16. “PRESSURE, PRESSING DOWN ON ME, PRESSING DOWN ON YOU” #3
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.
The big surprise for Grey and Wren was already lost to him. He’d made his peace with that around the fourteenth hole. He’d be there for the last half of the party and apologize for his lateness, doing whatever he needed to do to recover by the time dessert was served.
He’d make it up to Jocelyn, who was probably ready to tie his ass to a pyre on a drakkar ship and shoot a flaming arrow at his feet. One way or another, he’d make this up to her.
Her texts weren’t making sense anymore, so he’d stolen thirty seconds in the clubhouse men’s room to call her back, but the call went straight to voicemail. She hadn’t responded or texted since.
“Soren.” Warren straightened and tucked the club under his arm rather than putting. “I’ve made up my mind.”
Everything in Soren stilled. Eleven-twenty. About fucking time.
“Aldrich Shipping will accept your offer, and I’ll deliver the board votes you need,” Warren said as plainly as a man remarking on the weather.
“The numbers are aggressive, but I’ve watched you run that company since Magnus passed, and you’ve earned the benefit of the doubt.
Once Aldrich Shipping takes the logistics contract, Hawthorne gets the expansion you need. ”
Relief slammed through him hard enough to buckle his knees. Months of maneuvering, of soft quarters and skeptical loyalists, and three hundred pages of research crammed into one solid playbook. Finally.
“Thank you, Warren. You won’t regret it.” He crossed the green to seal the deal with a handshake.
“I know I won’t.” Warren clasped him in a two-fisted grip that held a beat longer than a deal required.
“A good, lengthy partnership between our families will be the long and prosperous shift you need.” His eyes crinkled.
“And who knows? This partnership might even expand past the boardroom.” He clapped a hand on his shoulder as a shiver went up Soren’s spine.
Warren laughed. “I see the way my daughter looks at you.”
The implication landed cold and unwelcome, and Soren figured now was as good a time as any to clear the air. “Warren, I—”
His phone erupted against his thigh.
This time, Warren heard the buzz. “I assume you need to get that.”
“I’m sorry. This morning’s been one crisis after another.
” He fished it out and panicked when Logan’s name lit the screen.
Why was his brother calling instead of texting?
Ice slid down Soren’s spine as he brought the phone to his ear.
“I’ll only be a minute.” He turned away.
“Logan. Is everything all right? Is King—”
“King’s fine.” Logan’s voice was stripped of its easy humor. “Where the hell are you, Soren?”
“Newport. I’m just wrapping up.”
“Yeah, well, it’s sort of hard to be there when people clearly expected you here.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jocelyn, you moron. She thought you would be here.”
“I never said—”
“The shower’s a disaster. The storm has the whole town in a tizzy. Half the food’s rotted from a power outage, the restaurant stinks like ass, and she’s running on fumes trying to get everything done before the guests arrive, and it’s pretty clear she thought you were coming to help.”
“Shit.” He immediately regretted not communicating his plans to her. “Tell her—”
“No. I’m not telling her anything else. She already found out from me that you skipped town.
How the hell was I supposed to know it was a secret?
You call her, and you fix this. Why didn’t you tell her you were leaving town, and why the hell would you double-book on the day of Greyson and Wren’s shower? ”
His accusations struck like bullets, each one accurate and deserved. He should have known she’d need help. His head had been so focused on closing the deal with Warren and keeping Jocelyn calm, he’d thought he’d done the right thing.
But nothing had been right since he got on that damn plane.
He should have told her he was leaving. If she’d known, she never would have assumed he’d be there to help set up, and she wouldn’t feel let down. Or better yet, he should have just been there for her, but he’d been too busy playing protégé to someone who wasn’t even family.
“I know,” he growled back at Logan, dragging a hand down his face, wishing again that he could hurl his clubs. “I…” Warren watched him closely. “It got complicated.”
“Complicated?” Logan echoed with disgust Soren didn’t need on top of his own self-loathing.
“I have to go,” Soren snapped in frustration. “Tell her I’m coming. I’ll fix it.” He killed the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. Jaw clenched, he muttered one more apology to Warren. “Sorry about that.”
“Busy man,” Warren remarked.
“Not usually.” Soren forced his shoulders down, forced the CEO mask back onto his face. “It’s been an unusual morning. Let’s finish.”
They played the eighteenth at a dead run, or as near to it as Warren’s dignity permitted. Soren scarcely lined up his shots. He tapped in the last putt, but never watched it drop.
Shaking Warren’s hand at the fringe, he rapidly recited every gracious thing the moment demanded, honored, looking forward to it, my people will call your people, all while his body strained toward the parking lot like a hound on a scent.
“See you at the vote next week and then at the closing,” Warren finally said, releasing his hand.
Soren bolted to the parking lot where a man waited beside a full-size SUV with a clipboard.
“Mr. Hawthorne?”
“Yeah.”
He smiled and reached out a hand as he closed the distance. “I just need a couple signatures—”
Soren ripped the clipboard out of the man’s hand and signed on every line, including a few he probably didn’t need to sign.
“I can see you’re in a rush.”
Soren wrenched open the tailgate and shoved his clubs inside. “Yes.” He slammed the tailgate.
“There’s actually a button for that.” He followed him to the front door. “The tank’s full and—”
“Great. Thanks.” He climbed in and snatched the key fob.
The car started with a broken-in purr and the console lit. Four minutes past noon.
Frustration boiled inside of him and he fought the urge to beat the shit out of the steering wheel. Fishing out his phone, he stared at the screen. There were so many missed calls.
“Fuck!” He was breathing too heavily for sitting still.
He shot off a text to Jocelyn, not sparing a second to obsess over his words, but instead saying whatever he could to do damage control.
I’m so sorry. I’m going to be late. It was out of my control. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Please forgive me.
He read it twice. It looked thin on the screen, a paper bandage slapped over a wound he’d carved himself. He knew it wasn’t enough, but he sent it anyway.
Dropping the phone into the cupholder, he plugged Hideaway Bay into the GPS and threw the SUV into gear. Four hours and one storm-battered coastline between him and the woman he’d failed.
An hour later, just past the Rhode Island line, his knuckles still were bleached white from gripping the wheel. Unclenching his grip, he checked his phone for the tenth time.
Nothing.
He told himself she was busy, but in his gut he knew he’d fucked up.
The salmon rolled in at one-fifteen, fifty portions bedded in crushed ice that steamed faint wisps into the warm air. The chef rushed from the kitchen, bent over the coolers, pressed two fingers to the flesh, and pronounced it perfect.
Jocelyn’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “Thank the gods.” She waved Simon to help the staff carry the food back to the kitchen.
Behind the swinging doors, a culinary war erupted in a muffled roar. Knives worked the boards in relentless staccato, blade after blade parting flesh with wet, rhythmic thunks that fell as soothing as rain on a tin roof.
Pans met open flame with a hiss that swelled to a roar, as sauces stirred from butter and herbs. Finally, something was smelling good.