Page 141 of Falling for the Enemy

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.

In the dining room, the restaurant breathed a long overdue sigh of relief. Candles were lit, and tables were dressed. Logan was just wrapping up the balloon arch, and things were starting to look like a real party when an angel of a waitress brought her a cocktail.

“Thank you.” Jocelyn nearly kissed her. Taking a long, overdue sip, she let the alcohol do its magic and hopefully calm her nerves as she inspected the room for any last-minute touches.

Squat mason jars crowded with baby’s breath and trailing eucalyptus perfumed the tables. Logan had run into town to buy more candles to cover any lingering odors. Standing at the center of the dining room, she breathed deep, smelling what her design had curated and nothing more.

“Finally,” Logan said with a laugh.

“I know. You can’t smell the fish.”

“I meant, finally as in it’s good to see you smile.”

“Oh.” She really had been a bear this morning. “Thank you for putting up with me. I wouldn’t have been able to pull this off without you, Logan.”

“You planned everything, Joce. Grey’s going to go nuts over the nautical theme. And Wren, well, she’ll probably cry.”

Happy tears, Jocelyn hoped.

Candlelight drenched the mahogany walls in restless amber. The room glowed like the inside of a lantern, a perfect complement to the blues and ivory.

“Ms. Collins?” Camille approached, guitar case in hand. “Where would you like me to set up?”

She smiled at the musician, because everything was finally coming together and her music was the final cherry on top. “Back corner, by the windows, beside the cake table. I’ll have Simon help you.” Her gaze dropped to her belly, and she remembered Wren telling her that pregnant women developed a sense of smell stronger than that of a bloodhound. “Does it smell in here to you?”

Camille looked confused but gave the air a nervous sniff. “It smells like flowers and linen.”

“Nothing…fishy?”

“No. It smells nice.”

Jocelyn grinned. “You’re a lifesaver, Camille.”

The singer shrugged, unsure of what she did and said, “Glad I could help.”

The door chimed, and the first guest crossed the threshold. Jocelyn turned, and her smile stalled halfway up her face. Not a guest. Birdie Quinnley—the town busybody—with a gift bag swinging from her wrist.

“Jocelyn, dear, what a lovely spread.” Birdie’s gaze traveled the beams, the booths, the banners, then hooked back to Jocelyn.

“Birdie, what…” She went over the guestlist in her head. The list she obsessed over for months. The list she specifically gave Paige when she shipped the invitations. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“So early,” Logan quickly covered, shooting her a look.

“I like to have my pick of seats for things like this.”

A balloon popped, and Jocelyn flinched. Birdie’s beady eyes went to Simon, who was currently wrestling with the arch.

She looked back up at Logan. “Hmm, you’re not the Hawthorne I expected to see.” She folded her frosted-pink lips into a knowing purse.

“Greyson has two brothers, Birdie,” Jocelyn reminded. She’d know that if she was close enough to the family to garner a spot on the guestlist.

“I’m aware.”

Of course she was. As the town busybody, Birdie knew something about everybody. She probably knew what color underwear Jocelyn chose that morning. As a matter of fact, she was so informed on everyone’s personal business, she could very well publish a weekly column with the amount of secrets hidden under all that purple-tinted hair.

“Why don’t I carry this to the gift table for you?” Logan said, relieving her of the bag.