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 did not twerk.”
“Whatever you say, Farm Daddy.”
She’s still smiling, but her eyes flicker with something she’s not saying. A thought neither of us wants to name.
Suddenly, my heart starts pounding so hard it’s like it wants to dive-bomb straight out of my chest. It’s a strange feeling. A confusing fucking feeling. It’s the kind of feeling that digs under your ribs and threatens to mean something.
I immediately shove it down.
And I slide a few pancakes and bacon onto a plate and walk over to the kitchen island to hand it to her. But before I can stop myself, the question just slides off my fucking tongue. “You made any decisions about Red Bridge?”
She tilts her head to the side. “Decisions?”
“Yeah.” I grab my coffee and take a sip, pretending the question doesn’t matter. “You’ve been here, what…two weeks now? Just wondering how long I get to feed you midnight pancakes before you run off back to the city.”
She looks at me for a long beat until she exhales a quiet laugh. “Honestly? I don’t know. My life’s kind of…a mess right now. Nothing feels steady enough to plan past tomorrow. I’m still figuring out a new and exciting direction to go in.” She shrugs and spears a bite of pancake. “So, I guess I’ll stay until I figure out where I should go or where I’m supposed to be. Or until you run out of bacon.”
It’s a simple answer, but it lands harder than it should.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just curiosity. Just conversation.
She’s free to leave whenever she wants. Hell, that’s the whole point of this. No strings. No expectations.
Still, there’s this weird heaviness in my chest that I can’t quite shake.
I ignore it and pour more batter into the skillet. “Guess I’d better stock up on bacon, then,” I say and flash a teasing smirk I don’t quite feel.
“That sounds like a good plan,” she says through a giggle and mouthful of pancakes. “By the way, Farm Daddy, midnight pancakes taste pretty dang good.”
“Farm Daddy.” I groan. “Don’t tell me that Breezy trademark is sticking.”
“I don’t know,” she singsongs. “It truly has a nice ring to it. Really rolls off the tongue, you know?”
A laugh jumps from my throat, and the heaviness that sits on my shoulders dissipates. And when I turn to look at her and find her still sitting on my counter with her legs swinging adorably and her bare thighs peeking out from my oversized flannel shirt, I set the spatula down, flip off the stove, and cross the room to her.
I grip her thighs in my big hands and spread them wide so I can step between them.
“What about the pancakes?” she asks, searching my eyes curiously.
“I’m not hungry for pancakes,” I murmur and kiss her deeply. Her mouth tastes like maple syrup and bacon and something I shouldn’t want as much as I do.
Something I should be running far away from.
Something that feels a lot like the one thing I swore to myself I’d never do again.
But I’m powerless when she starts kissing me back and threads her fingers into my hair.
I’m completely entranced when she wraps her thighs around my waist and lets me guide her back into my bedroom.
And even though this is starting to feel less like distraction and more like pure, unfiltered trouble, I let myself drown in her anyway.
20
Breezy
Sunday, January 31st
Another week slips by before I even realize it.
Seven more days in Red Bridge, and most of them end the same way—me tiptoeing across Bennett’s snow-covered yard long after everyone else is asleep and ending up in Tad Hanson’s bed. Sure, sneaking out feels pretty dang juvenile for a thirty-nine-year-old woman, but the heat of Tad’s hands and how fucking good he makes me feel makes it possible for me to ignore that fact.
Of course, I could tell Bennett about it. I could definitely tell Norah. I mean, I’m a grown fucking woman. Hell, I’m older than both of them. But this is something I want to keep to myself.
The Red Bridge cemetery is about a two-mile drive from Norah and Bennett’s house, and it’s a quiet, serene stretch of rolling hills and leafless maples bowed under the weight of frost.
When we step out of the car, the morning chill surrounds us, and our breath clouds the air as we follow the gravel path that winds between the headstones. The quiet winter morning is so silent it presses into my ears and makes every crunch of gravel under our shoes feel loud.
Bennett carries Autumn on his hip, Norah is beside him, and I’m beside Norah. The four of us move slowly across the stone path until we stop at the gravestone I’ve seen a hundred times but will never get used to seeing.
Summer Beatrice Bishop
Her name is carved deep, the letters filled with shadows and ice. I kneel, brushing away a drift of snow, and the chill bites through my glove. For a moment, I swear it’s like she’s still here, like I can feel her small hand lacing with my fingers again.