Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Chris spotted me at the bar and immediately stood up. He squeezed his slight frame between Brantleigh and PJ, who were staring each other down like dogs getting ready for a fight, and hustled over to the bar.
“Reagan, you’ve got to get him out of here,” he said without preamble. “Like, now. At the hotel this morning, a bunch of reporters made plans to grab lunch here, and they’ll be here in twenty minutes, tops.”
I pushed a hand through my hair. “Yeah, okay, I’ll—”
“But wait, you need to know…” He grabbed my hand as I slid off my stool and towed me toward a small, relatively private alcove near the glass window that showed the inner workings of the meadery. “Brantleigh’s do you know who my father is schtick isn’t even the worst of it. He was already drunk when he walked in here and was only too happy to tell me about his cash flow problems—how his ‘shitty mom’ cut him off financially, and he found out this morning from Pennington HR that his ‘heartless, cheap-ass father’ isn’t going to be paying him the big bucks Brantleigh thinks he deserves.” Chris rolled his eyes, disgusted. “He also volunteered some information about his former stepmother’s affairs. Stuff that made me clutch my fucking pearls, and I thought I’d heard everything.”
As Chris spoke, I felt my temperature spike until I was fever hot. After everything that had already happened that morning, there was no mask on earth that could contain my rage. And when he mentioned Heather, I lost my mind.
“Thatcher Pennington is a good man. No one deserves a single shred of his private information unless and until he’s ready to share it.” I seethed. “So help me, Chris, if you write this story—”
“Oh, shut up, Wellbridge.” Chris bristled, making his slight frame puff up. “You think I told you all this because I intend to make a story out of a spoiled child showing his ass in public? No fucking way… But if someone else covers it first, upper management will force me to cover it, so you and Thatcher need to get on this. Got it?”
I let out a breath. “Yeah, I got it. Sorry I jumped the gun. Thatcher owes you one.”
“He does. And I’ll take him up on that.” An easy grin replaced Chris’s look of frustration. “You’re a good man, too, Reagan Wellbridge. And you and Thatcher make a good team.” His smile went a little lopsided. “Though, if you’re trying to hide that the two of you are involved, you’re gonna have to try a little harder.”
My heart thundered in my chest. “There’s nothing—” I began.
But Chris cut me off again. “Save it. He looks at you like he wants the two of you to occupy the same molecules or some shit, and when you look at him…”
I swallowed. “Yeah?”
“You look happy, Reagan.” For a moment, he looked a little wistful, but then he recalled himself and slapped my arm. “Now, go get that jackass out of here and figure out a way to shut him up.”
I nodded and quickly spun away. Across the room, Brant had resumed his threats at top volume, though fortunately, the bar remained fairly empty, so there was no one to hear. Without wasting a minute, I grabbed Brant by the upper arm and yanked him out the door.
“R-Reagan? Where’d you come from? Hey, did you hear? I’m taking your job. And when I’m in charge, you—”
I shoved him up against the side of the building. “You will never be in charge, you sniveling sack of entitlement,” I said fiercely.
Brant seemed to have trouble focusing on me, but that didn’t stop him from spluttering and trying to get away.
I shoved him harder, locking my forearm over his chest to keep him in place. “How fucking dare you? Do you have any idea how much your father cares about you? How much he’s sacrificed for you? How hard he’s worked to make your life easy? The man texted you daily this week, Brantleigh. Daily! Just hoping you’d reply. He didn’t ask you for anything. He didn’t expect you to give up anything for him. He didn’t want you to perform for him. He just wanted to love you. To let you know he was there for you. He would give you the shirt off his back, the breath out of his lungs, every piece of wisdom he’s got, and a billion fucking chances to make something of yourself… but all you want from him is money. For him to bankroll your life while you slander him in public like a drunken fool.” I tightened my arm—not enough to cut off his air, though that was more luck than care on my part—so Brantleigh was balancing on his tiptoes. “You don’t deserve that man as your father.”