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)
And my nights? Well, they’re filled with Tad Hanson.
Maybe staying in Red Bridge a little while longer is one of those bad ideas I should entertain…
19
Tad
Monday, January 25th
It’s pushing two in the morning, and my kitchen smells like bacon and batter.
Breezy showed up at my door around midnight, all New York confidence in a snow-dusted coat, and I barely got the lock turned before she was pressed against me. There was no time for food then; we barely made it to my bed.
But two hours later, her head was still on my chest when her stomach let out a growl loud enough to make both of us laugh.
“I didn’t really eat today. My little Autumn kept me busy,” she admitted, sheepish.
So here I am, standing over a skillet in nothing but boxer briefs, flipping bacon like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
The last time you felt so domesticated—
I clear my throat and cut off that thought before it can grow legs and run me into the ground.
“Tell me, Hot Farmer Tad, do you always cook in your underwear?” Breezy asks, and the playful humor in her voice has me glancing over my shoulder to find her sitting on my kitchen island, legs swinging and looking too damn good. Her hair is messy, and one of my flannels is the only thing that covers her body. She’s holding a chipped coffee mug like it’s fine china, and an adorable little smile tugs at her lips as she watches me cook.
“Hot Farmer Tad?”
“Hey,” she says with a little shrug of her shoulders. “It’s what all the single ladies of Red Bridge call you.”
“Bullshit.”
“Oh, come on, Tad,” she retorts on a snort. “You and I both know it’s the truth. You’re a hot commodity around these parts. Hell, you’ve been referred to as Studly McSheepman in the newspaper.”
“Fuck me,” I mutter and run my free hand through my hair. “That’s worse than Hot Farmer Tad.”
Breezy laughs.
“And to answer your question, I only cook in my underwear when I’ve got company to impress.” I flip the bacon and wince a little when the grease pops onto my bare stomach. “By the way, welcome to late-night breakfast at Casa de Studly Sheepman. There are no Michelin stars, but I’ve got maple syrup and orange juice in the fridge,” I add with a wink. “It’s vintage, last Tuesday.”
She laughs again, and God, I’d put the sizzling bacon straight on my chest to hear that sound again.
I pour batter into the pan, focusing on keeping it round, though my eyes keep flicking back to her. Because fuck, Breezy is beautiful. Sleek black hair falling loose, bare thighs peeking out from under my flannel, and toes curling against the counter like she’s been here a hundred times. Like she belongs here.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?” she asks with a cute grin kissing her lips. “I’ve never really painted you as a cooking kind of a guy.”
“Are you questioning my pancake skills?”
“Judging by the state of your stove…” Her gaze drops pointedly to the grease splatters. “I think it’s a fair question.”
I waggle the spatula. “Careful, woman. You mock the chef, you don’t get pancakes.”
“Oh no,” she says and dramatically moves her hand to her chest. “How will I survive without your slightly burned delicacies?”
“Breezy, baby, I’m a pro at pancakes. Trust the process.” I flip the pancake. Of course, it arcs too high, lands half off the pan, and Breezy covers her mouth to stifle a giggle.
“Pro status, huh?”
“I’m just getting warmed up.” I grin, toss the pancake in the trash, and pour another onto the skillet.
She watches me, smile softening, and after a beat, she says quietly, “I like this.”
“Like what?” I glance at her over my shoulder. “Burned pancakes?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “No. This.” She gestures at me, the stove, the ridiculous scene. “You making me food in your boxers at two in the morning.”
Something sharp pulls in my chest, but I play it off by shaking my ass at her. “Careful, Breeze. If you keep complimenting my ass, it might start sounding like you want to keep me and my sexy boxer briefs around for more than breakfast.”
And I punctuate that statement by slapping the spatula on my own ass.
Her laugh is quick and deflecting. “Don’t push it, Farm Daddy.”
“Farm Daddy?” I question through a groan. “If you tell me Eileen has been calling me that in the fucking newspaper, I swear I’ll croak right here.”
“Nah.” She grins mischievously. “That’s a Breezy trademark. I use it in my secret diary.” Her smile is equal parts teasing and sarcastic. “And of course, when I doodle Mrs. Farm Daddy all over my notebooks in study hall.”
“You’re such a smartass,” I tell her, and she just keeps on smiling.
“I might be a smartass, but I’m a very lovable smartass, you know?” she retorts with a wink. “Pretty sure that’s why you’re currently twerking and cooking for me in your boxers.”