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)
“Jonathan. Turner. Wellbridge.” Mother appeared at my shoulder like an apparition. “Unhand Mr. Honeycutt at once. That Boston Globe reporter you contacted has arrived and three local reporters besides. While you’re canoodling, we’re being overrun!” She disappeared once again.
Fuck. “We’ll talk about this later,” I promised both of us. “As soon as possible.”
Flynn’s eyes met mine. “You contacted the Globe?”
“A college friend’s husband. He was eager to come by—”
Flynn kissed me briefly, grabbed my hand, and towed me toward the front of the tent. “I love you. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to have you come back into my life.”
“It was mostly thanks to my mother,” I reminded him.
Flynn closed his eyes and grimaced. “Dammit. I’m really gonna have to be nice to her now, aren’t I?”
“Since I plan on you and me being together forever?” I squeezed his fingers before releasing him. “Yeah, maybe—”
“Overrun!” my mother whisper-hissed from way too close.
“But not too nice,” I concluded, and Flynn laughed out loud.
From the moment we stepped into the booth, the afternoon flew by. Thanks to Frankie Hilo’s magical Instagram posts, Honeybridge Mead already had a lot of buzz in the brewing world, and Flynn’s booth was on the must-visit list for several media outlets covering the festival.
Alice came back soon, shooting me a wink that said her lead-chasing for Rainmaker Holdings had been successful, but I didn’t bother asking for specifics. There’d be plenty of time for that later, ideally after I’d filled Flynn in.
The five of us worked side by side in sync for the next few hours, talking to people from the media and various other VIPs. Reagan lost no time charming Alice and joking with Flynn like they’d been best friends for ages.
Alice and Flynn got along even better than I’d expected. Apparently, Flynn had “sort of accidentally” learned how to knit one winter when business was slow and the local knitting club had relocated their meetings to the Tavern. He and Alice talked about yarn and patterns in the rare breaks between visitors.
My mother charmed the reporter from the Boston Globe for a solid hour, telling him the backstory of our town and the Wellbridge-Honeycutt rivalry before smoothly segueing into discussion of the many varietals Flynn offered.
“So… you’re a Wellbridge, but you’re working for a Honeycutt? Are you saying this mead was good enough to end a centuries-long feud?” the reporter joked at length.
My mother fixed the man with a glare. “End the feud entirely? Why on earth would we do that?”
I darted a pointed glance at Flynn, who was deep in conversation with someone about the benefits of short meads versus those that aged longer. His blush and eye roll said he’d caught both my mother’s comment and my look, but he didn’t dignify either with a response.
I stifled a grin. He and my mother were more alike than either of them would admit, and I was going to tease Flynn about it mercilessly later. But first, I was planning a very leisurely, very thorough celebration of his success, followed by a long talk about our future.
I was done making assumptions about what Flynn Honeycutt wanted, but there was very little I wasn’t open to considering, as long as it ended with the two of us together. In fact, I really hoped our future looked a lot like this—working alongside my family, friends, and the man I’d loved so long he’d become part of my DNA, teasing and laughing while creating something important.
I took a deep breath and felt the simple beauty of the moment sink into my bones.
The three Ren Faire representatives arrived and greeted Flynn with a barely concealed enthusiasm that told me they’d already heard plenty of good things about Honeybridge Mead, and their contract was Flynn’s to lose. Flynn greeted them with his gorgeous smile and a smooth, professional confidence that made me want to get on my knees for him right then and there.
But before I’d even had a chance to pour them samples of Flynn’s most popular varietals, a familiar loud voice distracted me so badly I nearly fumbled the bottles.
“Wellbridge?” Conrad Schaeffer demanded loudly, just as I was pouring the samples for Flynn. “Where the hell have you been? I must’ve called you a dozen times. Deb tells me you haven’t even checked in at the Fortress booth yet.”
Conrad’s entire being bristled with anger, and Jeff Namath looming over his shoulder like a loyal, not-very-bright henchman only added to the drama.
The exact sort of drama Flynn didn’t need at that moment.
Flynn shot me a worried look, but I shook my head. This isn’t a problem. I tilted my head toward the Ren Faire people. Get your contract, baby. Don’t be distracted.
“Conrad,” I began politely, gesturing him to one side of the booth so we wouldn’t interrupt Flynn’s conversation. “I wasn’t aware that you were coming to Brew Fest personally—”