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)
I groaned under my breath. I hadn’t been exaggerating the other day on the island when I said the universe had it out for me and Flynn. There was a particularly savage kind of Murphy’s Law that governed our interactions, where any misunderstanding or misinterpretation that could arise would… and always at the moment when it was least possible to explain myself.
I turned to face him, all broad-shouldered, hot-tempered, green-eyed, grumpy-assed perfection, and it settled in my bones that I’d probably never find another man half as compelling as I found him.
I also noticed that he looked more frazzled than I’d ever seen him, with his cheeks flushed pink, his Tavern T-shirt rumpled, and his dark hair standing on end like he’d been running his hands through it.
“Brantleigh’s father knows my parents,” I explained. “They’ve been visiting this week, and Brantleigh’s very… nice.” Sort of. Not really. Brantleigh smiled up at me adoringly, and it made me a little nauseous, so I followed this with “But we’re not together.”
“Yet,” Brantleigh sing-songed.
“Wait.” Brittany narrowed her eyes at Brantleigh. “Pennington, as in Thatcher Pennington, the silver-fox hottie at the bar who makes all the ladies gasp every time he smiles? The guy Marta Wellbridge said was gonna be investing in Patricia’s Downtown Revitalization Plan, which suddenly got at least six women in town dreaming up business plans just so he’d invest a stake in them?” She nudged Reagan in the side, but Reagan didn’t react. “That guy’s your dad, Brantleigh?”
“Ew.” Brantleigh shuddered. “No. Thatcher Pennington, as in the old-as-fuck know-it-all who’s got a stick up his ass at all times. That’s my dad. Brantleigh, when are you going to get a job? Brantleigh, your clothing budget could feed a small nation. Fucking killjoy. I’m going to Turks the second he says forced family bonding time is over. Oooh!” Brantleigh seemed to startle himself by having an actual idea. “JT can come with!”
“Great plan,” Flynn told Brantleigh enthusiastically, his eyes on mine. “JT should totes go with.”
“No,” I said firmly, shooting him a glare. “He shouldn’t.”
“Go where?” Dysen returned from the ladies’ room and draped herself dramatically against my other side. “Did you find us a club where we can get our dance on, Jonny?”
Flynn’s tired eyes lit up like he’d been given a gift, and he mouthed, “Jonny,” before pinching his lips together like he was saving the word up to tease me with later.
“Flynn, everyone, this is Dysen.” I took a step back, extracting myself from her clutches. “She’s Reagan’s… guest.”
Brantleigh groan-sighed. “We introduce ourselves to the waitstaff here? The charms of this town never cease.” He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his pocket and leaned over to tuck it in the front pocket of Flynn’s shirt with a wink. “Vodka cranberry, please, cutie. I’m parched.”
Rage seared through my gut like a flash fire.
This, I tried to tell Flynn with my eyes. This is why I didn’t want you waiting on my asshole friends back in high school.
“Flynn is not the waitstaff,” I said hotly. “He owns Honeybridge Tavern.” You insufferable buffoon. “And he’s my…”
I hesitated. We weren’t friends, no matter how much I wanted to be, and we’d agreed we weren’t enemies. But anything in the middle seemed to be way too tame for the way that Flynn provoked me, fascinated me, infuriated and humbled me.
Flynn tilted his head to the side and watched me across the table with a little smile playing around his mouth. He seemed just as curious about how I’d finish that statement as the others were.
“He’s my Flynn,” I said firmly. Then I lifted my chin and glared around the table, channeling Patricia Wellbridge for all I was worth, daring anyone to contradict me, especially Flynn himself.
Flynn looked away. “Vodka cranberry,” he told Brantleigh smoothly. “Sure thing. Anything else for you guys?”
After taking our order, Flynn walked off, and I clenched my fists at my sides, trying to remember why it would not be good to assault Brantleigh for being an asshole.
In the end, I didn’t have to.
“I cannot believe you said that to Flynn,” Reagan said hotly, shoving Brantleigh’s shoulder. “That was rude and disgusting.”
“ReaBae’s right,” Dysen said solemnly. “So, so uncool. You need to get woke.”
“But… the man’s a Honeycutt.” Brantleigh spread his hands helplessly, like this was in any way an excuse. “Patricia said those Honeycutts were rude and uncivilized. She said they’re cheating social climbers. Who cares if I was rude?”
“I do. Because my mother is wrong.” I seethed, moving my reckoning with my mother up to the top spot on my priority list. “And you’d better fucking apologize when Flynn comes back, do you understand?”
Except Flynn didn’t come back. He sent Castor over with our order, while Flynn stayed behind the bar making drinks with a precise sort of choreography that spoke of how good he was at his job and how much practice he’d had at it. He didn’t glance in my direction even once.