Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Jesus, I hated myself.
More to the point, I hated the person I became when I was in Honeybridge.
Which was why I needed to get shit done and get the hell out.
I gripped my leather folder more tightly and stalked into the Tavern with a purpose… but when I got inside, I stopped dead and gawked just as much as any one of the tourists because Frankie Hilo’s selfies hadn’t done the place justice.
The outside of the Tavern had looked shockingly nice the other day, but the footprint had been the same as when Flynn’s Grandpa Horace had been running the place. I’d had no clue that the inside would be so entirely changed.
Gone were the tobacco-stained walls and the wood paneling pockmarked with a million dart holes. Instead, the walls were now whitewashed shiplap that looked like it had been there for centuries, though it hadn’t. The whole back wall was made of glass, and beyond it was the pristine, white-painted meadery with its shiny fermentation barrels, making patrons feel like they were part of the action.
Gone were the low ceilings and the red tiled floor, too. Now, a metal staircase along one side of the rustic wooden bar led up to a loft-style seating area, with deep couches and comfortable chairs in what had once been a tiny studio apartment and a storage space. A storage space where Flynn and I had spent that one memorable night…
“Just one?” a friendly voice asked.
“Huh?” I turned around, searching for the mind reader… and found a slender dude with a Tavern T-shirt and a hipster haircut standing behind the host’s desk.
“Just one for lunch today?” he asked again.
Oh. “Ah, no. I’d actually like to see Flynn Honeycutt.” I smiled and nodded down at my leather folio. “On a business matter.”
“Okay. Well, it’s the tail end of the lunch rush, and he’s working the bar, but you can go wait for him if you’d like.” He nodded toward the bar along the left side of the room.
Flynn moved around behind the counter, all broad shoulders and bubble-butt perfection, chatting to a customer here, filling a drink order there. His beard was scruffier than I remembered it being the other day, and he wore a shirt that was either a size too small or absolutely perfect, depending on whether you liked your bartender’s nipples to be visible from a distance… which I did.
A lot.
“Great,” I managed to say in a strangled voice, already moving across the floor like a moth to a motherfucking flame. “I’ll just take a seat over there, then—”
“Oh. My. Gosh!” Castor Honeycutt stopped directly in front of me, clutching an empty tray in one hand, then threw himself at me with a happy little squeal, hugging me around the shoulders.
“Heya, Sunshine,” I said, his old nickname coming to my lips without conscious thought as I patted his back fondly.
“I’m, like, so, so glad you’re here,” he whispered. “Flynn’s been waiting for you, even if he doesn’t know it.”
Castor had heard about the contract I was going to offer Flynn? How the heck had that happened?
“Oh, he definitely doesn’t know it,” I confirmed when he pulled back. I cast a glance over his shoulder at the man in question, who worked the register with one hand while filling a soda with the other. “I had a hunch that surprising him might work better than attempting to schedule an appointment.” Especially after what had gone down the other day with the puddle.
Castor grinned broadly, and his eyes, which were a dark blue-green that made me think of the deepest part of Wellbridge Lake, went all warm and gooey. He linked his arm with mine to draw me toward the bar. “It’s like the stars aligned just perfectly.”
“You think?” I was happy for the vote of confidence, even if I didn’t get what had inspired it.
“Aw, hells yeah! It’s Frog!” A man jumped off his barstool to grab me in a one-armed hug. “Heard you were back in town, man. Maria Thorpe told Becky Honeycutt, who works with my wife at Wicker Insurance.” He hooked a thumb out the window.
My mind struggled to place the broad, freckled face and thinning red-blond hair.
“Ernie!” I said a fraction of a second late. “Ernie McLeroy. I didn’t know you were married. Congrats.”
“Yeah.” Ernie blushed comprehensively. “Going on two years now. Yvonne’s got a bun in the oven, too.” He shoved my shoulder. “How about you, man? Word is you’re here for the whole summer? You gonna put that arm to work for us in the tournament?”
My mother’s gossip elves had clearly been hard at work. “Oh, no. I’m afraid I—”
“Jing, you remember Froggy’s arm?” Ernie called to a dark-haired man at a nearby booth. “Holy shizoley, huh? Just a couple innings and we’d decimate the Honeycutts.”
“You could try!” Brittany Merchant, one of Flynn’s cousins, came bouncing up, auburn ponytail swinging. She was nearly as tall as me, though I would have sworn that the last time I was home, she’d been a gap-toothed preteen who’d tried to sell me Girl Scout cookies.