Chapter 21 Sarah
SARAH
After the final bachelor was auctioned off, a thirty-something with a shaved head, thick dark beard, and that aggressively curated modern lumberjack vibe, to a sixty-year-old woman in leather pants who looked like she owned at least three motorcycles, it was finally over.
The platform stood empty now, the microphone abandoned, the ocean behind it calm and indifferent, like it hadn’t just witnessed two hundred people loudly bid on men like they were limited-edition collectibles.
Yes, it had been one of the strangest things I’d ever seen. And yes, I had the strong feeling that I’d be seeing a lot more of these “festivals.”
Some of the winning ladies had already departed with their respective meat-men in tow, clutching arms, whispering plans, and wearing expressions that suggested no one would be getting much sleep tonight. The rest lingered. Of course they did.
Why rush away when there was free booze?
The lawn had shifted into a looser, buzzier version of itself. Clusters of women stood laughing too loudly, pearls glinting in the late afternoon sun, glasses refilled with suspicious frequency. Shoes had come off. Voices had risen. Someone was definitely crying happy tears near the bar.
Dottie had claimed the long tables like conquered territory.
She’d laid out her finger foods with military precision.
Platters of mini crab cakes, cheeses, skewers of lobster rolls, something that smelled buttery and illegal, tiny pastry cups filled with a mystery spread no one dared ask about.
Flowing white linens draped the tables, fluttering in the ocean breeze like they were trying to escape.
She stood proudly behind it all, her hands on her hips, surveying her work. Her blonde hair was pulled back into two pigtails, a long, flowing light-blue linen skirt swaying around her legs.
Her apron today was a violent shade of orange with bold black letters that read:
FOLLOW THE SPOON.
I watched as she slapped a toothpick out of Jason’s hand. “Those are for guests, not growing boys who think they’re invincible.”
Jason shrugged. “I am invincible.”
“Then you don’t need food,” she snapped, shooing him away.
Laughter pulled my attention around. Lola stood in a gathering of women, Mark the sailor beside her, one hand casually hooked through his arm like he was a designer accessory she’d picked up on a whim.
He looked relaxed, tan, smiling easily, clearly enjoying the attention.
Lola leaned in close to him as she laughed, her pearl-blue sequined dress catching the light with every movement.
At one point, she glanced over at me and gave me a subtle little eyebrow wiggle, gesturing to his crotch.
I pretended not to see it. I absolutely saw it. And now I could never unsee it.
Across the lawn, Helen sat alone at one of the small cocktail tables, a neat stack of papers in front of her. She was counting, recounting, and then counting again.
Her red glasses were perched low on her nose, her blazer still perfectly in place, despite the heat. A calculator appeared at some point. Her lips curved into a quiet, satisfied smile, the kind that didn’t need an audience.
She looked… happy. Proud. Like the whole exhausting, bossy, table-rearranging nightmare had been worth it.
Becca stayed beside me, her presence a steady anchor in the middle of the madness. She held a glass of red wine and leaned in close, her voice low.
“Well,” she said, scanning the lawn, “no one was arrested, no one fell into the ocean, and the town made a small fortune.”
I snorted. “Give it another hour.”
She laughed and then bumped her shoulder lightly against mine. “You okay?”
I nodded automatically. “My head hurts. How can you drink? Aren’t you suffering from liver malfunction? Or at least mild organ betrayal?”
“Nope.” Becca took a leisurely sip of wine, smug and unbothered, like her internal organs had signed a non-aggression pact.
Just watching her swallow made my stomach do a slow, offended roll.
“Here,” said Dottie, suddenly materializing at my side like a witch summoned by a hangover.
She was barefoot, her toes spread out in the grass like she’d claimed this patch of lawn as her territory. Honestly, part of me wanted to kick off my heels and join her. The ground looked cool and forgiving, unlike my skull.
“It’s my hangover cure,” she announced proudly, handing me a tall glass filled with a murky brown liquid.
I stared at it and then leaned in for a cautious sniff. It smelled like tar and manure had a secret, shameful baby. “Please tell me this isn’t liquefied poop.”
Becca immediately snorted wine out of her nose. “God. Why did you have to say that?” she choked, laughing as red wine dribbled down her chin.
“Of course not,” said Dottie, beaming like I’d just complimented her haircut. That did not help. “I call it Soul Cleanse 9000,” she continued. “Drink up while it’s still warm.”
I recoiled. “It’s warm?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding. “That’s how you know it’s working.”
“I think I just threw up in my mouth,” I muttered.
Dottie exhaled loudly and planted her hands on her hips. “It’s not poison,” she said, offended. “It rinses out all the toxins and you’ll feel better immediately. Trust me.”
Trust her. That was a bold request coming from a woman who’d just offered me something that looked like it had been siphoned out of a swamp.
But I couldn’t spend the rest of the day feeling like I’d been hit by a truck. Possibly backed over. Twice.
“Fine,” I said. I pinched my nose like a five-year-old being forced to eat vegetables and took a tentative sip.
I waited for the gag reflex.
It didn’t come.
Surprised, I took another sip. And another. Before I knew it, the glass was empty. I swallowed. Okay. It still tasted like tar. But… less aggressively than expected.
I smacked my lips together, confused, and handed the empty glass back to Dottie. “If I die,” I said calmly, “we’ll know who to blame.”
Dottie punched me on the arm. “Don’t be silly.”
“Ow.” I rubbed the spot. She was surprisingly strong for such a petite woman. Farm strength. Or cook strength. Possibly both.
Still… she wasn’t wrong. Something shifted. The pounding in my head eased just a notch. My stomach stopped staging a full rebellion. My vision even sharpened a little.
I blinked and then blinked again. “Huh,” I said slowly. “I feel… ten percent better.”
Dottie smiled triumphantly. “See?”
I eyed her warily. “I’m not saying I trust you. But I am saying I might need another one of those later. Preferably when I can’t see what’s in it.”
She winked. “That can be arranged.”
Somehow, that was both comforting and deeply alarming.
Dottie smiled. Then she skipped back to the tables and began helping some of the guests with their food.
That Dottie was so cute, and kind, and I was grateful she wanted to come back to work at the inn. I wasn’t sure how I could have handled all of this without her help. Yes, she was getting paid for it, but I don’t even think she did it for the money. She did it because she enjoyed it.
I felt eyes on me. I looked across the yard and found Dust-guy watching me.
The redhead was still clutching his arm, her fingers wrapped tightly like she was afraid he might bolt at any second.
Honestly? Fair concern. I was still in shock he’d volunteered in the first place.
The man looked like he avoided crowds and nonsense for sport, yet here he was, freshly auctioned, surrounded by pearls and entitlement.
His gaze was… intense. Fixated, like the rest of the crowd had dropped away and I was the only thing left standing.
I tried to read his expression but failed spectacularly. There was something tight. Something unreadable. His mouth was set, his jaw flexing once, like he was holding back words or something. Either way, it did absolutely nothing for my ability to think clearly.
My intestines immediately started doing a jig. My heart followed up with a full percussion solo.
Great. Super dignified bodily response, Sarah.
I shifted my weight, suddenly hyperaware of my posture, my hands, and my face. Was I smiling? Scowling? Did I look weird? Hungover? Emotionally compromised? Probably all of the above.
His eyes dipped, came back up, and held.
“If he could undress you with his eyes,” said Becca beside me, not even bothering to lower her voice, “you’d be buck naked.”
I snorted before I could stop myself. “Please don’t narrate my humiliation.”
Becca took another sip of wine, her gaze still fixed on him. “I’m just saying. That man is not thinking about that redhead’s itinerary. He wants your ass. I’m telling you.”
I glanced back at Dust-guy just in time to catch his eyes flicker away, like he’d heard us. Or felt me looking.
At that moment, I realized I didn’t feel queasy anymore. Barely.
Thank you, Dottie and your questionable swamp elixir.
“You should ask him out,” added Becca, tipping her glass and finishing off her wine.
I stared at her. “I’ve never asked a guy out before. It’s always been the other way around. You?”
That strange look crossed Becca’s face again, the flicker I’d caught earlier, quick and gone, like a thought she hadn’t meant to let surface. I’d seen the same one when she’d been staring at some guy in the crowd whose face I hadn’t quite managed to clock.
“Me neither,” she said finally. Her smile snapped back into place, bright and effortless, like she’d just closed a mental door. “But at least you know he won’t turn you down. It’s written all over his face.” She tilted her head, her eyes dancing. “And it’s written all over yours.”
I scoffed. “It is not.”
Becca raised a brow. “Sarah. You’re both one stiff breeze away from ripping each other’s clothes off. You’re hot for each other. Admit it.”
I laughed, heat creeping up my neck. “You make it sound so classy.”
“I am classy,” she said. “I just call it like I see it.”