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)
Willow was clueless. “Oh honey, that’s fantastic!”
“Fuck him,” Alden said. “Fuck him and his stupid tattoo and the really sweet Porsche he rode in on.”
My father shot him a look. “The f-word is a sign of low blood sugar.”
We ignored him, especially because Alden had already scarfed down a portobello burger, two black bean burgers, and a heaping stack of the Tavern’s bacon-topped potato skins. Low blood sugar was definitely not his problem.
“You’re not doing it,” Alden proclaimed.
“Agreed,” McLean said softly. “It’s never good to go into business with a—”
“BupBupBup!” I said quickly, cutting him off before he could say “a man you’ve been in love with since the dawn of time” or some variation thereof. Thanks to a hexed bottle of Balvenie Caribbean Cask Scotch, Moose was the only person in the world who knew my true and extremely complicated feelings for JT Wellbridge… though I was pretty sure Pop suspected it, too, because he was psychic like that.
McLean lifted an eyebrow, and the edge of his mouth quirked up. “A Wellbridge. What did you think I was going to say, Flynn?”
I ran my middle finger up the bridge of my nose while Alden muttered a “damned right.”
Pop squinted his eyes and rubbed his chin. It was his thinking pose. “Wouldn’t you want to see Honeybridge Mead in restaurants and shops all over the country? I thought that was your dream. I thought that was why you were doing the Brew Fest thing—so you could get selected for the Ren Faire and then find yourself a distribution deal.”
“It is,” I snapped. “Of course it is. But not if the mead’s going to be bulk manufactured in some sterile… okay, well, it needs to be sterile. Obvs. But not in some giant corporate, generic… shitty factory located in… in… Hoboken or whatever. Honeybridge Mead is manufactured in Honeybridge. Period.”
It seemed like everyone was staring at me now. I sank deeper into my chair and comfort-gulped my wine.
Cas, ever the peacemaker, attempted to find a solution that made everyone happy. “What if JT could find a way to make that happen?”
“He can’t,” I said. “Besides, if Fortress took over manufacturing Honeybridge Mead, then what would I do? Lie in a fucking hammock all day staring out at the lake?”
Cas tilted his head at me. “Maybe, yeah. For a little while, at least. Remember in high school when that was actually your dream? Every summer, you’d set up a hammock over on—”
“I had a lot of dreams, Sunshine,” I interrupted. “But I grew up and remembered we live in the real world.”
A world where someone had to fucking stick around and manage things, damn it.
“Firecracker wouldn’t want to give him the satisfaction,” Alden said. “Especially after Patricia was all, ‘JT’s the best,’ and ‘JT always seals the deal.’ She even said JT is up for a promotion to VP.” He rolled his eyes. “Which, like, you’d think would bother her since she’s constantly sighing about how he’s too busy to come home, but Wellbridges always gotta brag about something. Right, Flynn?”
I made a noncommittal noise.
Patricia had been plenty happy when JT had been offered his impressive new job. She’d talked about it nonstop for months at a time when I’d really wanted to forget JT existed.
“Can we just take a minute to remember his nickname is Frog?” I said, feeling the effects of the wine-guzzling already. “It’s not Rainman or Meadmaker or whatever. I’m the mead maker. Me. Me.” I thumbed myself in the chest a little too hard. That was going to leave a mark.
Dan glanced at me with an affectionate grin. “The best mead maker. Frog should be so lucky as to sign your mead to his roster.”
“And he’s called Frog because he’s the kind of asshole that puts frogs in people’s sleeping bags. That is the kind of asshole who wants to steal my life’s work away,” I continued a bit more loudly.
“That’s not—” Pop began.
Cas shook his head. “I don’t think he wants to—”
“Furthermore,” I said, on a roll now, “I don’t need a frog to be happy. No one needs a frog. They’re not actually princes.” I lifted my wine tumbler to Alden in a salute for reminding me of that fact. “And I am perfectly capable of obtaining my own happily ever after. Right now, all I need is for JT to return back under the rock he crawled out of—” I paused. “The lake he crawled out of? Where do frogs live, Mac?”
McLean blinked like a deer in headlights. “I… I mean… they can thrive in many habitats depending on—”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter. He can crawl right back to whatever habitat he belongs in—” I swung my hand wildly, spilling out an arc of constipation tea that hit the fire and made it sizzle. “—and leave me the hell alone. I’m going to get this Ren Faire deal and make my own happily-ever-ending without… without…” I kind of forgot what else I was going to say.