Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“What is your name?” Henry asks calmly as he studies the card, never looking up.
“Umm … Jacqueline. Or Jacquie’s fine.”
“When was the red snapper brought in?”
“This afternoon at about 3:00 p.m. Caught an hour before by Captain Dave,” she answers without missing a beat.
Dave Rogers is known around here for guaranteeing the freshest day’s catch and gets paid well for it.
“And the king crab?”
“Our shipment arrived early this morning.” She holds her breath as she waits for his response. I imagine serving the owner of Wolf Hotels is nerve-racking at all times, but especially so when he’s grilling you.
“My wife claims she had impeccable service from you earlier.” Finally, Henry acknowledges the server with a glance. “Keep it up, Jacqueline.” He uses her full name, just as he called Abbi by hers earlier.
Jacquie’s eyes flitter to Abbi, who smiles up at her with encouragement. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll give you a few minutes to decide on your meals.”
He waves a hand in a that’ll be all gesture, and Jacquie scurries off.
Ronan and I exchange glances from across the double-wide table, an array of candles and florals a formidable barrier. Belinda separated us, seating Abbi and Henry at the very end as table heads—the king and queen. At least I’m closest to Abbi and not him. Ronan gets that honor.
On my other side is a man with a smooth Parisian accent who said a polite hello but has otherwise been caught up in conversation with Margo Lauren, the raven-haired supermodel seated next to Ronan. She’s even more striking in person than the magazine covers she graces, if that’s possible.
It would have been much kinder of Belinda to seat me and Ronan next to each other and pair these two up, but I don’t think showing kindness was a part of the equation where she’s concerned.
“How long do they swim for?” Abbi admires the aquatic tank, where a new mermaid skims through the water, this one in lavender-and-cream scales.
Henry abandons his menu card and leans back with his drink—scotch, if I had to guess. “I believe they change every twenty minutes. Is that accurate, Ronan?”
“My realm is the tank itself, not who or what swims in it,” Ronan answers wryly. “Lena will have to answer that.”
Henry briefly scans faces as if looking for this woman named Lena before dismissing the topic. “Sloane, how is your grandmother doing?”
“She’s good,” I answer warily.
He takes a sip. “Ruby, right?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s been what, now? Two years since you put her in an assisted-living center and claimed her properties?”
My mouth gapes for a moment. “I didn’t put her anywhere or claim anything.” There’s more bite in my tone than I intended, but he blindsided me with that jab. Plus, he’s tossing around Gigi’s name as if he personally knows her, as if he gives a shit what happens to her. I take a calming breath. “She registered herself at Palm Oaks, and she loves it there.”
He hums. “I’ve never understood how anyone can enjoy living in one of those places.”
I can’t help myself. “It’s quieter than the last few years at her home. No constant hammering and saws and drills all day long. But I’ll be sure to let her know you asked about her.” I mock frown. “Wait, did you two ever actually meet or are you just regurgitating what your creepy PI told you?”
Henry studies me a moment. “No, I don’t believe we did, officially.”
From my peripheral, I note Abbi chugging her water.
Jacquie returns then, ending a chance for me to toss another barb. “Okay, folks, have we decided?” She peers down at Abbi, prompting her to begin.
I steal a glance across the table at Ronan to find him studying me, the corner of his mouth curved upward. At least he’s not annoyed by me antagonizing his boss.
“Well, I can’t have the wagyu tartare or the smoked salmon. What about the blue cheese in the pear appetizer?” Abbi holds up the menu, pointing at the line. “Is that unpasteurized?”
“Very likely, yes, but we have an excellent vegan substitute that the chef has confirmed is safe for you.”
Abbi’s face lights up. “Yes, perfect. And then the salad, but can you substitute the goat cheese? Again, the unpasteurized thing.” Her face squishes up like she’s afraid to impose on people. As if her husband doesn’t own this hotel and can literally demand everyone walk on their hands and sing for their suppers. “And the chicken in puff pastry and risotto is fine.”
Jacqueline nods, mentally cataloguing everything like only the most exceptional fine-dining servers can manage. The next test is not mixing things up.
“And for you?” Jacqueline waits for me expectantly.
Fuck. How am I supposed to know about unpasteurized cheeses and smoked salmon. What the fuck even is wagyu tartare? How am I thirty-one years old and not aware of any of this? I guess because I’ve never been pregnant before. I still don’t even know if I’m keeping it—a decision I have to make very soon.