Page 115 of Rescued by the Single Dad

“Bonn’s estate covered all of it. No handouts, that's what I heard,” Clint said, turning onto the main road, which was already dressed on both shoulders by vehicles. It seemed everyone on the island was attending this thing. Everyone but their children, Brooke and Rocco.

They came to a stop so Kitty and Grimm Barrington could cross the road. They were local beekeepers and in their late seventies, so it took them a bit of time to get from point A to point B. Eventually, they made it across the road, but not before a small line of cars amassed behind Clint.

“You think they’re safe there?” Dom asked from his spot in the middle back seat.

Clint met his eyes in the rearview mirror and started driving again when Kitty and Grimm disappeared between vehicles and headed into the field.

“I can’t think of a safer place,” Jagger offered. “I mean, we have security cameras everywhere. Nobody knows she’s here. Nobody knows where Rocco is. Why wouldn’t they be safe?”

Jagger was right. Their property was extremely safe. After all, four marines lived there with their children. Even though they had a bustling business on site and cabins, the property was a fortress. Nothing happened without one of the McEvoy brothers knowing about it.

Nevertheless, Dom’s questions ate away at Clint, and unease itched at the back of his neck. He scratched it like a mosquito bite.

He never had to worry when he left Talia or Brooke on the property and went into town, or even Seattle, because his brothers were there. He trusted them implicitly.

But now, all of them were at the party.

Their fortress was unmanned. No sentries patrolled.

Indecision and worry gnawed at his gut until he tasted bile. He wanted to get back to the house. He needed to get back to the house. To his kid. To Brooke.

He also needed to be at this funeral, though. They needed more land to expand their business, and it wouldn’t look right if only four of the five McEvoy brothers showed up.

He’d give it an hour, then head back. His brothers could find their own rides home.

He found a spot to parallel park and expertly backed his behemoth of a truck between a rusty old Westfalia and a trike with a sidecar. He knew who owned both.

They piled out of the truck and headed toward the lively music playing in the field. Whoever put on the event hung up strings of lights from scattered, but well-placed posts, illuminating the meadow.

Bonn Remmen really had taken care of everything.

Tables lined up one after the other, teamed with food of every imaginable ethnicity and variety. From steaming crab legs to tiramisu and vegan roasted squash and nut clusters.

There was another table loaded with kegs—not from their brewery, which sat oddly in Clint’s craw—and other spirits. He was bolstered slightly when he took a quick glance and realized none of the local businesses were featured on the table. The winery was absent, the distillery and the cidery. Even the food was from somewhere else off the island.

At least Bonn wasn’t playing favorites. It would appear he hated all of them.

That felt weirdly personal. What did Bonn have against the businesses? Against Clint and his brothers?

As he took in the guests milling around, chatting and enjoying the party, he hardly saw a face he didn’t recognize. The entire island was out for this event.

Jerking his chin in friendly acknowledgment to a few people, he followed behind Wyatt, who led them all to the bar.

Dom scrunched his face as he took in the bottles and kegs. “None of these appeal to me.”

“Me, either,” Bennett said quietly.

“Beer is beer, at least when we’re here,” Jagger said, pouring five beers into red solo cups from a keg. “Just carry it around with you so it looks like you’re drinking. You can dump it in the bush later.”

They each grabbed a cup and took careful sips.

Oh fuck, it was like horse piss. Cold horse piss, but horse piss nonetheless.

Each of them hid their disgusted faces behind the cups as they painfully swallowed the sorry excuse for beer.

“It’s all crap, right?” came a deep, rumbly voice behind them. All five brothers turned to see Owen Farmer, one of the four owners of Hardwood Distillery come casually sauntering over.

He was a tall, built black man with short hair, bright white teeth and a laugh that turned heads.

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