Thank you, Palmer and Ford.
The last two people I want to see.
But the two people I have to work with tonight.
I drive up to Watchful Wanderers and pull into the parking lot, parking in the far back to give room to the guests. We have an hour until the anniversary party, which should give us plenty of time to set up. At least that’s what I hope. I didn’t want to come any earlier.
I put my car in park but don’t move. Instead, I stare out the windshield and try to pump myself up for this.
It’s for our parents.
We love them.
It’s only a few hours. Put on a smile and make them happy. Then it’s over.
I grab my phone and keys and get out of the car before going to the trunk and pulling out a box of potted flowers. I’m not much of a decoration guy, but the potted flowers are a nice touch, and guests can take home the pots as souvenirs. Mom and Dad will like them.
I lock up and walk to the front door, where Palmer is waiting impatiently, arms folded.
“What took you so long?”
“Literally, it’s been a minute,” I snap at her. “Hold the door open for me.”
She opens it, and I walk inside—only to make an abrupt stop.
I take in the store I grew up in. The racks of clothing, the rows of outdoor gadgets, the oak-log walls, and the kayaks hanging from the ceiling. And not a single table, chair, or any hint of a party.
Fuck.
“What the hell?” I set the box down by the door. “I thought Ford was in charge of the store. Didn’t he say he was going to make space in here?”
“That’s what I thought,” Palmer says. “And because we shut the store down today for the party, there are no employees around to fix this.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “What about the back?”
“Full of merchandise.”
Palmer leans against the wall, arms crossed, in a sleeveless black dress. Both of us are dressed up, and she has a cast on one arm. There’s no way we’ll be able to make the kind of room we need.
“And the rental company didn’t drop off any chairs or tables. Nothing was dropped off, actually.”
“What did you order?”
“I didn’t order anything. I thought you were ordering chairs and tables.”
I shake my head. “That wasn’t my job. Maybe it was Ford’s. Where is he?”
“Beats me.” Palmer shrugs her shoulders. “He didn’t answer his phone when I called.”
I take a look at my watch and then glance at the store. “Fuck,” I mutter. “We need to make some sort of space. Think we can at least push these clothing racks to the side? We can clear that shirt table and use it for the cake.”
“There are some blankets we can unfold and put on top of the clothes so they don’t get messy.”
“It’s the best we can do,” I say as I start moving racks to the side, trying to play Tetris with the space.
We spend the next half hour attempting to clear the floor and draping blankets over the merchandise so people don’t get handsy with it—not that they would, but just in case—and so nothing spills on it either.
Once the final rack is pushed out of the way, I check my watch again and pull out my phone. No missed calls or texts.
“Where the fuck is Ford?” I dial him, and it goes straight to voice mail. “What the actual fuck.” I glance out the windows. “The inn is just up the street. I’m going to jog up there and see what’s happening. You wait here for the food.” I go to the door and kick the box of plants. “And do something with these.”
I take off down the street at a brisk jog, cross the street, wave to someone who waves to me—not sure who that was—and make my way up the inn steps. I glance around the dining room and don’t see him, so I go to the front desk.
“Cooper Chance, how are you? Come to visit your brother?” Harold asks, at the front desk.
“Yes,” I answer breathlessly. “What room is he in?”
“Top floor, attic.”
“Thanks.” I take off up the stairs and realize . . . what if something happened to him? Larkin left last night, and he was not in a good mood, more distraught than anything. What if something happened?
No. I’m not going to think like that.
I make it to the top floor and don’t even attempt to knock. I hope the door is unlocked as I turn the knob and let myself in to find . . .
Holy fuck.
“What the hell are you doing?” I ask as I see Ford hovered over his computer, wearing running clothes, in no way ready for the party.
When he glances up at me, his eyes are bloodshot, his expression blank.
“I’m working, Cooper. Please leave.”
“You fuck,” I say. “Mom and Dad’s anniversary party is in twenty minutes.”
His head snaps up. “What?” He looks at the time and then out the window. “Holy shit.” He stands from the chair and glances down. “Shit, I never took a shower after my morning run.”
“What the hell have you been doing all day?”
“Working.” He runs around his room, shucking his shirt and putting on a button-up. He tosses on a few good swipes of deodorant and then puts on pants, followed by shoes and socks. He runs to the bathroom, where he wets his hair and quickly styles it. From the back of one of his chairs, he snags a tie and attempts to knot it while grabbing his phone and keys.
“You were supposed to set up the store. Palmer and I did the best we could, but we couldn’t move everything.”
“What do you mean? It wasn’t cleared out?”
“No.” Ford locks up, and together we rush down the stairs of the inn and out to the street, where we jog to the store, Ford tying his tie the entire time.
When we reach the store, we barge through the door to find Palmer helping Nora set up three cakes.
Jesus.
Her eyes land on mine, and I have a sudden urge to go up to her and plant a kiss on her beautiful face—not only for delivering, but for putting up with all three of us.
“There you are. Good God, Ford, what were you doing?” Palmer asks.
“He forgot,” I answer for him.
“You forgot?” Palmer chokes out. “How on earth could you forget about the anniversary party that brought you here in the first place?”
“I’ve been going through some things.” He takes in the space. “This is not nearly enough room for everyone.”
“Well, it’s the best we could do, given you didn’t hold up your end of the bargain,” Palmer says.
“Do you need serving ware and plates?” Nora asks, continuing to set up the cakes.
“I don’t think so,” I answer while Ford attempts to make more room. He clumsily shoves at a rack of clothes, pushing it nowhere. That one’s nailed to the ground . . . idiot. “Palmer, you got all of that, right?”
“What? No. Why would I have ordered that?”
“Because you’re in charge of food. Which, by the way, where is the food?”
“Uh . . .” Palmer blinks a few times. “You said you were getting sandwiches.”
Sweat breaks out over my skin. “You have got to be fucking kidding me. You said sandwiches weren’t fancy enough and you were talking to a caterer.”