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Fuck.
When I got the last of the cases inside and around the back of the bar, my brother Castor noticed me and stopped in his tracks. “What happened to you? Is it raining?”
I grabbed a fresh towel from behind the bar and finished wiping the mud off. “JT Wellbridge happened. What else is new?” I muttered before washing my hands quickly in the bar sink and reaching for Castor’s order to fill it.
Castor set down his tray and leaned across it with a dreamy grin on his face. “Aww, JT’s back? That’s amazing. That’s—”
I glared at him as I poured a Sprite for a customer. “No. It’s not. And don’t give me those eyes. Keep your heart-eyes to yourself. No eyeballs.”
Our brother Alden came racing in from the street the way he always did when he’d picked up good dirt at the beauty salon where he worked. “You will never guess who’s back!”
I gestured to my dirty shirt. “Pretty sure I’m wearing the evidence. And no,” I added before he got any ideas, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Castor continued with the dreamboat eyes. “I always thought JT had a thing for you. Like Romeo and… Other-Romeo. Two star-crossed lovers from feuding families. So romantic.” His eyes widened. “Oh! What if he’s here to finally sweep you off your feet and carry you away to your very own deserted island to… to…” His voice trailed off.
I snorted. Castor was the youngest twenty-three-year-old I’d ever met. The carrying-off was probably the extent of his fantasy library.
Alden was the opposite. At thirty, his eyes sparked with knowledge and judgment. “Tofuck, Cas. To fuck. But Flynn needs to stay away from JT because that way lies madness, as we’ve already learned. Right, Flynn?”
“Mmm.” My brother had no idea the kind of madness JT and I had engaged in.
“In fact, any sane person would avoid all things Wellbridge,” Alden went on. “They’ll try to give you their magic peen and then take it away when they leave.”
Castor’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Why do you sound like you speak from personal experience?”
Alden shut down that line of questions with a dismissive wave. “You don’t need to experience it to know it’s true. Just stay away, Flynn. Nobody needs to be thinking about dick right now anyway when we’ve got the Brew Fest to prepare for.”
I felt a surge of fond affection for my brother at his use of the word “we.” And he was right—who the fuck needed magic peen when you had your family and a common goal?
The Brew Fest was an expo of independent Northeastern meaderies, cideries, and breweries that took place over in Portland every August— a kind of All-Star Game for local brewers, where we served samples of our very best varietals in hopes of being named Best of the Fest. More importantly, it was also the place where the largest local Renaissance Faire organizer came to make their annual featured mead selection.
Landing the Ren Faire had been my dream for a while now, not just for the bragging rights but because it meant a steady income that would allow me to expand my operation and get a distribution deal. And if I wanted a shot at being chosen, I needed to take as much inventory as possible to the expo, which meant brewing more to replace the lost inventory, as well as ramping up production in anticipation of winning the contract.
All of this while continuing to run the Tavern during peak season and help my parents with their business.
Alden was right. I couldn’t let JT’s sudden appearance distract us from our goals.
“Pfft. Don’t be insane. No force on Earth could make me wanna fuck JT Wellbridge. He’s not even that good-looking,” I lied, reaching for a glass to fill with vodka rocks to add to Castor’s order. Someone at table twelve was celebrating early. It wasn’t remotely five o’clock yet.
Castor shot me the eyeballs again like he wanted to argue or maybe call me on my lie, but Alden cut him off with a head shake. “Drop it. Flynn said no eyes, bro.”
Castor sighed and rolled his eyes instead, but Alden’s gaze met mine. He reached across the bar to grab a soda off Castor’s tray.
“So… Why do you think he’s here?” Alden asked, not dropping the subject of JT despite telling Castor to.
I shot him a look and reached for a fresh glass to replace the soda in Castor’s order. “Well, gosh, Alden, let me think. His last pen pal letter didn’t say a darn thing.”
Alden snorted.
“Seriously, how would I know?” I demanded. “I haven’t heard a word from the man since…”
Since Thanksgiving weekend three years ago. Right after my grandfather’s funeral. When the world had seemed incredibly large and scary, and I’d let myself believe that JT was someone I could anchor myself to.
A special moment in my personal history I liked to refer to as the Night of Regrets.
Except you don’t really regret his hands on you, do you?
“…shit, who can even remember?” I lied again.
