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)
“You didn’t want me there this morning,” I say. My words are blunt and direct. I don’t sugarcoat it or wrap it up in a nice, tidy bow of pleasantries. I just state the truth.
He drops the wire for a beat, and a deep, heavy sigh escapes his lungs. “It’s not about not wanting you.” He rubs the back of his neck, but his eyes don’t quite meet mine. “I’ve just got some shit, Breezy. My life doesn’t allow me to be anything more than casual.” His gaze finally meets mine. “I’m not the guy you settle down with.”
“Good thing I’m not looking to settle down,” I say and keep my eyes locked with his. “I have my own shit, Tad. I’m only temporarily here in Red Bridge. But I don’t need to be worried about falling asleep in your bed and you having a breakdown over it. I’m too old for that. I deserve more than that.”
He stands there for a moment, like he’s choosing whether to step toward me or away. Then he steps closer, and his voice is raw, not performative. “Breeze, you deserve the fucking world.” The line is smooth, but the way he says it makes it feel unpolished in a raw and genuine way.
Honestly, it threatens to knock the breath out of my lungs, but I lift one shoulder and grin instead. “Well…how about a very casual, playful kind of world where you occasionally fuck me senseless while I’m in Red Bridge?”
For a heartbeat, he looks stunned, but then his reply is a crooked, dangerous smile. “In this world…” he says, lowering his voice, “do I get to lick your pussy too?”
Instantly, heat blazes up my spine. There’s a beat—ten, maybe twenty seconds—where the farm noise, the flock, everything, falls away, and it’s just him and me.
“You know,” I say, offering a flirty wink in his direction, “I think that can be arranged.”
He laughs, low and quick, and closes the small space between us. His hand finds my face, and his thumb brushes my bottom lip. The world tilts, not because of anything he says, but because of how he makes me feel—seen and wanted and dangerously easy to unravel.
When he kisses me, it’s soft and deliberate at first, a promise without anything heavy attached. But then, it quickly slides into something hungrier. More desperate. More passionate.
I let myself fall into it, into the warm press of his body, forgetting about the fact that I’m wearing boots five sizes too big and have hair full of grain.
Eventually, we break apart with laughter on both our lips, and it’s messy and sweet and exactly where I want to be.
Because I don’t want serious or commitment.
I want casual. I want easygoing. I want freedom.
Frankly, this right here is the only kind of complicated I can handle right now.
I rest my forehead against his and let out a small breath. “Also,” I whisper quietly. “How about we keep this between us?”
“Ah.” A slow smile starts on his lips. “You sure do love the thrill of playing that ‘we’re just acquaintances’ game, huh?”
“Maybe a little.” I giggle. “But also, I fear Eileen Martin would run out of ink if Red Bridge knew that I was hooking up with the most eligible bachelor in town. I mean, there’d be daily front-page spreads, Tad.”
That earns an amused chuckle from him. “You’re right,” he says. “Wouldn’t want to bankrupt the Red Bridge Chronicle.”
And when he kisses me again, it feels as if we’ve made a pact.
But it’s not love or promises or commitment.
It’s just a secret.
A distraction.
A very spontaneous kind of freedom.
And I tuck my chin against his shoulder, smelling dirt and cedar and the faint ghost of his shampoo, and I let myself believe that a very casual, playful world with Tad Hanson is exactly what I need.
17
Tad
Friday, January 22nd
It’s been two days since Breezy Bishop and I made our little pact—casual, discreet, and absolutely nobody’s business but ours.
Two days of pretending to be acquaintances in public and trading the filthiest text messages imaginable in private. Two days in which my phone lights up with something from her, and I’m instantly fifteen kinds of distracted.
It’s been blissfully quiet on the farm, which is a miracle in itself. No missing sheep. No broken fences. No feed shed fiascos.
Mabel had her vet appointment this morning, and Dr. Michael said her pregnancy’s right on track. She’s due to deliver her lambs toward the end of February.
And Randy didn’t say a word about finding Breezy at my house the other morning, which tells me one of two things: either he didn’t really notice, or he doesn’t really care. Frankly, both options work great for me.
My brother is in Molene today, sorting through tax paperwork with our accountant, and I managed to get most of the farm chores finished this morning before taking Mabel to see Dr. Michael. She’s currently sound asleep in the trailer, and I decided to make a pit stop at CAFFEINE to grab some coffees for Randy and me before heading back home.