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 thumped my head back against the leather seat. Sometimes I worried that my mother was delusional. But then I remembered that, no, she was just Patricia Wellbridge.
“The truth is…” Mother hesitated for a long moment, then admitted, “We miss you, Jonathan. We love you.”
I sighed, my anger easing a fraction.
I knew she genuinely missed me. And I missed my family, too.
Sort of. Sometimes.
But there were very good reasons why I’d avoided Honeybridge for as long as I had… including one incredibly hot, unforgettably passionate, very poorly timed night that my mother didn’t—and absolutely wouldn’t—ever know about.
“I love you, too, but—”
“Which is why,” she cut in, innocent as a lamb, “it was absolutely providential that your brother happened to mention to Conrad that some upstart brewery here in town has gotten a small following on the social medias. That piqued Conrad’s curiosity enough to agree to send you home for the entire summer to sign a deal or whatnot. Isn’t it delightful, darling? I have so many events and entertainments planned.”
Reagan had put this idea in Conrad’s head? I changed my mind—he was not a sweet, decent guy deep down; he was a mischief-trolling curse of a sibling, from his five-hundred-dollar haircut to his pedicured toes.
My mother wasn’t any better. She knew exactly which “upstart” brewery Reagan had mentioned to Conrad Schaeffer—and exactly who owned it.
“I wouldn’t call Honeybridge Mead an upstart,” I said, mostly to provoke her. “Not when Flynn’s Grandpa Horace started it forever ago. And according to everything I’ve read, it’s doing a booming business under Flynn’s leadership.”
“Yes, well,” she scoffed. “Perhaps amongst the tourists.”
“After ordering samples, Conrad said this could be the most important contract I get all year.”
“Oh, surely not.”
“Mmhmm. I’d think a loyal Honeybridger like yourself would be proud that a homegrown business is so successful—”
“Proud? Of a Honeycutt-owned business?” My mother sniffed. “Not hardly. Though I’m sure those Honeycutts are thrilled to have gotten one over on us yet again.”
I rolled my eyes. There it was. My mother’s raison d’être. The Wellbridge-Honeycutt feud.
The rivalry between the two largest families in Honeybridge was hardly new. It had been raging since seventeen-hundred-and-who-the-heck-knew, when a pair of best friends had traveled north from Boston to settle the fertile land near a lake and make their fortunes. Sounded wholesome and idyllic, and it had been… until Peregrine Wellbridge had decided to dam up the town river to irrigate his crops, cutting off his best friend’s water supply, and January Honeycutt had lost his ever-loving mind and chopped down Peregrine’s favorite oak tree in retaliation to make a mantle for his fireplace.
Since then, the Wellbridges and the Honeycutts were required, by birthright, to disagree on absolutely everything, from the color of the sky to the name of the lake near the town, which was known as either “Kiss Me Quick Lake” or “Lake Wellbridge,” depending on who you were and which camp you found yourself in.
As a result, competition in the town was fierce. I’d like to have said that the people my age weren’t as obsessed with the feud as the generations before us had been—and they were definitely less mean-spirited about it—but the competition between the clans raged on intensely, and the other folks in town knew enough to stay out of the way.
I’d never bought into it and had always had plenty of Honeycutts in my Contacts list. But the most important two had always been Pop Honeycutt, who ran the General Store, and… one other number I should have deleted three years ago.
A number that belonged to a man with green eyes, freckled skin, and the prickliest disposition I’d ever encountered.
“Ah, well. I’m confident the Rainmaker will carry the day at the negotiation table,” Mother assured me proudly. “Even if it means getting in bed with Flynn Honeycutt.”
It was a good thing no one else was on the road around me, otherwise I might have run head-on into oncoming traffic. The images those words conjured—lean muscles and sloppy kisses, the scent of mead and sex thick in the air, Flynn’s low voice urging me to “Use your mouth. Just like… fuck.”—were ones I’d thought I’d purged from my memory years ago.
“The important part,” my mother said, “is that you’ll be home for weeks and weeks. You can see your friends. Revisit all the places you remember best—”
“God, no,” I squeaked out.
“Pardon?”
“I won’t be staying that long,” I said more firmly. Calmly. Controlledly. “There’s no reason. I’m going to make Flynn a very fair offer, so this should all be settled very quickly, and I’ll be back in the city again before I know it.”
I willed myself to believe it, no matter how much I might enjoy the summer sunshine on my arm and the clean air blowing in through the windows.
“Nonsense. Once you get here, you won’t want to leave. The softball tournament is starting Saturday, and you’ll be here to lead us to victory. Redmond’s girlfriend is coming for a few days, and Aunt Louise is in raptures. Oh, and I’ve invited the Penningtons to visit through Regatta Day, so they’ll be here for the Fourth of July, too,” she went on merrily, as if perhaps all the yogaerobics had destroyed her powers of comprehension. “You remember the Penningtons, Jonathan. Brantleigh is such a lovely, lively young man and the heir to his father’s real estate investment portfolio. And then, of course, this weekend…” She paused dramatically. “…is the third weekend in June.”