Page 84 of The Accidental Innkeeper

“And are they… quality?”

Eww. I knew exactly what she was implying. I smiled. “You’ll find out.”

That earned me approving nods.

Excitement buzzed through the inn, the air thick with perfume, anticipation, and competitive optimism. Everywhere I turned, I caught snippets of conversation.

“I’m going for tall this year. Short was fun, but I need leverage.”

“I want handy. Calluses. Preferably knows what to do with them.”

“Does anyone know if any of them own property—or at least a decent mattress?”

“I swear, if I leave this weekend without at least one date and one regrettable decision, I will riot.”

By the time the last guest checked in, the front hall looked like a jewelry box had exploded and reassembled itself into a cocktail party preview.

“Cocktail hour starts at six,” I announced, clapping my hands lightly. “Feel free to freshen up, explore, or pour yourselves a glass of wine if you find one unattended.”

That suggestion was met with cheers.

As they drifted upstairs, laughing and plotting, I exhaled slowly.

The guests were here. The inn was buzzing. And Pearls & Pints was officially underway.

I was going to host a bunch of wealthy, horny women in pearls. That’s what this was.

Now all I had to do was survive the next forty-eight hours without losing my mind. No biggie.

Helen reappeared moments later and planted an easel sign beside the front door. Cream background. Navy block letters that read: PEARLS & PINTS BACHELOR WEEKEND. Pearls were sketched along the border like this was a wedding invitation instead of a mating ritual. Naturally, it was professionally printed.

“There,” expressed Helen. “If anything goes wrong now, it won’t be my fault.” She turned to me. “I’m going home to change. I’ll be back in an hour. I expect competence.”

I raised my hand in a crisp salute. “Yes, Captain.” I laughed. She didn’t.

Instead, she frowned and disappeared through the front door.

Right. I needed to change too.

I gave my armpits a covert sniff. “And shower.”

As I climbed the stairs, the smell of something buttery sizzling wafted up from the kitchen followed by Dottie’s voice carrying loud and clear.

“If you touch that again, I’ll throw you in my oven!”

Poor Jason, but the kid was soldiering on.

Once in my room on the third floor, I peeled off my clothes, took a nice loooong bath, and did my five-minute makeup routine, which consisted of foundation, smudged eyeliner, mascara, and a swipe of lip gloss. Then I pulled out my one acceptable cocktail dress—a black Ralph Lauren wrap dress I’d scored at half price because I am nothing if not practical.

I added my black kitten heels and attempted a blowout but failed. I settled for five minutes of aggressive styling and called it done.

Somehow, it would have to be enough.

I wondered if Dust-guy would be at the cocktail party but then shook the thought out of my head. I couldn’t get distracted by hot lips and a magic tongue. Besides, tonight was only for the female guests.

After about an hour, I came down the stairs carefully, smoothing my dress and mentally running through a checklist that was already screaming at me in all caps.

Candles. Check. Bar stocked. Check. Dottie not poisoning anyone. Probable.