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)
I, however, have no desire to get good at the sheep or the farming.
When I push the door open, the smell of flowers mixes with the smell of wet dog. Three golden retrievers are barking in a waiting area, a tabby cat hisses from inside its carrier, and a woman in a red sweater is wiping tears from her eyes while Tracey murmurs about her pug’s “emotional blockage.”
It’s all par for the course until Breezy’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip.
“You can’t just make up lies about me, Eileen! It’s illegal!”
I round the corner to the reception area of the paper, and when she comes into view, she leaves an impression. Spine straight, her fancy boots making a comeback with a new and complicated sweater, and eyes blazing, she jabs her finger at Eileen across the desk. She’s polished and beautiful and furious, and I feel an involuntary tingle in my dick.
Eileen, though, is calm and coy, tapping her pen against her notepad.
“But is it a lie, Beatrice?” Eileen challenges. “You’ve only been in town a few days, and I’ve seen you with both Hanson brothers.”
“Seen with, sure. Bedded, I think not!”
As Eileen’s eyes cut past Breezy and latch on to me, she smiles. “Oh, well. Hello, Tad Hanson. Perfect timing. Would you like to offer your side of things?”
I gulp. “My…side of things?”
“Yes. Your side of things.” She nods toward the crumpled paper in my hands. “I take it you read today’s cutting-edge news story.”
“Cutting-edge news story?” Breezy scoffs. “Give me a break, Eileen. This isn’t news. It’s trash slander! Outright lies.”
Eileen purses her lips. “Tad?”
“Well…I… Well…uh…I mean… I was pretty drunk that night… I don’t think anything happened. I mean—”
“Tad!” Breezy snaps. “We didn’t sleep together.”
I blink. “We didn’t?”
“Oh my God, no! We didn’t. You were hammered drunk. I was sober. We slept—separately.”
Eileen poises her pen at her notepad, eager to take down all the new details, and Breezy smacks it out of her hand. “Don’t even go there, Martin. If you print one more lie about me in your little paper, you’ll be eating your notepad for breakfast.”
Eileen gasps. “Are you threatening a journalist, Beatrice Bishop? A pillar of the free press?”
Breezy rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. The whole damn town knows you make up your sources. Normally, it’s cute. I mean, no one’s life is ruined by a scathing article about where the grocery store gets oranges. But this? No way. This ends now. I’m watching you.”
Eileen huffs. “I should call Sheriff Peeler.”
Breezy smirks. “Oh, I dare you. But maybe remind him about that little exposé you ran on how he naps at the Red Bridge Inn during shifts?”
“I’ve had enough of this. You can see yourselves out.” Eileen storms away from her desk and toward a back room down the hall.
Two of the golden retrievers bark like they’re applauding Breezy, and the little pug previously sitting on Tracey-Jayne’s lap—now peeking around the corner in Tracey-Jayne’s arms—snorts.
“Good grief.” Breezy exhales hard, muttering, “I need a drink.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I’m pretty sure I need to cut back on my drinking. Because if I can’t remember whether I slept with a pretty woman, that’s a problem.”
Her blue eyes cut to me.
“I’m sorry I was so blitzed that night.”
“Well, far be it for me to encourage liver-bending drinking, but you did nothing wrong, Tad. You were a gentleman. Friendly. Accommodating.”
“Yeah?” I question, running a hand through my hair.
“Yeah. Eileen is the problem here.”
Something about Breezy’s confidence is infectious, and I find myself shooting a shot of my own. “Would you let me buy you lunch?”
8
Breezy
Metcalf’s Diner smells like bacon grease, burned coffee, and small-town curiosity. Every booth is packed. The hum of voices rises and falls around us, silverware clinking against porcelain, the coffee machine hissing like it’s part of the conversation.
“I still can’t believe you thought we slept together,” I say, leaning across the booth table and lowering my voice to make sure no busybody ears can hear me. “Now that awkward conversation at CAFFEINE makes a whole lot more sense.”
Tad doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he grins.
“Did I meet all your needs?” I tease, mocking his exact words in a deep tone that sounds more like a cartoon cowboy than him.
“Damn, Breezy. Run my ass over the coals, why don’t you?” His laugh is a low rumble that makes heads turn from the counter. Several eyes stop and stay once they’re there, too. I imagine that’s a perk of the trumped-up article.
“Hey,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m not the one who was walking around Red Bridge for three days wondering if we slept together that night or asking you if I met all your needs.”
His grin expands. “Can’t risk a bad Yelp review. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
God help me, it’s hard not to laugh. “Pretty sure no one in Red Bridge even knows what Yelp is, and the things you thought we did don’t have a review section.” I stab my fork at my salad and take a bite before allowing myself to ask the really hard question. “What is…your reputation exactly?”