Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
But I’d been raised not to make waves, especially when my father was in campaign mode. To be seen and not heard around donors. To smile, smile, smile whenever we were in public as a family, no matter what I was actually feeling. Today, I’d broken a cardinal rule—in public, no less, even if no one else had heard—so I was also low-key, irrationally afraid that I’d earned myself seven years of bad luck.
I found myself in front of the Tavern in hopes of finding my brother. No one else would understand exactly what I’d done—how simultaneously amazing and embarrassingly terrifying it felt to stand up to Patricia and Trent, even as an adult man—like JT would. But it wasn’t until I’d pulled open the door and found Castor Honeycutt pulling pints behind the bar that I remembered JT and Flynn were back outside.
I took off my coat and slid onto a stool anyway.
“Hey, Reagan. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” Castor’s smile was sweet and warm, as usual. There was a reason his grandfather had nicknamed him Sunshine. “Can I get you something?”
“Maybe… Actually, yeah.” It was almost noon, right? And I could really use a drink. I scanned the menu hanging over the bar that listed all the mead varietals Flynn brewed right on-site and grinned. Flynn used to serve only five varietals, each named for one of his siblings. Now, there was a sixth option.
Honeybridge Kiss Me Quick - Tasty enough to turn a Frog into your own Prince Charming! An invigorating blend of wildflower honey, crisp apples, and zesty citrus.
“Flynn made a mead for JT?” I asked with a sigh. “How cool is that?”
Castor glanced at the board, too, and his gentle smile softened even further. “Oh yeah. He started working on it last summer, but we only started serving it maybe a month ago. Flynn tried claiming it was inspired by Kiss Me Quick Lake and the old legend, and JT said he knew exactly what inspired it, and then the two of them just looked at each other—you know how they do?—until Alden threw a bar cloth at Flynn and said they were both insufferable.” He lifted one thin shoulder. “Personally, I think it’s kind of amazing. Love conquers all, even family curses and a bunch of old hurts.”
I blew out a shaky breath. God, I really hoped that was the case. I’d give a lot for Thatcher Pennington to appear at my side at that moment. Today was a day for telling truths, right? And suddenly, I found that I wanted to tell Thatcher all sorts of things I’d been holding back. Like how sorry I was for what I’d said the other day and how hard I’d fallen for him. Like how very badly I wanted to curl up in his arms, feel the soft scratch of his growing beard as he kissed my hair, and let him know I was ready to fight for us, even after the bus tour ended and we were back in—
“Fuck off! I’ve been living on grass juice for a week, and I’ll say when I’ve had enough. My father practically owns this place, remember?”
The drunken shout made me swivel on my stool just as Brantleigh Pennington lurched to his feet at one of the tables in the far corner of the mostly empty Tavern and began gesturing wildly, nearly clocking PJ Honeycutt with a half-empty glass of mead.
Castor gripped the edge of the bar so tightly his fingers squeaked on the polished surface. “Damn it,” he whispered.
“What the hell is he doing here?” I muttered.
“He came in maybe twenty minutes ago and ordered a pint, and I think… I think maybe he’d already been drinking? But Brantleigh said he was here to meet someone, and he sat down by that guy over there, so PJ and I decided to play it cool and serve him one pint. I’m guessing he just tried to order another and PJ said no… and Brantleigh decided not to play it cool,” Cas finished in a small voice.
“My father is basically your boss, asswipe.” Brant took a stumbling step toward PJ, who retreated a pace. “When the bastard croaks, who do you think is gonna take over the reins? Me! I’m the heir. And I will shut this place down.”
Yes, it was clear Brantleigh had decided not to play it cool. But worse than that, when the that guy Cas had pointed out turned around, I saw that it was none other than Chris fucking Acton.
Damn, that man got around.
Shit shit shit. Damage control tactics from my time in PR raced through my head, but none of them applied to the situation. How did you beg a reporter—even one you’d hooked up with—not to write a sensational story unfolding right before his eyes?