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“Excellent! I already got you a room at the hotel for tonight, and Alena sent a bunch of marketing materials and event credentials that will be there when you arrive. The plane is on standby, and I’ll let the team know.” She walked out of the room with her phone to her ear, leaving me gaping after her.
If there was already a waiting plane, a hotel room, and event credentials in my name, why had Layla made it seem like I had a choice in the first place?
I would never understand her, I decided as I rubbed my tired eyes and trudged upstairs to pack, but I’d said I was going, so I would.
McGee drove me to the small private airport outside town, where the company jet waited to whisk me to Wisconsin. He spent the whole ride darting glances at me in the rearview with a furrowed brow. “You don’t look so hot, princess,” he said after the fifth time I caught him.
“Pfft. Says the man with the busted nose. The good news is those black eyes really hide the crow’s feet.”
The jab had no force behind it, but I must really have looked tired because McGee didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, “Does Thatcher know about this little trip?”
I shrugged. “I figured Layla told him… or she would, once he got back. I haven’t seen him since… you know. Earlier.”
“Fucking Brantleigh,” McGee sighed.
Yeah, and fucking me. Reagan Wellbridge, you stupid fucker, I thought for the first time in nearly a week. If only I’d known then just how much worse things could get.
I was horrified to find my eyes stinging. “Thatcher has enough to worry about right now, so if he asks, please tell him I agreed to go and I’m fine with it,” I said, though my voice was so rough with the lie on my tongue that I coughed. “I’ll see him back in the city. If he wants to, I mean. Maybe things won’t be so crazy then.”
Though I could feel his disagreement, McGee kept quiet after that, and I was glad because contemplating a future where Thatcher didn’t want to see me—one where he decided he couldn’t forgive me and went back to ignoring me—made me feel awful. I wanted nothing more than to fall asleep, kick the headache that was beating my brain against the sides of my skull like ice in a blender, and forget my troubles for a while. I succumbed to sleep…
And barely noticed when the shivers started.
Chapter Eighteen
Thatcher
I let Layla pull me away from my son at the Tavern because I knew if I’d stayed there, I would have done something unforgivable.
Reagan Wellbridge was many things—gorgeous, courageous, and annoyingly astute, to name a few—but he was not quick to anger. For him to have physically restrained Brant and barked in his face, my son had to have done something egregious, and I would have lost no time in addressing it, right in the middle of the sidewalk.
If I’d stayed, I might not have resisted the temptation to pluck Chris Acton off McGee’s lap and remind him once and for all that Reagan was not his to be “getting cozy” with.
And had I stayed there, I definitely wouldn’t have been able to keep my hands off Reagan either. It had taken every ounce of my control not to grab him by the arms, pull him against me, and cement him to my side, especially after I’d heard him defending me. It hadn’t mattered in the slightest that Reagan had been red-faced and screaming the words if you’re loved by Thatcher Pennington, that makes you the luckiest person in the goddamn universe, because the sentiment behind it had punched into my chest, making my heart thump and flip over for him like a besotted spaniel.
When was the last time anyone had stood up for me like that? Had anyone? I didn’t think so. Not either of the women whose fingers had worn my ring, not any of the people I’d spent time with over the years. And the fact that Reagan, the man who so often neglected to stand up for himself, was the one who’d defended me didn’t feel as strange as it might have. Instead, it felt right that we should stand stronger with and for each other. We were simply better together… even though we had every reason not to be.
So what the hell was I going to do about it?
I had no more idea what to do about that than I did about Brantleigh.
I’d managed to go through the motions at the Investment Summit, glad that Layla had been there to take the lead. But when it was over, I couldn’t wait to get away. I’d told Layla I needed to run errands, and when she’d offered to come along, I’d made it clear I needed time alone.
By the time I’d walked through the town, the sun had sunk low in the sky, and most of the Honeybridgers had packed up their festival booths for the night. The Tavern was open, and a few clusters of hearty souls chatted outside the door, bundled up in their parkas, but I didn’t want to socialize. Instead, I headed for the warm, golden lights of the Honeybridge General Store, where I could grab a drink and possibly a quick sugar fix.
The bell over the door rang when I opened it, and Pop Honeycutt nodded a greeting at me over the messy blond pigtails of a little girl buying two lollipops with a handful of coins. I took a minute to wonder when I’d last seen anyone buying something with cash. Honeybridge was a special place, and Pop’s General Store was the heart of it.
I passed down the aisle toward the drink coolers in the back as my phone buzzed.
Thalia. It figured. I wondered what Brant had told her.
“Yes?” I murmured, trying to keep my voice low so as not to disturb anyone else browsing the store.
“Thatcher, Brant sent me a string of unintelligible texts.” She sighed. “I was calling to see what’s going on.”
I let out a long breath before sucking in a new one that tasted faintly of sour apple candy. Instead of answering, I asked, “Was I a terrible father, Thalia? Wait, don’t answer that. I know I was. But shouldn’t a twenty-something-year-old man begin taking responsibility for his own life regardless of whether his parents were shitty or not?” I trailed the toe of my shoe over the shiny floor. “Never mind. Don’t answer that either.”
“Thatcher, stop. What did he do?”
