Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
As the line shifts, so do Marty and the sheriff, and I get a clear view of the woman standing directly in front of them.
Beautiful Breezy Bishop, in the flesh. I suck in my stomach and lick my lips as my balls jump inside my body.
It’s not that she’s not a fair damn sight to look at; it’s that I still don’t know what happened between us Monday night.
She’s at the counter talking to Josie, her dark hair shining under the lights, jeans tucked into sleek boots, and a soft gray sweater on top that looks straight out of a fancy magazine spread. Her outfit is perfectly practical for the snow, but she still looks like Red Bridge accidentally ordered her from the city. I don’t imagine she’ll be blending in anytime soon either. She’s too fucking beautiful for people not to notice her.
Josie hands her a cup, shaking her head with a smile. “Bishops and their coffee. Strongest stuff in the house, every time.”
Breezy laughs, low and easy, and my stomach does a slow, guilty somersault as I’m reminded that less than forty-eight hours ago, this woman walked out of my house like it was the most casual thing in the world, looking like she looks, and I can’t even remember a damn nipple. It’s criminal, really.
Maybe I should judge the overconsumption of Clay’s alcohol. I’d remember whether we had sex.
I’d remember the sight of a damn fancy nipple like hers.
I wouldn’t have had to let Randy be the knight in the shining armor and drop her keys and car off at Bennett’s place to assure I wouldn’t end up with a black eye or two. Randy and I drove out to the main road with Tommy Lockland’s tow truck; I could have taken a little credit.
Breezy stays glued to the counter, chatting up Josie and Todd and Camille—two of CAFFEINE’s full-time baristas—regardless of the line behind her, and this small town has everyone acting so nice, nobody even says anything. Back in Chicago, even in the suburb of Elgin where I lived, curses would have been lobbed by now about being late.
I don’t have anywhere to be per se—the sheep don’t own a clock—but I’m sweating like I’m about to sit for confession.
I’m not used to playing the fucking fool. I’ve kept a hard rule of never bringing any women home when I’ve been drinking, up until now, and clearly, that rule was for a damn good reason.
Marty and Sheriff Peeler place their orders, yammering about their piss-poor deer seasons—everybody always sees a monster they don’t kill—while they wait, and I play Russian roulette with eye contact with Breezy every time she turns a little bit toward me.
I want to see her eyes, but I’m terrified to let her see mine.
Get it the fuck together, man.
I’m a forty-one-year-old adult man, not some Red Bridge high schooler who just finished drawing dicks all over the town hall lawn. If we fucked, we fucked.
Right?
Right.
The pep talk works until it’s my turn, and Breezy looks directly at me. Her smile is devastating, and my tongue gets tied in a fucking knot.
I clear my throat and try to find my easy talk—the rhythm I’m known around Red Bridge for falling into—but it’s a struggle. “Hey, Breezy. How have you been?” I manage, which isn’t too bad, but when the next words out of my mouth are “It’s good to see you here in Red Bridge,” I feel like punching myself in the dick.
One of her perfectly shaped brows arches, and a smile tugs at her mouth. “Tad, I’m pretty sure we just saw each other the other morning…unless you forgot.”
It’s half tease, half dismissal, and it knocks the wind out of me. I’m used to women caring a fair share more than I do. Meanwhile, this time, it’s the opposite. Ironic, I suppose, that sex I can’t even remember is all I can think about.
“Definitely didn’t forget,” I say quickly. “Just…making conversation.”
“Mm-hmm.” She crosses her arms. She’s amused. She’s relaxed. She’s the exact opposite of me, and it’s a humbling moment, to say the least. “Well, conversation accepted. I’ve been fine. You?”
“Good. Great.” I clear my throat again. I lean in a fraction, lowering my voice to something that sounds far too much like a guilty whisper. “You, uh, sleep okay the other night?”
Her brow furrows for half a second, then smooths. “I slept fine. You were very hospitable.”
Hospitable? Is that code for something? It sounds like it was. Especially in the oogly googly way she said it.
“Did I…uh…meet all your needs?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. Beating around a bush you’re not even sure exists gives new meaning to awkward. “You know, despite my being so drunk that night.”
“Meet my needs?” She scrunches up her nose. “Tad, everything was fine. Seriously.”