Page 115 of Three Grumpy Groomsmen

Don’t I?

That’s where Liam lives and works, and I told him I would move in with him.

But then there’s Ford…and interestingly enough, Harrison. Yes, he and Liam are in love, but Harrison is like a best friend with benefits for me. I enjoy being around him.

What the hell do I do?

“Going for a walk!” I call out to Harrison, who is pacing back and forth on the back deck on his phone.

Ford is at Raw because they lost power for a few minutes because of high winds and the generator didn’t come on. I know from my own experience working with food that can cause a disastrous domino effect.

Liam walked to the coffee shop to write for an hour, which leaves me to take a beach stroll by myself. It’s much needed solitude. While I’ve loved every second with the guys, I haven’t been alone in a solid week and I need to breathe deep and just…think.

Harrison gives me a wave and calls out, “Don’t go in the water. Surf’s too high today.”

I wave back in acknowledgment.

Dressed in linen pants and a cotton button up, I run down the stairs and kick off my sandals once I hit the sand. It is windy, but I have my hair in a ponytail and sunglasses on, so I don’t mind. I grew up in Santa Cruz, California, next to the beach and I miss the waterfront in Los Angeles. Not that it isn’t available, but I never seem to have time and the vibe is different. Honeysuckle Harbor having a boardwalk reminds me of childhood.

I used to actually surf as a kid and I find myself wondering if I could do that here. I need to keep up my fitness if I’m going to be twisted and turned around in bed every night by three men.

The thought makes me grin as I walk.

Last night was…wow.

Then immediately I feel confused again.

I could easily live here full time. But I have no idea how that would work and I’ve just gone and sold my house. Granted, it’s a hefty deposit dropping into my bank account—thank you, Brad, truly—which means I have options now.

I’ve already been rejected immediately for three of the four jobs I’ve applied for. The rejections came so fast I swear they hit my inbox before my application could have even been glanced at. I’m a little concerned that I’ve been labeled “drama” given how small the food entertainment world is and my canceled wedding with Brad.

Plus, his legal issues. I tried to call the FBI agent back this morning but I got his voicemail, which is just fine with me. I’llhappily avoid that as long as possible because it sounds at best unpleasant, at worst me in handcuffs. I don’t know a damn thing about Brad’s alleged illegal activities but I’ve watched Dateline. That doesn’t always matter.

I’ve walked in the opposite direction I usually stroll, away from the boardwalk, and I spot a building up ahead that is hovering on a dune, jutting out over the water. There’s an upper deck with nothing on it.

As I get closer, I see the doors are boarded up, but not the windows. It has an abandoned look, the planter boxes empty and the wrap around deck in need of furniture and a coat of paint.

Impulsively, I decide to go up the steps and peek in the windows. It’s a restaurant or event center. Or it was, anyway. There is nothing inside but a few dusty chairs and, oddly, a bicycle. Turning back, I draw in a sharp breath.

The view of the beach and the ocean is stunning here, sea grass waving gently left and right, in what would make an incredible wedding aisle down to the water’s edge.

Biting my lip, I realize there isn’t any other venue that is beachfront here. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. It’s all residential and the boardwalk with its ice cream parlor and french fry stands.

By the time I’ve walked around the front of the building and seen the large parking lot, asphalt broken through with weed growth and seen the fallen down sign stating, “Morty’s Meathouse,” an idea is forming.

I’m a stylist. Most of my career has been in food, but lighting and color combinations and presentation are the same across the board.

I could open a wedding venue.

Here, in Honeysuckle Harbor.

I have the money. I have the skills set required. I know a fabulous restaurant for catering, and I’ve planned a wedding for myself. Ironic and cringey, but true.

I love this idea. It feels like an exciting challenge and a fresh beginning.

Walking back to the house at a crushing pace, I jog up the steps to Harrison, who is drinking coffee and scrolling through his phone. He immediately sets it down and sits forward.

“You okay? What’s wrong?”

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