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Flynn draped his hands around my neck and pulled my face down to his. “That soundsdisgustinglyinsightful and mature. I’ll pencil you in for this evening.”
I huffed wryly. “Yeah, well. It didn’t happen quite the way I hoped. I’m sorry fucking Conrad came and spoiled things—”
“He didn’t spoil anything.” Flynn’s lips brushed over mine in the barest, most tantalizing hint of a kiss.
“No, you’re right.” My hands shifted, resolutely pushing him away when I wanted to draw him into me. “The Ren Faire people looked really impressed, and if you get back out there right away, I’m confident you still have a strong shot at that contract—”
“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I mean, it matters. Of course it matters. I want the contract, but…” Flynn scraped his bottom lip with his top tooth, and his fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of my neck. “I have a confession of my own to make. The Hornrath Chair Company? I bought it. Thatcher Pennington approached me about helping me grow the Meadery—he’s an investor, you know?—and I agreed. Honeybridge Mead is poised to expand, regardless of what happens with the Ren Faire.”
“Holy shit. Good god, Flynn. That’s incredible!” I hauled him against my chest and spun him in a circle.
“Frog! Put me down!” he cried, though his face was creased with laughter. “A little respect, please. I’m a professional mead maker at a professional event.”
“Fuck, yeah, you are.” I set him on his feet but hugged him tightly, inhaling his familiar scent and letting it wash the rest of the stress away. “You’re going to become a major producer of the world’s best mead. And I’m going to get to be there to see it happen.”
“Well, actually…” He gave me a nervous, excited smile and patted the Honeybridge Mead logo on my shirt. “I was hoping… I mean, now that you’re staying… maybe you could help…” He scraped his lip with his tooth again. “Teach me how to find places to distribute it to? I don’t need Fortress… but I definitely needyou.”
I let out a laugh so loud he jumped and glared at me.
“Baby, I’m going to sell the hell out of Honeybridge Mead. I’ll put it in stores and taverns all across the country. If you’ll let me represent your distribution side, I’ll show you exactly what I can do to put Honeybridge Mead wherever you want.”
“So the Rainmaker’s winning streak is going to remain unbroken, then, hmm?” he teased.
“Unbroken?” I snorted. “No. As I recall, I was oh-for-three when it came to getting Honeybridge Mead to commit.”
“But the meadmakeris madly in love with you and ready to sign on the dotted line,” he whispered.
“Is he?” My entire body felt buoyant, like Flynn was the only thing tethering me to Earth. “You sure you’ve read the fine print, Honeycutt? Because you’re signing up for a lifetime term. No limits, no take-backsies—”
“I accept,” Flynn said firmly. Then he wrapped his strong, capable arms around me and kissed me to seal the deal.
Epilogue
Flynn
There was nothing quite like early fall in Maine to make a man feel grateful to be alive.
As I stood in the backyard of Wellbridge House, looking out over the sleepy town and the placid water of Quick Lake in the distance, I couldn’t help falling a bit deeper in love with the ever-changing beauty of the town I called home. And I knew down to my bones that I could travel the whole world—stick a billion pins in Grandpa Horace’s old map—but there’d never be anyplace that delighted my soul as much as Honeybridge.
Over the last few weeks, the vibrant summer green of the treetops had given way to bright flames of orange-yellow, scarlet-purple, and a dozen other colors only PJ would know the proper names of.
Out at the Retreat and in the Tavern, crowds of young tourists wielding sunblock and plastic floaties had been replaced by hordes of leaf-peepers and pumpkin-lovers.
The weather, while still clear and sunny, carried a crisp tang that warned us to enjoy the last of the mild temperatures because winter loomed on the horizon.
And the air, which had smelled of cut grass and growing things just weeks before, was now thick with the scent of woodsmoke and…
“Victoryyyyy!” Patricia Wellbridge boomed into her microphone from atop the tiny stage she’d had erected on the far side of the lawn. In her hand, she hefted a wooden plaque bearing the words “Wellbridges: Softball Tournament Champions”—a miniature replica of the new rocker that had been installed below the Welcome to Honeybridge sign after Team Wellbridge’s win in the final game of the season last week—like a conquering hero stabbing the sky with his sword.
“There aresomany people I’d like to thank for this incredible honor,” she gushed to the assembled crowd of bewildered New York socialites and long-suffering Honeybridgers. “In fact, I’ve prepared a brief but poignant speech…”
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered under my breath in disgust. Okay, so not everything in Honeybridge delighted my soul. Some things were still barely tolerable.
“Awww, poor Firecracker.” A pair of strong arms came around me from behind, and a voice whispered in my ear. “Losing is killing you, isn’t it?”
