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“Reagan,” I said with exaggerated patience. “She’s an underwear model, man. Which doesn’t mean she’s not brilliant but also doesn’t scream ‘I enjoy intelligent conversation on a variety of topics.’ She makes Brantleigh look like a Rhodes scholar.”
Dysen’s voice drifted forward again. “And then I was like, ‘Okay, like, noooo, there is no way Fredrika Larsson deserves that Calvin Klein contract more than I do! Because my ass is sculpted.’ And I mean, like, it’s literally sculpted, Patty. By Dr. Nasim Kasman in Beverly Hills. And it looks like a… a… shoot, what do you call that thing a sculptor guy makes?”
“A… a sculpture?” Brantleigh sounded understandably confused.
“Yes!” Dysen cried. “Oh my god! You’re so,sosmart, Brantleigh.” She paused for a second. “Are yousureyou’re gay?”
Reagan made a haunted, whining noise, but I hardened my heart. I loved Reagan, and maybe the silver lining of these summer shenanigans was that I got to spend more time with him—he’d hung out with me at the Tavern three afternoons this week already—but he needed to grow up a little.
“Break it off,” I advised in a low voice as I pushed open the coded gate at the end of the dock and stepped out onto the boardwalk. “Today. Mother will get over her disappointment, just like she will when I finally convince her Brantleigh and I won’t be having spoiled, disgruntled babies together.”
“Okay.” Reagan nodded firmly. “I will.”
“So, like, where’s the after-party, hotties?” Dysen threw an arm around each of our shoulders.
“Oh, uh.” Reagan glanced at me, then took a deep breath. “The thing is, Dysen—”
“I do believe most of the young people are heading over to the Honeybridge Tavern,” my mother offered brightly from behind us. “A primitive sort of eatery, owned bythose Honeycutts, and not our usual fare, but I’ve heard they have an adequate drinks menu. And isn’t it fun to soak up a bit of the rough-and-tumble local flavor?”
I turned my head. Even after a day on the water, my mother’s blonde hair was still firmly in place. Clearly, so was her attitude. “The whole Tavern is renovated and gorgeous. Reagan and I both thought so. You should come and see for yourself.”
“Oh, heavens no.” She let out an exaggerated yawn. “No, the Senator and I will be heading home to get our beauty sleep before golf tomorrow. But Reagan and Jonathan would love to take you and Brantleigh over, Dysen. Wouldn’t you, boys?”
Dysen must’ve been related to a Rockefeller for my mother to be pushing this connection so hard. If anyone else in Honeybridge had attempted to call her Patty to her face, she’d have razed the town.
“I’d rather not,” I said tightly. By which I meant there was no force in the universe that could compel me to bring Dysen and Brantleigh to Flynn Honeycutt’s bar, where Flynn would see them—and, worse,hearthem—and give me that smirky smirk of his. “Beauty sleep is kinda sounding good right now.”
“Oh mygodddddd!” Dysen squealed. She shook Reagan’s shoulder excitedly. “ReaBae! Do you meantheHoneybridge Tavern? The one that went viral after Frankie Hilo posted a picture there last year? Oh, my god. I so,soneed pics, likeright now, and I’msaving them to my highlights. Did you know all three Cassidy sisters went there last fall and took duck-face selfies in the bathroom? It wasiconic! I. Con. Ic. And one of them got a picture with the Tavern’s owner, and the man is, like,gorgeous.I mean, not likegorgeousgorgeous, more like power-tool gorgeous. You know?”
“No,” I said coldly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Anyone who could look at Flynn Honeycutt and think he was not gorgeous—full stop—was dangerously absurd.
“Alright, then,” Brantleigh sighed, as though he were the final decider-er of plans. He batted his eyelashes up at me. “Jonathan and I will go, too. We’ll stay just long enough to take a selfie, then bounce to a club or something.”
Bounce to aclub? Where did the man think a place like Honeybridge was hiding its nightlife?
“Oh, I think Jonathan would love that more than anything!” Mother cried.
I opened my mouth to argue with her—vehemently—when Reagan spoke up.
“I think the Tavern sounds amazing,” he said. “Flynn sells the best mead ever. We should totally go.”
I shot him a glare, but Reagan gave me puppy dog eyes that clearly screamed “Please don’t leave me alone with them!”
Ugh. Apparently, therewasa force that could compel me to bring this crew to the Tavern, and it was brotherly love. Was it too late for me to jump in the water and swim for shore? Ideally, a foreign shore, without extradition?
“Fine.” I extricated my arm from Brantleigh’s. “But we’re only staying for one drink.”
I was very afraid that was going to be one drink too many.
When we got to the Tavern, the place was packed with a combination of locals and wide-eyed tourists who’d come to town for the regatta and to attend what Willow called a Yoga in Nature Spiritual Awakening out at the Retreat. Every table was full, and the bar area was standing-room only, which meant we were able to blend in with the crowd. For once, I didn’t want Flynn to notice me, let alone speak to me.
Dysen went off to the restroom immediately upon entering so she could “hashtag remix” the selfie she’d referenced earlier, while Reagan, Brantleigh, and I threaded our way to the bar.
“Evening, Frog!” Pop Honeycutt called from a high-top table toward the back as we passed. “And Mr. Important. Lookin’ good, kiddo.” He held out his gnarled hand, and Reagan shook it politely.
We found an empty spot at the back corner of the bar and squeezed into it.
“Frog Wellbridge! Awesome game last week,” Tori Honeycutt called from a nearby table where she and her husband, Rob, were sitting. “You gonna be around for the next one?”
