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Layla darted a glance at me, as if hoping I’d intervene and put Reagan in his place, but I had to admit my own curiosity was piqued. She pursed her lips. “Well… alright, then.”
She clicked a few keys on her laptop and brought up some images that even to my untrained eye were good. Actually, better than good. Like the content Reagan had been creating, these images hinted at a larger story. They made me feel and shifted my perception of the brand.
“The pictures are stock images of people hiking and kayaking, as you can see,” she explained. “I’ll need to arrange a photo shoot once Apex and Sierra Outfitters finalize their product lines, but I already have a short list of models and locations. I’d hoped maybe we could get some celebrity endorsements—” She winced. “But after what happened last week, I’ve changed my mind.”
Reagan’s eyes didn’t move from the laptop as she scrolled, but I could sense his stunned disbelief. “You definitely need the right photos, but the branding here is… it’s cohesive,” he murmured. “Totally on-target for Elustre, completely in line with the PennCo brand.” He flicked a glance at me, looking faintly troubled. “This is professional quality.”
Layla smiled tightly and reclaimed her laptop again. “Of course it is.”
Reagan nodded, and I could practically see his face icing over in slow motion as his polite mask settled into place.
I was very glad when McGee chose that minute to pull off the highway into a truck stop to change drivers. I needed to get Reagan alone to talk, to reassure him, or to kiss him senseless. Anything that would melt that mask off again.
“Oh, thank goodness,” Layla groaned as McGee parked the bus and jumped out to find his replacement driver. “I was up before five, and I’m dying for coffee. Reagan, two creams, no sugar, please.”
Reagan opened his mouth and shut it again. “Sure,” he agreed… politely. “No problem.”
“Actually, Layla—” I began, prepared to explain that Reagan would be far too busy assisting me and she should fetch her own coffee, but I broke off when my phone rang.
I scowled down at the display, but what I saw there made my heart flip.
Brantleigh. Fucking finally.
“I need to take this,” I murmured to Reagan, tilting the screen so he could see. Reagan gave me a slight smile and nodded.
“Brant?” I answered as I hurried out of the booth and down the steps. Outside, the Nebraska landscape was frost-covered, the air so cold it shocked my lungs and stole my breath. “Hey! So good to hear from you.”
“Hey, Dad.”
I couldn’t remember the last time he’d called me “Dad” without resentment in his voice, and hearing him say it warmly now made me hopeful.
“How are you?” I demanded. “Your mother said you’re at a yoga retreat or something…?”
He laughed a little. “Yeah. She packed me off to the Quick Lake Artists’ Retreat and Chakra Centering Center. It’s actually been… well, not entirely awful. Not much different than California, except for the shit weather.”
I blinked. “The Centering Center. Why does that sound…?”
“Familiar? Because it’s in Honeybridge,” he said with a laugh. “Remember that dinky little town where you made us have forced family fun time last summer?”
I was so happy I was finally having a civilized conversation with my offspring that I ignored the jibe about the town—it was small, after all—and didn’t argue the idea that I’d “forced” him to spend time with me, which I supposed was a matter of interpretation. “I remember. I can’t believe your mom sent you to Honeybridge. I’m headed there now.”
“Wait, you’re coming here? To see me?”
“No.” I winced. “I mean, I would have come to see you, but I didn’t know where you were until just now. I’m actually on a press tour for PennCo Fiber…” I gave him a condensed version of my past week—one that assumed he hadn’t read a single one of my text messages or seen much social media. I also omitted any reference to Reagan that didn’t have to do with work, reminding myself that I’d never discussed my sex life with Brant before, so there was no need to start now. Instead, I focused on the Nova incident, the stops we’d made, and the upcoming festival and investment summit that drew us to Honeybridge.
“Holy shit.” Brant chuckled. “I saw the Nova thing on TikTok, but I didn’t even realize that was about your company.” He yawned. “What a clusterfuck. And you said Rea Wellbridge is working for you? Damn. That hard to find qualified employees these days?”
“Not at all,” I said firmly. “Reagan’s got a ton of experience with social media, and he excels at public relations. He’s been an asset to the team. He works hard.”
Brantleigh was silent for a long moment. “I could be good in public relations,” he said thoughtfully. “I mean, I’ve created enough work for PR people over the years; I should know how to handle them.”
It was my turn to fall silent, staring at the cracks in the pavement of the parking area while the wind whipped at my hair. “You want to work at Pennington?” I demanded. “Because in the past, you’ve said you had no interest in my company. You said you preferred the West Coast, and working with your stepdad at the studio?—”
“I do,” he agreed. “And I want to get back to that eventually. But, like, the studio won’t be starting a new project for weeks. So Mom’s all, Stay in Honeybridge, Brant. Keep working on yourself. You’ll only get into trouble if you come back here and sit around until March. Which, first off, is just bullshit. I don’t get into trouble; I live my life and shit happens, which isn’t my fault. But second… Dad, it’s boring as fuck up here,” he said plaintively. “You don’t even understand. The new moon is next week, and the lady who runs the center wants me to do some crystal-cleansing ritual in the freezing cold. So I’m thinking… what if I came to work for you for a little while? Maybe earn a paycheck while I soak up some of that famous Thatcher Pennington brilliance?”
He sounded close to begging, and I hated that I hesitated for a long moment, wondering what was really going on. But in the end, I thought of Reagan. I still didn’t know why he wanted to work for his father’s campaign or why Trent hadn’t immediately recognized his talent and snapped him up for the job, but he’d spilled enough over the past week that I could guess how things had gone, and imagining it had the same shriveling effect on my respect for my friend as the Nebraska cold was having on my balls.
Brant wasn’t Reagan, no… but I sure as hell wasn’t Trent Wellbridge. Brant deserved a chance, just like Reagan did.
