Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Well, fuck.
I stood there, head bent, for twenty long seconds. Asking JT to spend a few hours packing things up at the Meadery today before he had to get back to the city would be smart. He knew the equipment, he knew my processes, and I knew he could do it right. I also knew without a doubt that he would help, at least until he had to leave town. Heck, he might even stay in Honeybridge until tomorrow, if Fortress could spare him.
But I still couldn’t bring myself to do it.
The summer would be over soon. I didn’t want a half-assed something with JT—I was pretty sure that would break both of us—and I couldn’t think of another way forward. So even if I’d maybe—maybe—overreacted last night, was it really wise for me to trust and rely on someone who wouldn’t be around long-term?
It wasn’t about being proud or independent, no matter what Willow—or her signs—suggested. This was self-preservation.
So I headed to the salon to ask for Alden’s help instead.
Chapter Seventeen
JT
“Jonathan! Jonathan, darling!” my mother called. The front door crashed closed behind her. “You will not believe what happened at the salon.”
I glanced up from my laptop and exchanged a glance with Rosalia, who was preparing Mother’s post-salon luncheon of fresh lettuce topped with tiny slivers of carrot. Her lips twitched, and I gave her a half-hearted smile in return.
It was good to know that, even when my own personal universe had just been tipped upside down and shaken, things in Wellbridge House remained unchanged.
“Jonathan!” My mother’s voice carried down the hall, accompanied by the tap-tap-tap of her high heels on the parquet.
I sighed and closed out of my browser program. I hadn’t been able to focus on work anyway. Catching up on Fortress emails—mostly annoyed demands to know why I was taking two days of unplanned time off right before Brew Fest—felt pointless when I couldn’t think of anything but Flynn Honeycutt.
He trusted me, deep down—after his final admission Saturday night, I knew he did. And I could see in his eyes how much he cared about me. He was scared and hurt because he cared so much, but he hadn’t shut me out entirely. So I needed to show him that I was committed to making this right… even if I hadn’t figured out exactly how to do that yet.
I’d decided that staying in town and heading directly to Portland for the festival Wednesday would be my best option. If Flynn wanted to talk, I wanted to listen. But since I’d also committed to not distracting him while he was doing his own Brew Fest prep, I’d limited myself to a couple of check-in texts a day, just to let him know I was around.
I was trying not to read too much into the fact that he hadn’t responded.
“Jonathan! I’ve been searching high and low for you!” My mother and her cloud of Chanel paused in the doorway, but I didn’t glance up until I heard Rosalia’s shocked gasp…
And then I did a double take.
“Mother?” I demanded, jumping to my feet. “Dear god. Are you alright?”
My mother’s hair was dripping wet and tangled, and she clutched a small white towel around her shoulders like a shawl. I’d never, in thirty-two years, seen her look so un-put-together, not even in her own home.
Mother threw her giant purse and keys on the countertop so forcefully that her Birkin bag skidded into the lettuce, and Rosalia had to rush to save it.
“Well, of course I’m alright.” She moved a hank of dripping hair off her face with great dignity. “But I couldn’t very well stay there for my blowout when I needed to get back here to strategize, now, could I? We don’t have much time. I’m going to call Louise and Madeline to start mobilizing the Gentlepeople’s Society. Vanessa Atanmo can help round up the diversity committee folks. Oh! And I’ll contact Russell Cowgill and the others at the Log Cabin Museum—they’re never busy on a Tuesday. Rosalia, dear, please fetch me my Rolodex. And one of my detox juices. I’m going to need it.” She pulled out the kitchen chair across from mine and sat down heavily. She gave me a judgmental look. “Darling, don’t just stand there. Contact your assistant. Alex? Alyssa? We’ll need her help.”
“Alice. But…” It was true that I’d felt brain-dead for the past thirty-six hours, give or take, but I couldn’t follow this conversation at all. I sat back down. “What?”
Mother sighed impatiently. “I was at the salon,” she began. “Alden is one of the most gifted stylists I’ve ever come across, you understand, even if he is one of those Honeycutts—”
“Mother,” I warned.
She sniffed delicately. “I’m only explaining that I’d had to miss my yogaerobics class today so I could get a coveted Tuesday morning slot from him, so needless to say, when Castor Honeycutt came racing in, all in a panic, and Alden had to stop my shampoo massage and step away to calm him, I was displeased. So I…” She waved a hand. “I may have made a point of paying attention to their conversation when Alden dragged Castor behind the curtain at the back of the salon.”