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)
“Oh…” He waved a hand. “You know.”
I shrugged and took a hearty gulp, then began fixing myself a plate. When I had a heaping selection of food, I found a camp chair beside Castor and plunked myself into it, content to dig in.
After three bites of salad and another twelve swallows of wine, it began.
Alden leaned forward from his seat across the fire pit from me. “Oh my god, those Wellbridges. I swear. I had Patricia in my chair today, and she couldn’t stop waxing poetic about JT.”
My head shot up like it had been yanked by some sort of invisible string.
Willow walked over and handed me another insulated tumbler, forcing me to set down my plate so I could hold both beverages. “I couldn’t help but make you a special brew, honey,” she said sympathetically. “It’s good for destressing. And also constipation.”
“I don’t like tea,” I said, repeating a familiar mantra from my childhood.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “You don’t have to like it, you just have to drink it.”
“Anyway,” Alden continued, “Patricia said JT is all but engaged to some asshat named Brantleigh. I mean, I haven’t met the guy, so I don’t know for sure that he’s an asshat, but if Patricia approves of him—”
Engaged?
I choked on my constipation tea, and Cas helpfully patted my back too gently to accomplish much of anything besides making me feel comforted and loved.
Like I needed any of that shit right now.
“Don’t want to hear about JT,” I grumbled before shoving more food in my salad hole.
Willow sighed and gave me one of her concerned looks. “I was afraid this might happen. Huck, get out the talking stick. Also, boys, where is your brother? Alden, get out the drums and summon McLean.”
“What? No.” I shook my head firmly. “No drums. McLean knows we’re eating. He’ll come if he feels like it. And definitely no talking stick. No talking stick needed.”
My father leaned forward with his own concerned look. “We always use the talking stick when emotions are high. You know that.”
“Emotions aren’t high,” I assured him. “They’re low. Like, super-duper low.”
Pop pursed his lips across the fire at me. Cas’s face crinkled in concern.
I shot Alden a look. If he so much as gave one hint of worry, I was leaving.
He laughed. “What kind of ritzy jackass name is Brantleigh? I’ll bet twenty bucks the guy knows how to do that valet money-pass-handshake thing.”
I couldn’t help but snort at the idea this was a special skill a rich country club guy would have. “He probably also knows how to tie a real bow tie,” I suggested.
Cas joined in. “Ten bucks says the man has cufflinks with his initials engraved on them.”
The three of us met each other’s eyes and said at the same time, “And uses them.”
We broke out laughing enough for McLean to finally make his way back out of the woods and help himself to some food. He ended up taking a seat by Pop, well away from the non-Honeycutt members of the group. Even though he was a very tall, broad-shouldered man, McLean tried not to take up much space in the world. He hunched over and began eating, stopping periodically to hand a nibble to Lily, who sat patiently at his knee.
The conversation—thank fuck—turned to PJ’s art show down in Boston in a couple of months and then to the Box Day display my mother had crafted outside the General Store—a floral arrangement that “captured the essence of divine feminine energy” or some shit and had mostly come from her own cutting garden.
But Alden eventually brought the discussion back around to Patricia Wellbridge.
For someone who disliked the Wellbridges arguably more than I did, the man could not stop talking about them.
“And then she bragged about how Brantleigh was going to inherit a bunch of family money, which didn’t really matter since JT was so perfect at his job. He apparently never fails to land a client he wants, and his nickname is the Rainmaker.” He snorted.
I rolled my eyes. “His nickname is Frog.”
Pop’s eyes were on me. I could tell he wanted to say something about why he’d given JT that nickname, but I didn’t want to hear it. “Anyway,” I continued quickly, “he won’t have that name for long since I’m not giving him my business.”
Dan was the one who made a disgruntled sound. “He wants your business? What do you mean?”
I glanced at my head bartender in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you about the Fortress offer?”
“I knew it!” Alden said. “That rat bastard. How dare he.”
“How dare he what?” asked Cas in confusion. “I thought he worked for some liquor distribu… oh.”
I set down the tea and returned to wine-glugging. Somehow my tumbler had been refilled already, and the wine was cool and crisp, easy going down. “He wants exclusive distribution rights to my life’s work.” I snorted. “As if.”