Chapter 17 Sarah
SARAH
Iwoke up the next morning drenched in sweat, the sheets tangled around my legs and sticking to me like I’d wrestled them in my sleep and lost. My brain was foggy, but unfortunately, my dream was still crystal clear.
A hundred Dust-guys were chasing me.
Not in a fun, consenting, caveman-sex-roleplay kind of way.
Or with me naked and a hundred naked Dust-guys, all of them brandishing hard clubs in my general direction.
No. This was a full-blown nightmare situation.
They were everywhere—circling me, advancing slowly, all of them wearing the same calm, terrifying expression.
And chanting.
“You’re dirty,” they kept saying. “Let me clean you up.”
Hell no.
Even my dream-self, who is historically terrible at decision-making, knew that was not normal. Or sexy. Or safe. That was the kind of sentence you heard right before the wacko serial killer chopped you up in neat little pieces.
So I ran.
In the dream, anyway—full sprint, arms pumping, hair flying, probably screaming. When I finally jolted awake, my heart racing and lungs burning, I realized I must’ve been doing some light cardio in real life too, because my legs felt like I’d trained for a marathon in my sleep.
Fantastic.
I lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling and trying to slow my breathing. “Get it together. You kissed one man. One.” And that kiss, let’s be honest, had been panty-melting good and then some.
My subconscious had clearly decided that was too much excitement for a single human body and responded by staging a horror film.
It was the morning of the Pearls & Pints Bachelor Weekend, and unfortunately, I could not spend it lying in bed replaying how hot that kiss had been.
Which was really a shame. Because it really had been.
So I rolled out of bed, stretched like I was preparing for battle, and braced myself for what was shaping up to be a very long day.
And it was.
By midmorning, I’d officially become the inn’s messenger boy, girl, woman, errand goblin, whatever title felt most accurate.
If the inn didn’t already have something required for the cocktail party, I had to go get it.
Which meant baguettes. And more baguettes.
Oysters. Nuts. Olives. Five additional cheese trays because apparently cheese evaporates when left unattended.
Then I had to rush back out for toilet paper, candles, and table linens. And then, because why the hell not, I drove a full hour out of Maplewood Falls to the next town over to hunt down pearl accents. Faux pearls, to be exact. Bowls of them. Strands to drape over tables. Pearl madness.
After that, it was back to our local florist for centerpieces. And finally, most importantly, glassware. Because nothing says “classy cocktail hour” like not handing guests their drinks in mason jars.
The flowers alone would’ve financially ruined me, but Helen had waved me off.
“The town’s picking up the bill,” she’d said, adjusting her red glasses and shooing me away like an incompetent intern. “Go. And hurry. I need the table linens. I’m not hosting a cocktail party using those.”
Those were Edna’s table linens. Pink. With orange flowers. They weren’t ugly, just aggressively dated. Orange was big in the seventies. Today… not so much.
And since I planned on keeping the inn, that meant changes. Fewer florals. Less pink. More farmhouse-chic—earthy, neutral, a vibe that said welcoming instead of grandma refuses to let go of the seventies.
“Don’t just stand there looking like a simpleton,” barked Helen. “Go!”
Did it bother me that she was bossing me around? Yes. Deeply. But I could also tell she was under a lot of pressure, so I bit my tongue, climbed into my ancient Jetta, and went shopping like my life depended on it.
When I finally got back, Jason helped me unload the car, and together we rearranged tables, shifted chairs, and set up the bar area where he’d work later that night.
Around mid-afternoon, the guests started arriving.
And when I say guests, I mean women exclusively, enthusiastic and sparkly.
The first one swept through the front door like she’d been waiting her whole life for this moment, oversized sunglasses still on despite being indoors, rolling a suitcase that probably cost more than my car.
Behind her came another. And another. Heels clicking.
Jewelry clinking. Laughter echoing up the staircase like champagne bubbles. Were they already drunk? Probably.
Yeah. This was that kind of weekend.
“Welcome to the Hartwell Inn,” I said, slipping into hostess mode as naturally as I could. “You must be here for Pearls & Pints.”
“We are,” one woman said breathlessly, already scanning the room like she expected eligible men to be hiding behind the coat rack. “Is this where the bachelors will be?”
“Eventually,” I said. “Tonight is cocktails and mingling. The auction is tomorrow.”
A collective murmur rippled through the group.
“Good,” another woman said, adjusting a pearl necklace the size of a small planet. “I need time to assess.”
Assess what, exactly, I wasn’t sure. Bone structure? Net worth? Ability to change a tire? I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be as innocent as Helen suggested.
Names followed. I scribbled them down as fast as I could.
“Linda.”
“Catherine—with a C.”
“Oh, we’re sisters.”
“No, not those sisters.”
“Yes, we’re both single.”
“No, we didn’t plan to bid on the same man.”
That one came with a smile that suggested otherwise.
Jason appeared at my elbow like a sainted intern, ready to help.
“Jason will take your bags up to your rooms,” I said. “If you’ll just let him know which one’s yours.”
They descended on him immediately, pointing and explaining.
“This one’s fragile.”
“This one’s shoes.”
“That one’s… full of toys,” said a redhead, giggling.
Right. I could imagine, unfortunately.
Jason’s face turned a few shades redder. He nodded solemnly and hoisted luggage like a champ. Helen’s nephew had never showed up to help, so Jason had agreed to help with the luggage—a true lifesaver. Plus, he was going to get a nice fat bonus at the end of the week.
As more women arrived, the sparkle factor increased. Pearls everywhere. Earrings. Bracelets. Rings. One woman had layered necklaces like she was personally funding the oyster industry. It was a wonder she could walk around.
“So,” someone stage-whispered as I handed over a key, “how many bachelors are we talking?”
“A curated selection,” I said diplomatically.
“And are they… quality?”
Eww. I knew exactly what she was implying. I smiled. “You’ll find out.”
That earned me approving nods.
Excitement buzzed through the inn, the air thick with perfume, anticipation, and competitive optimism. Everywhere I turned, I caught snippets of conversation.
“I’m going for tall this year. Short was fun, but I need leverage.”
“I want handy. Calluses. Preferably knows what to do with them.”
“Does anyone know if any of them own property—or at least a decent mattress?”
“I swear, if I leave this weekend without at least one date and one regrettable decision, I will riot.”
By the time the last guest checked in, the front hall looked like a jewelry box had exploded and reassembled itself into a cocktail party preview.
“Cocktail hour starts at six,” I announced, clapping my hands lightly. “Feel free to freshen up, explore, or pour yourselves a glass of wine if you find one unattended.”
That suggestion was met with cheers.
As they drifted upstairs, laughing and plotting, I exhaled slowly.
The guests were here. The inn was buzzing. And Pearls & Pints was officially underway.
I was going to host a bunch of wealthy, horny women in pearls. That’s what this was.
Now all I had to do was survive the next forty-eight hours without losing my mind. No biggie.
Helen reappeared moments later and planted an easel sign beside the front door.
Cream background. Navy block letters that read: PEARLS & PINTS BACHELOR WEEKEND.
Pearls were sketched along the border like this was a wedding invitation instead of a mating ritual.
Naturally, it was professionally printed.
“There,” expressed Helen. “If anything goes wrong now, it won’t be my fault.” She turned to me. “I’m going home to change. I’ll be back in an hour. I expect competence.”
I raised my hand in a crisp salute. “Yes, Captain.” I laughed. She didn’t.
Instead, she frowned and disappeared through the front door.
Right. I needed to change too.
I gave my armpits a covert sniff. “And shower.”
As I climbed the stairs, the smell of something buttery sizzling wafted up from the kitchen followed by Dottie’s voice carrying loud and clear.
“If you touch that again, I’ll throw you in my oven!”
Poor Jason, but the kid was soldiering on.
Once in my room on the third floor, I peeled off my clothes, took a nice loooong bath, and did my five-minute makeup routine, which consisted of foundation, smudged eyeliner, mascara, and a swipe of lip gloss.
Then I pulled out my one acceptable cocktail dress—a black Ralph Lauren wrap dress I’d scored at half price because I am nothing if not practical.
I added my black kitten heels and attempted a blowout but failed. I settled for five minutes of aggressive styling and called it done.
Somehow, it would have to be enough.
I wondered if Dust-guy would be at the cocktail party but then shook the thought out of my head. I couldn’t get distracted by hot lips and a magic tongue. Besides, tonight was only for the female guests.
After about an hour, I came down the stairs carefully, smoothing my dress and mentally running through a checklist that was already screaming at me in all caps.
Candles. Check. Bar stocked. Check. Dottie not poisoning anyone. Probable.
I turned the corner into the dining room and stopped dead.
The tables were… wrong.