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)
I rolled my eyes. He wasn’t subtle in the slightest. “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know.”
“Do you? Hmm.” He met my eyes over the rim of his own coffee cup. “You left your amethyst behind Sunday, along with this.” He slapped my phone into my hand. The screen was dark, and the device was dead. I pursed my lips disapprovingly, and he shrugged. “I don’t have a charger for this kind, Flynn. Maybe next time, make sure you don’t leave home without protection and with no way to call your family.”
I cleared my throat and clutched the phone in my hand. “I wasn’t thinking clearly Sunday morning. About a lot of things.”
If I had been, I would have called JT and asked him for help. I knew that now. I would have listened to his apology and made things right, even if he ended up back in New York for good. I was hoping I’d run into him at Brew Fest so I could tell him so.
Heck, who was I kidding? I’d hog-tie the Frog and stow him under the table in my booth until he listened to me.
“Hey, have you heard any details from Alden about Brew Fest setup?” I asked Mac. “The asshole kept telling me to trust and believe, but I kinda wanna know what I’m walking into.”
Mac suddenly found a spot on the ceiling fascinating. “Uh. Well. Alden actually had to work a wedding last night, and he couldn’t miss it.”
I closed my eyes and winced. “So it’s just Castor and Dan there today? Fuck. Did you have to close the Tavern?”
“Actually, um…” McLean scratched his head. “No. No, everyone kinda… pitched in and figured things out.”
I stared at him. “Dude, you can’t just give me that. I need specifics. Figured out how? How many people did Honeybridge Mead send to Brew Fest?”
“What? PJ? Is that you calling?” McLean demanded into the silent room. He hurried toward the bathroom. “You should probably go use Huck and Willow’s shower, Firecracker. I’ll hold down the fort here.”
“McLean Honeycutt,” I gasped. “What the hell is happening here? Are you seriously not gonna tell me?”
“Nah. I think Alden was right,” he said with a gentle smile. “I think you need to learn to trust and believe. People love you, Flynn. And we have your back.”
After I stomped across the yard to Huck and Willow’s place to shower and change, I hopped back in my truck, plugged my phone in to charge, and immediately got on the highway. I debated stopping by the salon or the Tavern to demand to know what was going on, but I knew that would be a waste of time when I could soon see for myself.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one heading into the city today because the traffic was awful. When I finally found a place to park and hauled my sorry ass into the expo center, I felt shaky from lack of food and sleep mixed with too much caffeine.
I walked into the giant center and right into a wall of noise and people. The press event was hopping, with colorful signs everywhere and the scent of beer, wine, spirits, and food permeating the air.
This kind of event would normally energize me, but I was so bone-tired from the stress and effort of dealing with PJ that I suddenly wondered if I could do it… if I could even find my way to my own booth and speak coherently about my products. And the idea of having to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day made me want to get back in my truck and drive home.
When I imagined sweet Castor standing at the booth alone, though, trying to explain the intricate process of creating our craft mead varietals… that may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.
The sting of tears threatened, and my entire body began to shake. I looked everywhere for my booth location but couldn’t spot it. I couldn’t find the booth. I couldn’t find my own damned booth in the event I’d worked so hard to prepare for. What kind of entrepreneur was I if I couldn’t even find my fucking booth? The Ren Faire people would never want to do business with a man who was such a complete and utter disaster.
Where is it? Why can’t I find it?
I spun around, looking for any sign of Honeybridge Mead, but all the colorful signs blurred together, and my head began to pound. Finally, I fumbled for my phone and dialed the one person I knew I could count on.
“Flynn?” JT’s warm, familiar voice washed over me. I squeezed my eyes closed and felt the hot slide of a tear roll down my face.
“Hey,” I croaked, suddenly nervous. “Uh. H-hey.”
“Baby, what’s wrong?”
Oh, shit. The relief of his words was a powerful drug—so powerful my knees trembled. Our relationship wasn’t broken entirely. Not if he called me baby.