T-shirt was already stained with lime juice and margarita salt.

“Hey, boss,” Chelsea called. “We’ve got a passed-out man inside. I poked him with a stirrer. No reaction.”

Hayley peeked through the window. “That’s Reverend Ted. He performed the ceremony and then discovered the mojitos. He’ll be fine.”

Chelsea arched a brow. “Your town is weird.”

“You’ll fit right in.”

Hayley was about to say more when Randy appeared beside her, looking uncharacteristically nervous.

“Hey,” he said, eyes darting toward the crowd.

“Hey yourself. Enjoying the party?”

“Yeah. It’s great. You pulled it off.”

Hayley eyed him. “You okay?”

He hesitated, then rubbed the back of his neck. “There’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Her ears perked up. “What kind of something?”

He opened his mouth—then clamped it shut.