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)
It’s also highly possible that I’ve noticed a certain beautiful woman has made CAFFEINE part of her morning routine and I’m hoping to see her.
I push through the coffee shop door, stomp the snow off my boots, and smile over the fact that it’s not even ten in the morning and Josie has outlaw country blaring from the speakers. The smell of cinnamon and espresso hits my nostrils, and it feels like half the town is here trying to look busy while they drink their coffee.
“Morning, Tad,” Josie calls from behind the counter. “You want the usual, or you want to cheat on yourself with a fancy foam-topped latte?”
“Let’s not make me a liar,” I say. “Two drip coffees. And extra cream to one and make sure you write Joyless on it.”
She laughs. “I take it Joyless is Randy.”
I grin and nod. “Consider it a very loving nickname.”
While she grinds, I scan the coffee shop out of habit. Though, at first, I’m mostly just looking for Eileen Martin. A few days ago, she ambushed me by the cream station to ask if sheep experience seasonal affective disorder. I said yes, which was then published in the Red Bridge Chronicle like it’s fact and not utter bullshit I just spouted to get her off my ass.
And that’s when I see her.
Breezy.
She’s sitting at a corner table, tucked away from the crowd. Her laptop is open, and her phone is next to her like it’s expecting VIP calls. She looks polished, perfect, and nothing like the woman from two nights ago who had my sheets twisted around her legs while my mouth was on her pussy.
“Order for Tad and Joyless!” Josie slides my drinks across the counter.
“Thanks,” I say, grabbing both cups before my grin can give me away.
I take a slow sip, glance Breezy’s way one more time, and wander straight over toward the woman I can’t keep my eyes and thoughts off.
When she finally notices me standing there, I let a grin pull slowly across my face. “Well, Breezy Bishop,” I say lightly, “fancy running into you.”
She stays cool as a fucking cucumber with only a small but friendly smile lifting the corners of her lips. “Mr. Hanson. You want to sit?”
“I wouldn’t want to interrupt…”
“You’re not. I was just answering emails.” Her smile is polite but sharp-edged. “Always a pleasure to chat with an…acquaintance.”
Fuck me. I don’t know why this game is so fun, but it is.
I slide into the seat across from her, trying like hell to look casual while my mind flashes straight back to the way her body arched under mine two nights ago. The taste of her still feels branded onto my tongue.
But maybe that’s exactly what makes this game so fucking fun.
Because I know exactly what Breezy Bishop’s pussy tastes like on my tongue. Because I’m actually imagining it right now. And because I know every inch of what she’s pretending not to think about.
“Acquaintance,” I echo, leaning back in my chair with a grin I can’t quite fight off. “That’s a good word for us.”
She tilts her head. “I thought so. Very casual, you know? Like us.”
Her tone is light, but her eyes are pure challenge. There’s a heat there that doesn’t belong in a public coffee shop.
The air between us tightens. I can smell her perfume from across the table, and her leg shifts under it, the fabric of her jeans brushing just slightly against mine. It’s enough to make every rational thought in my head scatter like startled birds.
“Casual,” I murmur. “Sure.”
Before I can push it, before I can lean in and remind her just how casual the other night wasn’t, a familiar voice cuts clean through the tension.
“Morning, Beatrice. Morning, Hanson.”
I look up to find Sheriff Peeler standing at the edge of our table. His hat is in his hand, and he’s beaming like a man with zero awareness that he just stepped between two people on the verge of combusting.
“Sheriff,” Breezy greets in a crisp, polite voice.
“Sheep staying where they belong, Hanson?” he asks, grinning down at me with crossed arms.
“Always,” I lie and smile.
Peeler launches into a story about misplaced traffic cones out on Route 7. Breezy listens with picture-perfect grace, chin resting on her hand, lashes low, but I can see the pulse fluttering at her throat. She knows exactly what I’m thinking.
And I know she’s waiting for me to prove it.
While Peeler rambles, I slide my phone from my pocket beneath the table and type fast.
Me: All I can think about right now is how wet you got last time I had my mouth on you.
Her phone lights up. She doesn’t miss a beat with the sheriff, but the faintest pink creeps into her cheeks.
Breezy: Big words for a man pretending to care about traffic cones. Are you all talk, Hanson?