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)
Then he strode out of the office, leaving me behind.
I sat and stared at the awards on the wall, at first blankly, absorbing the blow of Flynn’s rejection, and then more carefully, reading each one. “Best Debut Brewer” at a regional festival had led to “Best Local Brew,” then to varietal awards for Moose Call and Daydream. There was a national award for Honeybridge Moose Call as “Best Acerglyn,” and finally, an award last year as overall second place at Brew Fest.
A-ha. A smile spread across my face as I figured out another clue to the mystery that was Flynn Honeycutt.
Flynn did still have big dreams… he just needed to be convinced that Fortress was the way to achieve them.
Game. On.
I grabbed a sticky note from his desktop and affixed it to the top of the leather folio. “Reconsider,” I wrote. Then I added my phone number below, just in case.
Flynn was a man who wouldn’t back down until he’d gotten what he wanted…
But he didn’t seem to realize that I wouldn’t either.
Chapter Four
Flynn
As I bumped over the rutted road leading into my parents’ place, I noticed the sign out front needed repainting and added it to my mental to-do list.
The Quick Lake Artists Retreat and Chakra-Centering Center—which was more like a campground with a collection of rustic cottages and one main house where my parents lived, all arranged in a horseshoe shape around a large inlet on the western end of Quick Lake—sometimes seemed like it was nothing but a giant to-do list, and I hated the anvil-like amount of burden it brought with it.
Still, every time I pulled back onto the property, I heaved a sigh of relief. Burden or not, it was home.
The Honeycutts had owned this part of Maine ever since the Honeycutts and Wellbridges had settled here and divided the area into ours and theirs, with them taking the giant hilly area and the river on the far side of the lake, closer to town, and us getting this pristine, forested area with the best views and best fishing spots. Personally, I’d always thought we’d gotten the better part of that deal… and judging by Patricia Wellbridge’s constant-simmering anger at my family, it seemed I wasn’t the only one.
It was no wonder. Huge fir trees ringed the open area in front of the main house, where my family was currently grilling veggie burgers and tossing beanbags into a makeshift cornhole set. Lake water lapped gently on the pebbled shore nearby, and thick, green grass led from the small beach up to my parents’ house.
I’d always thought the old rambling house with its wide, covered porch looked like it had its arms thrown wide, as if to embrace the entirety of the enormous lake. Its right arm pointed toward the maintenance path that led to the campground itself, and the left arm pointed toward the footpath that led to the “artists’ cottages.” Each of the small cottages featured its own stretch of lake frontage, which was honestly the feature that kept them booked up so well during the summer. A peaceful lake view from your own small porch while having your morning coffee was worth its weight in gold, especially to city folk who needed a break before stroking out.
People like, say, JT Wellbridge, with his tightly tailored pants and perfectly styled city hair and “I will not be denied” attitude.
Not that I was thinking of JT, or his attitude, or the way that attitude had sunk its claws into my belly and led to me having some incredibly explicit dreams the night before, because I had solemnly vowed that I was not going to do that, so I wouldn’t.
I stopped the truck and threw it into Park, pretending not to notice the sickening rattle it made every time I turned the ignition off. Other people noticed, though, because the first thing my dad said when I got out of the car was “When are you going to admit you need the Spider?”
“I don’t need the Spider,” I assured him. “My truck is doing just fine.”
This was a total lie. The twenty-year-old pickup was begging to be put out to pasture. But I couldn’t afford to replace it just yet. I needed a little more time and hopefully a lucrative Ren Faire contract to cover the down payment.
“The Spider has never let anyone down, son,” he continued, waving a beer around as he spoke. “It’s as reliable as the sunrise and sunset.”
Alden stepped closer to me and muttered under his breath, “Way less colorful, though.”
I snorted. It was true. Our father, who we called Huck because “Honeycutts don’t believe in parental power dynamics,” had dubbed his old car “Spider,” not because it was a cool convertible like a Fiat or MG Spider. No, this land yacht had gotten its nickname after my brother PJ had said it looked like a spider because it was brown with pitted black spots on it. The 1971 Lincoln Continental had been a million years old before any of us were even born, and now it resembled something from a horror movie.