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It still never worked.
Remembering the town welcome sign reminded me of the hidden road behind it. I had just enough time to veer off quickly on the small side road as I passed the Welcome to Honeybridge sign. Dangling from twin chains below it were smaller signs that read “Honeycutts: Ice Festival Heroes” and “Honeycutts: Blueberry Day Winners” and “Honeycutts: Softball Tournament Champions,” which really was laying it on a bit thick when I thought about it.
The lone “Wellbridges: Best Leaf Peepers” rocker seemed extra pathetic in comparison. Since when was Leaf Peeping a competitive thing? Was that really the best we could do? Surely there had to be some sort of—
Whoa.No. I brought that train of thought to a screeching halt as the tourist traffic disappeared behind me. I was not here in Honeybridge to get sucked back into the competitive fray. No way.
I was here to sign a distribution deal with Flynn—withHoneybridge Mead, which was not the same thing—and get the hell back to my real life. The life where eventually Massimo would get over being angry, and Alice would help me remain at the top of the Fortress sales ladder.
The life where Patricia Wellbridge didn’t get to boss me around.
I took a deep breath and slowed the car to put the top down so I could truly enjoy the drive through town despite my mother’s continued babbling about the Outdoor Lantern Supper, the Intimate Cocktail Fete, and the Joyous Summers-End Regalia she was planning. It was a gorgeous day, and the sight of all the familiar landmarks gave my heart a tiny, nostalgic squeeze.
Okay, maybe there weresomethings I’d forgotten I’d missed about this town.
As I drove behind the redbrick town hall and caught glimpses of children and parents laughing and eating ice cream cones from the General Store along Fraser Street, I gave myself a firm talking-to.
I would not fall back into old habits of letting my parents control where I went and who I spent time with. I would not let the old family feud lull me into anusversusthemmentality. And I would not, under any circumstances, allow myself to look at Flynn Honeycutt as anything but a former classmate and current potential client.
Apple Street was closed to traffic, and Pinehurst was blocked with delivery vans. I finally had to acknowledge to myself there was only one reasonable way remaining to get to Wellbridge House.
I turned onto Fraser Street and took a deep breath.
I almost didn’t recognize Honeybridge Tavern when I came upon it—a gleaming white clapboard building with a jaunty sign where a dilapidated pile of brown shingles had once stood. And I sure as hell didn’t immediately recognize the man unloading a box truck on the sidewalk outside, even though he had shoulders that looked extremely familiar.
Suddenly, one of the children outside Ollie’s Fudge Shoppe—a boy with curly, Wellbridge-blond hair—began screaming in panic as the puppy he’d been holding jumped out of his arms and darted into the street, trailing its leash like a comet’s tail… directly in front of my car.
I hit the horn and slammed on the brakes. At the last second, I yanked the car to the right, away from the pair, plowing through a gigantic pothole right outside the Tavern, and rocked to a stop inches away from the sidewalk.
Muddy water sprayed up like a mushroom cloud, blanketing the hood of my Porsche, the windshield, the sidewalk… and the man standing there with a wooden crate in his hands.
Horrifying.
More horrifying still was the way my stomach clenched and the whole world faded to white noise as my brain thought,Yes. Fucking finally. There you are.
It had been three years since I’d laid eyes on that face. On that dark hair and defined jaw, those broad shoulders and tree-trunk legs. On the man who’d forever be at the heart of my personal I-knew-I-was-gay-when story.
Flynn Honeycutt looked good. Better, even, than he had three years before. The kind of good that even a dousing of filthy water couldn’t wash away. And for the faintest nanosecond, as he shifted the crate to one huge arm and lifted his hand to wipe the mud from his eyes, his biceps bunched, and his lips twisted up in a half-smile, like he was ready to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all.
In short, he was devastating… and doing business with the man was the furthest thought from my mind.
But then the moment passed, and time sped up again. Flynn’s eyes—leaf green, emerald green,Honeycuttgreen—flared in recognition and then flashed with rage.
“Frog!” He growled my silly childhood nickname like it was the dirtiest curse he knew.
He took a single threatening step toward my car before one of his coworkers rushed up to pat him with a towel and blocked my view.
“Jonathan? Jonathan, are you alright? What’s happening?” my mother demanded.
Part of me wanted to get out of the car and run to him. To apologize and explain, preferably while toweling Flynn off. But I was pretty sure that would only make things more tense and awkward, which was pretty on-brand for me and Flynn Honeycutt, and would absolutely, positively ensure that I would never get him to sign the contract I needed.
So, instead, I did what I always did. I sighed and drove away.
“Nothing, Mother. I, ah… I just reached Honeybridge.”
“Wonderful! So you’ll be here shortly. The place never changes, does it?” she sighed fondly.
“No,” I said, casting a glance in my rearview mirror. “Some things don’t change at all.”
