Page 7 of My Husband Problem

I shake my head. “We’re right in the middle of?—”

“Honey, we can wait,” someone else interrupts, another woman.

I’m sure Declan does just fine with men too, but it’s actually no surprise that the women are falling quickly.

“Yourhusbandis here, and we know you haven’t seen him in a while.” Her name is Monica, and she laughs as she looks around. “What else are we gonna do anyway? You’re not keeping us from anything. This is the town's social event tonight.”

Right. Because heaven forbid any of these people actually stay home and do something that doesn’t involve the entire town.

I should be happy they prefer to spend all their time out of their houses and together. It makes my hockey arena very popular, and they’re certainly willing to spend their money to be entertained by my teams and fed by my concession stands.

“Might as well drag it out,” someone else agrees. “We have to wait for Bruce to finish all the shrimp anyway.”

“And all the sides!” someone calls.

“Well, the slaw and potato salad better be done!” another voice adds.

“Are we havin’ hushpuppies?” someone calls out from the back.

“We’d better be!”

“You all will eat whatever I bring out!” Bruce bellows from behind those of us sitting at the judges’ table.

“Wait,” I say, frowning. “There’s a whole dinner? I thought this was just a taste testing.”

“Of course it’s a dinner,” someone says. “You think we’re just sitting here watchingyou alleat all those shrimp? We want a taste.”

“You’re going to eat the winning flavor?” I ask.

“We better be eating them all!” someone yells.

“I want all three!” someone else adds. “Why do we only get one?”

“I want lemon garlicandsassy!” someone else says. “What the hell, Bruce?”

“Well, I want bourbon brown sugar! That sounds amazing! Why would you only give us one?” a man’s voice demands.

“That doesn’t make sense,” an older woman’s voice protests. “How could you know which would win?”

“He didn’t,” another woman says. “That’s the point of the voting.”

“Exactly. So he had to be prepared to serve usall,whichever one won. That means he’s got enough ingredients to serve usallthree kinds,” the first woman points out.

“Hey, that’s true!” a man exclaims. “Come on, Bruce. We want all three! Why do five people get to decide?”

“And one of them is from Portland!” someone says.

I gasp and look at the man—whose name is Lenny, who has season tickets for hockey, buys all the merch, and constantly comments on social media posts supporting the team—so I can’t be angry with him.

“We love you, Astrid, but honey, you don’t even drink Sazerac,” Lenny says.

The room collectively gasps as another of my sins against Louisiana is revealed, and I roll my eyes again. Maybe I can be a little angry with him.

“You don’t drink Sazerac?” someone asks.

“I…don’t,” I admit.

“Whatdoyou drink?”