This chapter is dedicated to @WriterOnTheIsland who named the new craft beer offerings from my fictional brewpub! And also to @Alineda who is a wonderfully supportive reader who actually wanted to make some of the recipes in my first book! Thanks to them both and to all my readers, I really appreciate each and every one of you.

Quinn sank further into the tub, trying to ease away his aches and pains. He rotated his left arm slowly, wincing as he rubbed his throbbing shoulder. He was going to have one hell of a bruise and the cut looked nasty. The bleeding stopped, but he'd have a shiny new scar to add to his collection. Years in the kitchen left his hands crisscrossed with cuts and burn marks, and he still had scars from his years as a bouncer. It'd been a while since he'd been stabbed, though. He needed to think up an excuse to explain the injury to Lucy.

I am definitely too old for this shit.

He had made the water hot and poured in a generous splash of the hotel's signature bubble bath. Organic cherry blossom, my ass. It smelled like the overpriced, designer cologne they spritzed on you in high-end department stores — if you didn't manage to duck out of the way in time.

He missed his bath products from Nova Scotia. The soap he used back home was made with local ingredients like lavender, sea kelp, honey, and oatmeal. Hell, you could eat a bar of it if you wanted. He grimaced. The hotel stuff had an overpoweringly chemical scent, skimped on bubbles and dried out his skin.

Even with the window closed, sound invaded his room — the rush of traffic blending with the buzz and roar of street noise. Halloween night in New York — he picked a great weekend to travel, he thought with a grimace.

He loved falling asleep in the perfect winter stillness of the country at night. Or in the spring with the windows open to let in the fresh air. People downloaded relaxation apps all the time with sounds of nature; he had the real thing just outside his window. There was nothing better than drifting off with Lucy in his arms, hearing the swish of the trees in the night, the chorus of tiny spring peeper frogs in the back field. Soon, he told himself. He'd be heading home soon.

He'd finally found a chef who could start immediately, but he wasn't overly excited by the hire. The young guy came highly recommended by a colleague, but the candidate was twitchy and scattered throughout the interview. Quinn was running out of options, so he decided to try him out, at least for a few days. But he wasn't completely comfortable.

He had to concede that keeping the restaurant for sentimental reasons was no longer feasible. His life was in Nova Scotia now. He had sold off his other two restaurants and only benefitted from slowing his life down. It made sense to cut this last tie. He wanted to focus on his new business partnership in Port Ross and building a life with Lucy.

He had only talked to her for a few moments that night, distracted by whether or not he should get the cut stitched. In the end, he decided to forego a trip to Emergency on Halloween night just for a scratch on his arm. He was sure the hospitals were filled with much cases than his.

Quinn wanted to be home, curled up in the barn watching horror movies with Lucy, answering the doorbell to hand out homemade treats to the few neighbourhood kids roaming the streets. He'd rather be testing the new batches of craft beer with Leon (Fog Lifter and Breakwater were particularly promising) or winter surfing with Bruce and the boys. Instead, he was stuck there for days and forced to go to some fancy black-tie event.

He sighed, wishing he'd downed some acetaminophen when he got back to the hotel, well before his arm started to throb. Outside, he heard a smash followed by a car alarm and the unmistakable hooting of drunken idiots. The city that never sleeps, alright.

It wasn't long ago that he was routinely travelling more than 200 days out of the year. He used to love the feeling of getting lost in the chaos of downtown Tokyo, London, Paris, Lisbon, New York. Now, he just wanted to get back to Port Ross. He'd trade the clamour of city traffic for the constant thrum of the ocean any day.

Most of all, Quinn wanted to get back to a place where strangers didn't try and rip you off. He thought back to the day's events and he was again filled with rage. He shouldn't have let that little fucker go.

Cellphone pressed against his ear, he had stepped out of the cab in front of his hotel after his impromptu and very expensive detour into Tiffany's. He wasn't sure where he'd put his wallet after he paid the cab driver and was checking through his bag, distracted by the phone call with his new agent, Gavin, and the incredibly stupid thing Gavin wanted him to do.

"Tell me again why I should go to this party?" He patted himself down and was relieved to find the wallet in his inside jacket pocket.

"Because Lex Brady invited you. Everybody in the industry will be there. Lex has been trying to get a meeting with you for weeks, and anybody and their dog would give their left nut to meet him." Gavin was as blunt as his mother, the formidable M, his long-time agent who recently retired. He inherited his mother's no-nonsense approach to celebrity clients and Quinn was pleasantly surprised to find Gavin was managing to keep up with him. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.

He heard a hint of British accent in Gavin's voice, balanced with a distinctly Canadian inflection — Miranda's only son had gone to law school in Canada and now lived in Toronto. It was certainly more convenient than having his agent located in London. Since he sold his restaurant and flat, Quinn had very little reason to visit England anymore.

At that moment, Gavin's inherited stubbornness was more of an irritant than something to be admired. Like his mother, Gavin was like a dog with a bone when he felt strongly about something. "Quinn, I know you wanted to get back to Nova Scotia, but you have to go to this party. This deal is too good to pass up! I mean, when Lex Brady wants to talk, you listen!"

"First of all, it was Alex Brady back when I knew him in culinary school — when he couldn't cut it as a chef. What, like he's Lex Luthor now? Second, I don't give a rat's ass how much money he has."

"Lex who?" What Gavin made up for in diplomacy and smarts, he lacked in cultural references. "Look, he's a hyper-mega-billionaire since selling his tech company. He can call himself whatever he wants; most people call him 'sir.'"

Christ almighty. Quinn rubbed his eyes. "Good for him, that still doesn't make me want to go to his stupid party. And Lex Luthor is the villain in Superman, who doesn't know that?"

"I don't watch that show. Look, he wants to buy your catalogue. He's just acquired the Ember streaming service. He wants to turn it into all-food, all-the-time online prestige TV — think Netflix meets the Food Network. He needs content and he wants you: Everything you ever produced or starred in, including the show that made you quit TV — Canada's Worst Restaurant. Quinn, this is big."

Quinn was suspicious. "Why me and why now? Besides, I've been on TV for years, I've done well. I don't need this guy. And anyone who wants to see old shows of mine can head over to YouTube. I don't get it."

"Look, you're known in Europe, Canada, your shows have been seen in 50 countries around the world. The only market you haven't cracked is the U.S. You're big right now, the book is a bestseller and you know there's talk of a movie. It's time to strike while the iron's hot."

Gavin's voice dropped, as if sharing a secret. "I know you've done well. But this could launch you into the stratosphere — make you an A-lister. This guy wants content, and you've got years of TV work in the can. If he wants the rights to all of your shows, at least hear him out. Who cares what his motivations are? The money would be insane. You'd never have to work again."

"I never have to work again, and I don't want to be an A-lister." Quinn had begun to pace on the sidewalk. "I've made quite a bit over the years, and invested it well, thanks to your mother. I'm fine for money."

"Quinn, if this deal goes through, no one in your family would ever have to work again."

That stopped the pacing.

His mother was heading to 70 and showed no signs of slowing down. She had a wait list for her psychology practice and worked long hours. His father was retired; they were doing fine. But with this deal, they'd be totally free. They could travel, be there more for their grandson, his little nephew, Nathan. His brother Aiden could retire from the force, and Quinn could stop worrying about him taking a bullet every time the decorated cop was out on a shift.

He sighed. "Where's this party again?"

He rooted through his leather cross-body bag to look for a notepad and pen when it happened. Out of nowhere, a punk on a scooter zipped past him, snagging the bag.

Lucy's ring was in it.

Quinn felt sharp panic, like a slap to the face. Then, the red mist of anger came down.

He took off in a full sprint. He weaved in and out of people, keeping sight of the thief's bright red beanie up ahead; the evil hipster crook.

Quinn ran faster, driven by pure rage. The thief could have his laptop, his wallet and anything else that was in his bag. But there was no goddamn way he was getting Lucy's ring.

He almost lost him a couple of times, before the punk abandoned the scooter and took a sharp left into an alley. Quinn followed. He'd started training in Muay Thai kickboxing over the past year, and the training took over. Closing in, he landed a flying front kick square in the middle of the guy's back.

The thief went flying, sprawling on the ground in a giant belly flop. Quinn's bag skidded to one side and he grabbed it. Catching his breath, he quickly checked inside to see make sure the little blue box was there. Satisfied, he turned to walk away when he felt something slam into his shoulder. He turned to see the smaller man had hit him hard. And he had a knife.

Quinn backed up to assess the threat. The guy's face was contorted into a snarl, and he was slashing at him. He easily blocked the next knife strike, knocking the small weapon out of his hand. He struck with a quick jab to the face, followed by a right cross. He put some weight behind it, and with a spray of blood, Red Hat went down.

Quinn was a big guy, but a year of intense martial arts training gave him lightning-fast reflexes and allowed him to be nimble on his feet. That, combined with his powerful build, rendered the assailant helpless in seconds.

"Stay down," Quinn growled. He picked up the small knife nearby and pocketed it. "I'll take that." He shook his head at the sorry asshole on the ground, debating whether to call the cops.

"I know you," the thief panted, rising on his elbow and wiping his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand. "You're on TV. I think you broke my jaw." He spat blood on the ground.

"You robbed me. You're lucky I can't be bothered calling the cops. Get up again and I'll break more than your jaw."

"I knew it was you the whole time. It was a prank. And you busted my face!" The guy's eyes were wild as he kept talking, almost to himself. "All I did was pull a harmless prank, and you assaulted me and broke my jaw. It's Halloween!"

Quinn turned and walked towards the sidewalk. "Yeah well, trick or treat, motherfucker."

It was only after he got back to the hotel that he realized his jacket was slashed and Red Hat had cut him. His favourite leather jacket, years old and comfortable as hell, was now ripped open at the shoulder and speckled with blood. He threw it in the trash, along with the knife. Fuck.

Quinn's bathwater had gone cold. He drained the tub and dried off, throwing on a pair of shorts. He went to the bathroom and found a first aid kit. He put antibiotic cream on the wound and bandaged it, flexing his arm. It stung, but he'd live. How the hell would he explain this to Lucy?

He snapped off the light and passed the little box sitting on the dresser, safe and sound. It was the Tiffany's signature colour — robin's egg blue, they called it at the store, elegantly wrapped with a white satin bow. He grabbed it and sat on the bed, looking at it from different angles.

One little box with a very large price tag — it cost more than the average house in Port Ross.

He examined the beautifully wrapped package, so light and delicate. Blood had been spilled over this ring, he thought. More of that fool's blood than his own, but still.

His instinct in the store was right. This was Lucy's ring. There was no other. And there was no other person for him. One day, he'd find the right moment to give it to her; the setting would have to be romantic and perfect. It would be a story they could tell their grandkids one day.

His phone pinged from across the room and he smiled when he saw the text from Lucy.

My plane gets into JFK tomorrow noon. xo

Suddenly, a very shitty week just got a whole lot better.