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)
Fiona Blue, the children’s librarian at the Red Bridge Library, is one of them.
“Tad Hanson,” a voice sings, sweet as syrup. For me, it’s the kind that sticks to your fingers after sticking to the bottle, but I’m sure it’d taste good if the feeling didn’t annoy me so much.
Fiona makes her way up the sidewalk, having spotted me the moment I stepped out of my truck in front of CAFFEINE, wearing a fuzzy pink coat, a wool hat with antennae that look suspiciously like butterfly feelers, and a smile that could power the town’s Christmas lights.
“Well, if it isn’t our town’s most eligible sheep farmer,” she teases, adjusting the strap of her oversized tote bag.
“Morning, Fiona,” I greet, smiling over at her. “What’s the costume this week? I’m guessing caterpillar season’s over?”
She’s a local celebrity for the performances she puts on in the library every Wednesday afternoon, the town’s unofficial morale booster, and her pretty face is the number one reason all the single dads show up to toddler story time.
She laughs. “Yep. This week is all about the butterfly. And next week is ladybug bonanza, so prepare yourself for lots of polka dots.”
“I’ll alert my sheep,” I reply. “They’re real fashion-forward these days.”
“You know, Tad, you should come read to the kids sometime,” she says, and her eyes are bright as she briefly puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “They’d love it. You could bring a lamb. You’d be the hit of the century.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but my sheep aren’t much for behaving.”
“I think that’s just because your sheep like to be around people.” Fiona winks. “But Sheep Farmer Tad at story time? You’d steal the show. But then again, you always do.”
Her voice drips with flirtation, and I smile politely out of habit. Fiona’s sweet—hell, everyone in town loves her—but my brain is doing its usual autopilot thing. The kind of natural gear that knows when to smile and when to charm but isn’t looking to get anywhere.
“Just think about it, okay?” Fiona says and reaches out to squeeze my bicep. “And also, maybe, if you ever want to grab a bite to eat or something, let me know.”
I smile and nod, letting her down easy. It’s not her fault I’m unattainable for anything other than a quick shag. “That’s very kind of you. Pretty sure ol’ Randy’s got a complex about me eating dinner without him, though. Thanks for the offer.”
“Pity you’re always so busy, honey. You’d be surprised just how kind I can be for the right man.” She winks. “I’ll see ya around.” Marking her exit with a floppy wave, she flutters off toward the library, her butterfly hat bobbing in the cool winter air.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and head for the door of CAFFEINE.
It’s warm inside, smells like espresso and cinnamon rolls, and the bell above the door chimes as I walk in. Most mornings, it’s crowded, but that’s probably because half of Red Bridge stops here before work. It’s also where the newspaper bulldog Eileen Martin usually tracks me down, notebook in hand, claiming she needs “just a few quotes” for the Red Bridge Chronicle. I don’t know how one woman can come up with that many questions about sheep, but I suppose the motivation of a chance to check out my ass is a creative catalyst.
I don’t really mind—I’ve taken to embellishing my answers for fun just to see if she’ll print them—but I’m thankful not to see her in here today.
After stomping snow off my boots on the rug, I get in line behind Sheriff Peeler, who’s so busy complaining to Marty Higgins, one of the bartenders from Clay Harris’s bar, The Country Club, about the Red Bridge youth, he’s forgotten the art of volume control.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Marty,” Sheriff Peeler says through a shake of his head. “The damn kids wrote obscene words in the snow outside town hall. Took Deputy Felix two hours of plowing to remove it all, and Betty Bagley just about broke her hip when she saw the word d-i-c-k on her way to Melba’s bakery to get some pastries.”
“Pete, I’m pretty sure the youth haven’t changed.” Marty chuckles. “I recall hearing some stories about your wild teenage days.”
Sheriff Pete huffs. “Things were different back then. We didn’t have any fancy-schmancy cell phones. Stirring up a little trouble was the only damn thing to do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Marty grins. “Speaking of which, you gonna be in to stir up some trouble at the bar later?”
Besides The Diner and CAFFEINE, The Country Club is a top Red Bridge hangout spot for locals, so I’m not surprised when the sheriff says yes. It’s a home away from home for many of us—probably more than it should be. But far be it for me to judge anyone else for the overconsumption of Clay’s alcohol. I’m a lot of things, but I try like hell not to be a hypocrite.