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)
“Awww, poor Firecracker.” A pair of strong arms came around me from behind, and a voice whispered in my ear. “Losing is killing you, isn’t it?”
I snorted, even as I leaned back against JT’s broad chest and let my head rest on his shoulder. “Pffft. No. Not at all. Not even a little. I haven’t given the silly tournament a second thought,” I lied.
“Ah.” JT nuzzled his face into my neck, and I tilted my head to allow him better access.
“Wasn’t I the first one to congratulate Team Wellbridge after the game?” I demanded in a low voice. “And didn’t I hand out free mead that night at the Tavern?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Which, when you think about it, proves I’m not a competitive individual, Jon.”
“Of course,” he agreed solemnly. “Silly me.”
“However,” I was compelled to add in a whispered rush, “it bears repeating that the only reason Team Honeycutt lost that last game was because certain Frogs insisted on repeating inappropriate comments about my pitching skills being rusty and making offers to practice catching for me whenever I liked, which threw off my concentration. It was underhanded of you,” I declared, as if we both didn’t know I would have done the exact same thing if the situation had been reversed.
The vibration of his self-satisfied laughter rumbled through me.
“Also,” I went on in the same low voice, unable to stop myself, “the way your mother is making an Oscars-level acceptance speech like she was the MVP of the team when she doesn’t know a baseline hit from a foul ball is… irksome. On principle.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Furthermore, I can’t help but feel that inviting the governor, three congresspeople, two Hollywood stars, and a Nobel Laureate to this celebration is a bit much. I mean, it was one measly pitch, Jon. Not like you rescued a bunch of orphaned kittens from a runaway locomotive while a horde of alien zombies threatened to destroy the Earth or whatever.”
“Good to know what it would take to really impress you, baby,” he murmured.
“And the fact that she invited Brantleigh Pennington, in particular, to this party, when she knows he deliberately tried to make trouble for us?” I whispered darkly. “Not cool.”
The asshole had greeted me earlier with a smirky little smile and a request to “Introduce me to one of your brothers, Honeycutt. I need to see what Jonathan finds so impressive about you local boys.” As fucking if.
“Yep, this is seriously, seriously killing you,” JT sighed happily. “My prickly, competitive Firecracker.”
“Hmph.” I managed to hold back my laughter, but it was a close call. It was uncomfortably wonderful to have someone know my flaws so well… and love me for them.
“Losing is never easy, Flynn,” he said softly, his hands pressing flat against my stomach in a gesture that he’d probably meant to be soothing but instead made my dick perk up and take notice. “You played a great game, though—a great season—and next year, you’ll get to try your luck again.”
“I suppose you’re right.” I melted against him lovingly.
Then he went and ruined my vibe by adding in a sly voice, “And in the meantime, you can console yourself with the knowledge that you have a champion in your bed. Maybe I’ll rub off on you.”
I sputtered with laughter and lightly jabbed my elbow into his gut. I tried to turn my head to glare at him, but he held me firmly in place. “That champion won’t be rubbing any part of me if he keeps running his mouth.”
We both knew I was lying. I wasn’t sure if JT’s cocky attitude had always lit me up and I’d denied it or if this was a recent development, but either way, it was very, very real.
I could feel JT’s smile against my skin… a second before he bit down gently on my nape. “You liked this mouth earlier today.”
I shivered. He wasn’t wrong. That mouth had trailed hot, sloppy kisses and breathed filthy, whispered commands over my lower back before he’d fucked me over an old wooden table in our new meadery building, and I’d liked it very much.
“If it makes you feel better, Mother didn’t invite Brantleigh, and she was not thrilled that his father brought him,” JT said. “She was the one who told Thatcher about his son’s troublemaking last month, and from what she said, he’s keeping a tight rein on him now. No more unlimited allowance and trips to the Riviera.”
“Good. Brantleigh deserves it. And Thatcher’s a straight shooter.” Being in business with him, even just for a short time, had proven to be rewarding and educational. “Maybe he can help sort Brantleigh out.”
“Doubtful. Oh, hey.” JT straightened away from me just long enough to snag a couple of glasses from a silver tray carried by one of the phalanx of uniformed waiters circulating amongst the guests and pressed one of them into my hand. “Try this, baby. It’s an apple bourbon cocktail. I had one earlier, and it made me think of that cyser mead you were dreaming up the other day. How great would it be if we tried aging that in bourbon barrels? I was reading an article…”