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But I’d been raised not to make waves, especially when my father was in campaign mode. To be seen and not heard around donors. To smile, smile, smile whenever we were in public as a family, no matter what I was actually feeling. Today, I’d broken a cardinal rule—in public, no less, even if no one else had heard—so I was also low-key, irrationally afraid that I’d earned myself seven years of bad luck.
I found myself in front of the Tavern in hopes of finding my brother. No one else would understand exactly what I’d done—how simultaneously amazing and embarrassingly terrifying it felt to stand up to Patricia and Trent, even as an adult man—like JT would. But it wasn’t until I’d pulled open the door and found Castor Honeycutt pulling pints behind the bar that I remembered JT and Flynn were back outside.
I took off my coat and slid onto a stool anyway.
“Hey, Reagan. Haven’t seen you in a bit.” Castor’s smile was sweet and warm, as usual. There was a reason his grandfather had nicknamed him Sunshine. “Can I get you something?”
“Maybe… Actually, yeah.” It was almost noon, right? And I could really use a drink. I scanned the menu hanging over the bar that listed all the mead varietals Flynn brewed right on-site and grinned. Flynn used to serve only five varietals, each named for one of his siblings. Now, there was a sixth option.
Honeybridge Kiss Me Quick - Tasty enough to turn a Frog into your own Prince Charming! An invigorating blend of wildflower honey, crisp apples, and zesty citrus.
“Flynn made a mead for JT?” I asked with a sigh. “How cool is that?”
Castor glanced at the board, too, and his gentle smile softened even further. “Oh yeah. He started working on it last summer, but we only started serving it maybe a month ago. Flynn tried claiming it was inspired by Kiss Me Quick Lake and the old legend, and JT said he knew exactly what inspired it, and then the two of them just looked at each other—you know how they do?—until Alden threw a bar cloth at Flynn and said they were both insufferable.” He lifted one thin shoulder. “Personally, I think it’s kind of amazing. Love conquers all, even family curses and a bunch of old hurts.”
I blew out a shaky breath. God, I really hoped that was the case. I’d give a lot for Thatcher Pennington to appear at my side at that moment. Today was a day for telling truths, right? And suddenly, I found that I wanted to tell Thatcher all sorts of things I’d been holding back. Like how sorry I was for what I’d said the other day and how hard I’d fallen for him. Like how very badly I wanted to curl up in his arms, feel the soft scratch of his growing beard as he kissed my hair, and let him know I was ready to fight for us, even after the bus tour ended and we were back in?—
“Fuck off! I’ve been living on grass juice for a week, and I’ll say when I’ve had enough. My father practically owns this place, remember?”
The drunken shout made me swivel on my stool just as Brantleigh Pennington lurched to his feet at one of the tables in the far corner of the mostly empty Tavern and began gesturing wildly, nearly clocking PJ Honeycutt with a half-empty glass of mead.
Castor gripped the edge of the bar so tightly his fingers squeaked on the polished surface. “Damn it,” he whispered.
“What the hell is he doing here?” I muttered.
“He came in maybe twenty minutes ago and ordered a pint, and I think… I think maybe he’d already been drinking? But Brantleigh said he was here to meet someone, and he sat down by that guy over there, so PJ and I decided to play it cool and serve him one pint. I’m guessing he just tried to order another and PJ said no… and Brantleigh decided not to play it cool,” Cas finished in a small voice.
“My father is basically your boss, asswipe.” Brant took a stumbling step toward PJ, who retreated a pace. “When the bastard croaks, who do you think is gonna take over the reins? Me! I’m the heir. And I will shut this place down.”
Yes, it was clear Brantleigh had decided not to play it cool. But worse than that, when the that guy Cas had pointed out turned around, I saw that it was none other than Chris fucking Acton.
Damn, that man got around.
Shit shit shit. Damage control tactics from my time in PR raced through my head, but none of them applied to the situation. How did you beg a reporter—even one you’d hooked up with—not to write a sensational story unfolding right before his eyes?
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?”
