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)
When Castor’s laughter turned to uncontrollable giggling, I turned to see what was going on. JT had his phone out and was showing something to Cas. Maybe a meme or video. Whatever it was, it was bringing such joy to my little brother’s face I couldn’t help but smile, too.
Damn JT Wellbridge and his charming personality. Damn him straight to hell.
I turned back to the water and tried not to think about him, but it was impossible. He was the kind of person who took up room in a crowd. People gathered around him and wanted to hear what he had to say. He had the innate ability to connect with individuals by finding common ground.
No wonder he was so good at his job. Everyone loved him. And he made people believe in possibilities.
The man sold dreams. And it was dangerous because there was a huge part of me that wanted to buy what he was selling.
When I went back to the food table to refill my punch from the large pitcher, Alden sidled up to me. “So… you and the froggie, huh?”
“Hush.” I glanced around to make sure JT wasn’t nearby. “It’s not… it wasn’t… I didn’t plan it.” Understatement of the millennium.
“I bet. But it was hot as fuck, right?”
My head whipped back toward Alden.
Whatever he saw in my face made him laugh like a hyena before taking another deep sip of his punch. “Yeah, I figured. That’s good, Flynn. Real good.”
I stared at my brother in shock. He was the only one of us Honeycutts who disliked the Wellbridges as much as—or more than—I did. “It is?”
“Hell yeah! Frog’s gorgeous. And yeah, okay, so a Machiavellian Wellbridge mind hides beneath those Wellbridge blue eyes. But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy his big Wellbridge dick while you can.”
What?
I glanced down at Alden’s nearly empty cup. “How much have you had to drink?” He had to have been drinking a lot more than me to have outpaced me so quickly.
“Who remembers?” He snort-chuckled to himself. “Remembering shit,” he said seriously, “is a liability.”
“Did something happen?” I demanded. “You were fine in the car until Pop mentioned…”
Alden shook his head firmly. “I’m blowing off steam.” He poked me in the chest with his index finger. “Which is exactly what you should be doing. You can use the Frog for stress relief—which you seriously need, bee tee dubs—and then wave him a hearty godspeed whenever he fucks back off to New York. The perfect summer fling!”
While his words should have excited me at the idea of having a fling with JT, they made me nervous and jittery instead. The idea of JT leaving Honeybridge at the end of the summer should have brought me a sense of relief. A known end point for a casual, temporary thing should have made the idea of a summer fling perfect.
But it didn’t. It felt like not enough.
And that scared the shit out of me.
“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said to Alden. “I need to focus on Brew Fest.”
“You need to get your dick sucked is what you need. And I find I quite like the idea of you using a Wellbridge for just that purpose.” He threw back the last sip of his drink and grabbed my full cup to replace it. “At least they’re good for something.”
He wandered away, and I frowned after him until McLean nudged me aside to grab himself an organic ginger ale, and I turned my attention to my taciturn middle brother. “Wow. Three family dinners in a row. You must be feeling sociable these days.”
He shrugged. “Not really. But it’ll be quiet after they leave.” He glanced at Willow and Huck.
“When do they fly out exactly?”
Before he could answer, JT approached and handed something to McLean. “Hey, Moose. I meant to give this to you the other night when I came by.”
McLean inspected the little leather pouch before unsnapping it and pulling out what was inside. It looked like a nice pocketknife with wood inlay on the handle. My brother whittled in his spare time, but he already had a pocketknife.
I opened my mouth to say so when McLean gasped.
“It’s a carving jack,” he said in wonder. “Holy cow.”
JT looked beyond pleased at the awe in McLean’s reaction. “I saw it in a specialty shop in the city, and it made me think of you. The blades are high-carbon steel. The shop didn’t have the left-handed one, so I special-ordered it online, and it arrived last week. I was gonna send it to you, but, well…” He shrugged. “Here I am.”
Yes, here he was. But not for long.
“He’s not left-handed,” I said, more sharply than I intended.
McLean looked up at me, a soft rebuke in his gaze. “No, but I carve away from me, which means I use left-handed whittling tools.” He looked back at JT. “How did you know?”