Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read

Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com Mon, 25 Mar 2024 04:50:45 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=6.9.4 http://www.ilovenovels.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/favicon.png Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox – Read Books Online Free Ebooks good best novels to read http://www.ilovenovels.com 32 32 Mr. Important (Honeybridge #2) Read Online Lucy Lennox http://www.ilovenovels.com/mr-important-honeybridge-2-read-online-lucy-lennox Mon, 25 Mar 2024 04:50:45 +0000 http://www.booksnovels.com/mr-important-honeybridge-2-read-online-lucy-lennox Genre: Billionaire, Gay, GLBT, M-M Romance Authors: Lucy Lennox Series: Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox
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Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)

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One New Year’s masquerade. One anonymous hookup. One billionaire-sized mistake.

Once upon a time, someone looked at my scrawny, impetuous eight-year-old self and nicknamed me Mr. Important… and I believed them.

That was my first mistake.

Two decades, a dozen failed careers, and a thousand meaningless hookups later, I’ve made more mistakes than I can count. My parents have decided I’m purely decorative, my brother thinks I need pep talks, and the gorgeous billionaire who hired me as a favor to my dad? He’s forgotten I exist.

So I’m done with mistakes.

Call it my New Year’s resolution. From now on, I’m going after what I want… starting with the mysterious silver fox in the Roman warrior mask who approached me at the charity gala and offered me a scorching, anonymous one-night stand.

Unfortunately, when our masks come off I realize mistakes are not done with me.

Because the bossy guy who blew my mind? He’d thought I was someone else. Worse than that, he’s my father’s friend. A supposedly-straight workaholic. The person I’m stuck on a road trip with for the next two weeks. And, oh yeah, my actual boss.

The farther we get from New York, the closer we become, and the harder it is to pretend I’m not falling for him. But I can’t see how someone as brilliant, controlled, and successful as Thatcher Pennington would risk everything to be with someone like me… even if he makes me feel like I’m finally Mr. Important.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One

Reagan

“Mask stays on. Clothes come off,” a deep, male voice rumbled in my ear. “You’re going to be good for me tonight, aren’t you?”

The man’s indecent proposal sent a trail of goose bumps washing over my skin, and I froze in shock.

Before he’d spoken, I’d been watching various couples twirl across the floor at the masked charity ball, wondering what the hell I was doing there on New Year’s Eve when there were so many other, more fun, places I could be. When I’d moved out of my parents’ house in tiny Honeybridge, Maine, I’d left my designer tuxedo hanging in the closet for a reason: glad-handing at society galas wasn’t supposed to be on my agenda anymore. But I’d underestimated how hard it was to break the habits of a lifetime—namely, my parents’ habit of thinking they ran my social calendar and my habit of letting them. Just a couple of months into what should have been my personal renaissance, there I was, doing my best impression of a politician’s silent, smiling second son while the cameras flashed, wearing a black feathered mask atop a stifling mask of bland politeness and praying someone (not me this time) would do something interesting before midnight to save me from death by boredom.

Fortunately, the Universe had heard my plea.

Unfortunately, it had sent excitement in the form of a creepy whisperer… which was really on brand for the Reagan Wellbridge Renaissance Era, whose tagline seemed to be “be careful what you wish for.”

Under other circumstances, being approached by a creepy whisperer might have been outrageous in a fun way. A hilarious tale to trot out to my friends at parties, or maybe even a story for my Instagram followers. But the last few months had been… well, difficult.

When I’d moved to New York, I’d vowed to be a new Reagan. A different Reagan. Not an immature twenty-something socialite whose parents controlled his bank account or a pretty, wholesome-looking doll who posed at campaign rallies.

But nothing had quite worked out the way I’d planned, and New Reagan was frustrated as fuck.

All the career disappointments I’d been pushing down for weeks, all the snarky retorts I’d choked back while making my way around the party tonight, sat in my chest like a heap of dry kindling, and the creepy whisperer was the spark.

I turned around to spew all of my anger and resentment in a verbal torrent sharp enough to flay this rude, outrageous man’s flesh from his bones…

And then choked on my own saliva.

Rude and outrageous he might be, but the creepy whisperer was… built.

He was tall—well over six feet—and his perfectly tailored black tuxedo lovingly cupped his broad shoulders and chest. Dark hair swept cleanly back from his brow. Though I couldn’t make out his eyes behind the burnished gold of his Roman warrior mask, especially in the “atmospheric” faux candlelight of the ballroom, I could feel the intensity of his gaze as he watched me.

Not creepy but sexy. Sexy enough to shoot a bolt of lust down my spine that left me shivering in the overheated ballroom. And so very much my type.

Maybe the Universe had done me a solid after all.

“Pardon me?” My words came out husky and flirtatious. “Do I know you?”

One black brow lifted over the top of the man’s mask, and his plush lips set in a firm, unsmiling line that made my pulse race with arousal… and then with a sudden fear as I remembered exactly where and who I was.

Think, Reagan. How likely was it that a man who resembled a Roman warrior even without his mask was trolling for an anonymous hookup with another man at a stuffy event like this one, where every third guest was a politician, a reporter, or a society gossip? More than likely, I’d misunderstood, or⁠—

“Not interested in games,” he growled, leaning closer. A muscle ticked in his perfectly smooth jaw.

—or maybe I’d understood perfectly. I blinked. How the hell did his voice feel like it was wrapping directly around my balls, firm as a physical touch?

His earlier words seared through my brain like a flash fire, burning away all other thoughts: Mask stays on. Clothes come off.

Well, shit.

Back when my father had been on the cusp of his political career—which was, sadly, right around the time I’d begun transforming from a sweet child into a snarky, opinionated teenager who Needed to Be Managed—my mother had signed me up for formal etiquette lessons. I’d loathed them, of course, but they’d come in handy over the years. These days, I could chat with anyone, from a sultan at a polo match to nice, elderly ladies in retirement homes, and most of the time, I even enjoyed it. I was never, ever at a loss for words.

Until now.

“I, uh…” I stammered, face on fire. “That is… When you say…? Are you asking me to…?”

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Firecracker (Honeybridge #1) Read Online Lucy Lennox http://www.ilovenovels.com/firecracker-honeybridge-1-read-online-lucy-lennox Sat, 03 Dec 2022 10:16:22 +0000 http://www.teennovels.net/firecracker-honeybridge-1-read-online-lucy-lennox Genre: Angst, Contemporary, M-M Romance, Romance Authors: Lucy Lennox Series: Honeybridge Series by Lucy Lennox
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Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 116455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 466(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)

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There are three kinds of people in Honeybridge, Maine: The Honeycutts, who know a lot about love and loyalty; The Wellbridges, who think they’re the epitome of wealth and refinement; and the rest of the Honeybridgers, who know better than to get in the way of the centuries-old rivalry between the two.
There wasn’t a time when I didn’t know Flynn “Firecracker” Honeycutt.
He’s been my childhood friend. My high school rival. The guy I couldn’t stop dreaming about, long after I thought I’d left him and Honeybridge in my rear-view mirror.
Now he’s the key to the giant promotion that can make or break my career… if I can just convince the man to give me the distribution rights for his award-winning mead.
Unfortunately, that’s easier said than done.

*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************

Chapter One

JT

“I feel like you left here in a mood.” Alice’s voice through the Porsche speakers sounded way calmer than I felt at the moment.

My assistant wasn’t wrong. She rarely was.

“Mood. Mood,” I said through my teeth. “Yes, I think you could call it that. After three fucking years of working my ass off for Conrad Schaeffer with his promise of a promotion to vice president, I actually believed it was finally going to happen.”

“No shit, JT. The man’s an…” She lowered her voice. “An insufferable ass. But rumor has it he said you’d get promoted to VP as soon as you close the Honeybridge Mead account up in Maine. Which, let’s be honest, is practically a done deal considering you grew up in Honeybridge. Surely you have connections that can help…”

Her voice faded away while my head took me to a million places, none of which were compatible with my sanity.

Green eyes bright with arousal.

Bare, freckled shoulders.

A smile rarer than a sun-shower in June.

Anger so hot it burned, even in my memories.

Connections? I definitely had connections. But they were the opposite of helpful.

“Conrad made it sound like you know the guy who owns it, right? You two went to school together or something?” Alice continued, breaking me out of my memories.

Or something.

I swallowed around my nerves. Flynn Honeycutt was six feet of walking temptation wrapped in a barbed-wire coating of stay-the-fuck-away-from-me.

My boss couldn’t have given me a more difficult challenge if he’d tried. Not that Conrad Schaeffer knew anything about Honeybridge Mead or Flynn Honeycutt. No, he’d most likely found out about the brand the same way the rest of the world had—through some viral social media posts.

Frankie Hilo had made several posts from the Honeybridge Tavern and Meadery. One duck-faced mirror shot of the singer being her ridiculous self in the men’s room. One orgasmic selfie of her holding a half-empty glass with the simple caption “bussin.” And one reel she’d shot in front of the Tavern, in which she panned the entire length of sleepy, old-fashioned Fraser Street, declared that she was “absolutely sliving the savage vibe” of Honeybridge, Maine, and instructed her Hilo-lovers to come see for themselves.

And apparently, they had. According to my mother, who served on every town development committee (because god forbid that anything should happen in Honeybridge without her input), tourism in the quaint lakeside town was up eighteen percent over the town’s best summer previously, and new artisans and chefs were moving in, bringing their talent and entrepreneurial spirit. “The club has even had to hire an extra gate attendant,” she’d sniffed, which was Patricia Wellbridge’s genteel way of saying the town had been overrun with riffraff.

If this was true, that was great. Flynn Honeycutt deserved the boon to his business, and Honeybridge itself could use the additional tourist traffic.

Personally, though, I had my doubts. Honeybridge was a tiny town that was a little too proud of its quaint traditions and local legends. Nothing ever changed there, including the people. The life you were born into was the life you were expected to lead, forever and ever amen.

That was the reason I’d deliberately escaped the place years ago in search of bigger and better things—a life on my own terms. It was a large part of the reason I hadn’t even been back for a visit in three years, too.

Now here I was, tasked with spending time in Honeybridge—“A few weeks at least, Jonathan. Heck, maybe the whole summer!” Conrad had suggested, to my utter horror—to court a new client into signing a distribution deal with me at Fortress Holdings.

A client I’d known my whole life and who’d hated me nearly as long.

A client whose naked body felt like it had been crafted to fit against mine.

A client whose prickly exterior hid a vulnerable underbelly of need.

A client whose soft cries in bed still haunted me most nights as I took myself in hand and searched for relief.

I had strong suspicions about why I, of all the people Conrad Schaeffer could have chosen to represent Fortress, had been chosen for this mission, and I was extremely displeased.

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