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)
“The… oh, fuck.” I squeezed my eyes shut.
Box Day.
“Jonathan! Language.”
I came around the final curve into town and saw a long row of taillights backed up in front of me. Dozens and dozens of cars were stopped on the country highway, trying to take the main Honeybridge turnoff.
“The Box Day Parade is today, isn’t it?” I sighed, banging my forehead on the steering wheel.
“Why, yes. Obviously.” Mother sounded almost offended that I might not have remembered the festival during which the good citizens of Honeybridge went to great lengths to create lavish floral arrangements for their window boxes, which were then judged by a mostly impartial (which was to say completely partial) panel of other Honeybridgers, all for the glory of earning a small rocker on the bottom of the Welcome to Honeybridge sign. “Your cousin Henrietta and I have been working on our theme for ages.”
Right. Good old Cousin Henrietta.
Box Day was my mother’s personal Valhalla, during which she tried in vain to best Willow Honeycutt at something, anything, generally by bringing in a rotating cast of professional floral designers from the city, pretending they were long-lost Wellbridge cousins, and getting them to put together her boxes.
It still never worked.
Remembering the town welcome sign reminded me of the hidden road behind it. I had just enough time to veer off quickly on the small side road as I passed the Welcome to Honeybridge sign. Dangling from twin chains below it were smaller signs that read “Honeycutts: Ice Festival Heroes” and “Honeycutts: Blueberry Day Winners” and “Honeycutts: Softball Tournament Champions,” which really was laying it on a bit thick when I thought about it.
The lone “Wellbridges: Best Leaf Peepers” rocker seemed extra pathetic in comparison. Since when was Leaf Peeping a competitive thing? Was that really the best we could do? Surely there had to be some sort of—
Whoa. No. I brought that train of thought to a screeching halt as the tourist traffic disappeared behind me. I was not here in Honeybridge to get sucked back into the competitive fray. No way.
I was here to sign a distribution deal with Flynn—with Honeybridge Mead, which was not the same thing—and get the hell back to my real life. The life where eventually Massimo would get over being angry, and Alice would help me remain at the top of the Fortress sales ladder.
The life where Patricia Wellbridge didn’t get to boss me around.
I took a deep breath and slowed the car to put the top down so I could truly enjoy the drive through town despite my mother’s continued babbling about the Outdoor Lantern Supper, the Intimate Cocktail Fete, and the Joyous Summers-End Regalia she was planning. It was a gorgeous day, and the sight of all the familiar landmarks gave my heart a tiny, nostalgic squeeze.
Okay, maybe there were some things I’d forgotten I’d missed about this town.
As I drove behind the redbrick town hall and caught glimpses of children and parents laughing and eating ice cream cones from the General Store along Fraser Street, I gave myself a firm talking-to.
I would not fall back into old habits of letting my parents control where I went and who I spent time with. I would not let the old family feud lull me into an us versus them mentality. And I would not, under any circumstances, allow myself to look at Flynn Honeycutt as anything but a former classmate and current potential client.
Apple Street was closed to traffic, and Pinehurst was blocked with delivery vans. I finally had to acknowledge to myself there was only one reasonable way remaining to get to Wellbridge House.
I turned onto Fraser Street and took a deep breath.
I almost didn’t recognize Honeybridge Tavern when I came upon it—a gleaming white clapboard building with a jaunty sign where a dilapidated pile of brown shingles had once stood. And I sure as hell didn’t immediately recognize the man unloading a box truck on the sidewalk outside, even though he had shoulders that looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, one of the children outside Ollie’s Fudge Shoppe—a boy with curly, Wellbridge-blond hair—began screaming in panic as the puppy he’d been holding jumped out of his arms and darted into the street, trailing its leash like a comet’s tail… directly in front of my car.
I hit the horn and slammed on the brakes. At the last second, I yanked the car to the right, away from the pair, plowing through a gigantic pothole right outside the Tavern, and rocked to a stop inches away from the sidewalk.
Muddy water sprayed up like a mushroom cloud, blanketing the hood of my Porsche, the windshield, the sidewalk… and the man standing there with a wooden crate in his hands.
Horrifying.
More horrifying still was the way my stomach clenched and the whole world faded to white noise as my brain thought, Yes. Fucking finally. There you are.