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)
Heat floods my face.
“What the hell?” I look up at Bennett, who’s barely holding in laughter, the bastard.
Norah leans over to look at the paper with a furrowed brow. “What’s going on?”
I stab the headline with my finger, tapping furiously as I shove it at her face. “According to Eileen Martin, I’m bedding both Hanson brothers!”
Norah’s eyes widen. “What?”
“You know, I thought the article Eileen wrote about me years ago—the one where she said I fought off a gang trying to kidnap Norah—was peak crazy. But this is truly the cherry on top of the Eileen Martin bullshit cake.” Bennett pauses, but his eyes glint in the most annoying way as he studies me closely. “Or…is it…not bullshit?”
“Oh my God, Ben.” I huff, folding the paper in half like that’ll make it disappear. “Of course I’m not sleeping with the Hanson brothers!”
But I am about to ream some asses. And I’m about to do it right now.
7
Tad
Earl’s Grocery is the only place in Red Bridge where you can buy milk, sushi, and fishing bait all in the same aisle and still wait fifteen minutes to check out.
Lance—Earl’s most lethargic and unenthusiastic employee—rings up my groceries one item at a time like he’s being paid per sigh. He scans my bread, then he sends a few texts on his phone. He scans my peanut butter, then he zones out for ten seconds. He scans my bananas, then he just stands there looking at the next item on the conveyor belt.
It’s a slow, unpredictable process.
He’s got an AirPod in one ear, head bobbing to what sounds like heavy metal, and the kind of posture that screams I hate this place and everyone in it. Not to mention, when I got to his checkout line, he greeted me with an eye roll.
I try not to groan aloud, for I know Lance loves to pay impatience back with spite.
I tap my fingers on the counter, settling for fake pleasantries instead. “Real busy today, huh?”
He side-eyes me without stopping his slow-motion scan. Beep. “Yeah. Wild.”
I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the entire store, which makes us both liars.
While Lance hunts for the barcode on an apple like it’s a hidden treasure map, my gaze drifts to the rack of newspapers beside the counter. I peruse headlines with little to no investment other than the passage of time, but three shelves down, a subconscious hiccup sends me racing back to the one I just passed.
Bishop in the Barn: Breezy Bedding Both Hanson Brothers!
I blink once. Then twice. Then promptly inhale my own saliva and start choking on it.
What the fuck?
Sound blurs to white noise as I lean over the conveyor, snatching the paper from its rack and reading frantically.
There’s a lot of fancy language about a three-way fuck fest between me and Breezy and my brother Randy, and yet, a whole lot of nothing that gives any indication how Eileen got the information.
Information I don’t even have, for shit’s sake.
The more I read, the more obvious it becomes that it’s bullshit—or at least half of it is. I know my brother didn’t sleep with her because, for as many offers as he gets from women, he never takes them up on any of them. He’s a creature of habit, with a mother-goose complex for taking care of me, so he doesn’t drink and keeps to himself so he’s available to get my frequently-drinking-ass out of trouble.
As for the stuff about me, I’m not really sure, but that’s not anything new. I haven’t known what’s going on—truly—in a really long time. I live life like I have to—by going through the motions.
“You gonna pay?” Lance asks, put out by me now.
“What?”
“Are you gonna pay? Sometime this century would be nice.”
Frustrated by the switch-up from Lance, the article from Eileen, and the huge fucking gap in my recollection, I growl.
He barks. Like an actual dog. Clearly, I’m not equipped to win a battle of the weird with this guy.
I sigh, digging my wallet out of my back pocket and swiping my card in the machine.
He nods. “You want a bag for all your shit?”
“Yeah. That’d be helpful.”
“Cool.” He pops his gum. “You want me to double-bag it?”
“What?”
“You want me to give you two bags?”
“Honestly, Lance, I just want to pay and get out of here.”
“Dang, bro,” Lance answers with a roll of his eyes. “Just trying to be friendly. You in a bad mood or something?”
I have no words. Honestly. No words. But I try like hell to be nice. “Just one bag will be great, Lance. Thank you.”
I’m grateful when the charade finally ends and Lance hands me my bag and receipt, but the article burns a bright hole in any feelings of relief.
Time to go to the source.
…
The Red Bridge Chronicle sits right next to Fran’s flower shop because nothing says “Get well soon” like a side of gossip. And, because this is Red Bridge, the Chronicle shares its office with Tracey-Jayne Lintott, the town’s self-proclaimed pet psychic. People bring in their cats and dogs to read their horoscopes or figure out why their pets are mad at them, and I’m pretty sure, if Randy had his way, we’d be using her to hone our craft for sheep farming by now.