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 I try not to think too hard about the fact that having Breezy here keeps my ghosts at bay better than anything else ever has. Or the fact that when she does eventually leave Red Bridge, I’m not sure how that’ll feel.
“Yeah. Okay. I think that’s enough sad shit for the night,” Breezy says, and she leans up to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “Sorry for being a Debbie Downer for a moment there.”
“I’m glad you told me,” I say, meaning every word, even though I know it’s dangerous for me to feel anything when it comes to her.
“And I’m glad you told me about your mom.”
All I can do is nod.
“By the way,” she says and surprises me by reaching up and literally booping me on the nose like you would a cute dog. “We do have something important we need to discuss. Something very serious, actually.”
I laugh, but it’s a little nervous. “Okay…”
“We need code names.”
I blink. “Code names?”
She grins up at me, and her face is all teasing sparkle again. “You know, for risky situations like when you have to call me on the phone and I’m in public. That way, I can be, like, ‘Oh hey, Tom, so glad you called,’ and all the Red Bridge busybodies will be none the wiser.”
“Tom?” I laugh. “That’s my code name?”
“I figured you’d like it better than Farm Daddy.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Plus, you pull off being a Tom. Reliable. Steady. Probably owns too many flannels.”
“I’m not so sure I’d peg me as reliable, but if I’m Tom, who are you?”
“Hmmm.” She tilts her head to the side and taps her chin. “Has to be something close to Breezy. Belinda?”
“Feels too church choir.”
“Bianca?”
“Too fancy. I don’t think Bianca would want anything to do with reliable Tom.”
“Oh, I know.” Her grin widens. “Betsy. Short and sweet and kind of perfect, if you ask me.”
“Betsy,” I repeat, liking the way it slides off the tongue. “Okay, Betsy. How do you feel about a round two with Tom?”
“A round two?” She giggles, and I catch the sound with my mouth as I kiss the corner of her smile.
“Oh, come on, Betsy. You know Tom’s dependable,” I murmur against her lips. “You can always count on him.”
That makes her laugh, full and unguarded, before she pulls me in and kisses me deep.
And I let myself get lost in it. In her. In the way she looks at me like I’m not broken Tad, but steady, dependable Tom.
Which, yeah, is a dangerous fucking thing for a man like me to do.
22
Breezy
Friday, February 19th
The past month and a half that I’ve been flitting aimlessly about this small town, I seem to end more nights in Tad Hanson’s bed than anywhere else. But tonight, I’m spending the evening at The Country Club.
And when I say seem to, that’s clearly me lying to myself because let’s be real, my primary hobby has been being a freak in his sheets.
Sex with Tad Hanson is out-of-this-world addictive.
Apparently, so are midnight pancakes with Tad. And dinner with Tad. And TV with Tad…
What can I say? The man’s stupidly charming, dangerously easy to be around, and I’m a woman who’s overdue for some fun.
Tonight, the bar’s still packed, but instead of karaoke and beer-soaked dancing, it’s poker night.
The lights aren’t as dim as they usually are, and green felt-top tables are filling every nook and cranny of the bar. The hum of conversation blends with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of cards.
Poker night in Red Bridge is as close as you get to high society around here, and it’s all for a good cause. Betty Bagley, self-appointed queen of small-town fundraising, announced earlier that tonight’s buy-ins and side pots are going to “Operation Playground.” Red Bridge Elementary’s swings are evidently so rusted they look like tetanus on chains, and the town decided poker might be the fastest way to get the kids something safe to climb on.
One might’ve thought a bake sale would be more appropriate, but the people in this small town apparently prefer gambling to cupcakes.
My table is a mix of family and familiar faces. My brother Bennett sits to my left, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Norah leans comfortably against him, playing with her chips like she’s been doing this her whole life. Josie Harris is across from me, bright-eyed and competitive, and her husband Clay is dealing. Sheriff Peeler, Betty Bagley, Eileen Martin, and a few other townsfolk are at the next table over, already bickering about rules, and Marty Higgins is behind the bar, his wife Sheila perched on a stool beside him.
“Breezy, you play a lot of Texas Hold’em in New York?” Tad asks as he folds his hand to Clay. He’s two seats down from me, and his broad shoulders are framed in flannel, while his forearms showcase strength from beneath rolled-up sleeves. His favorite faded ball cap is turned backward—which, damn, I’m starting to understand the appeal. Basically, he looks like sin in denim, and it’s no wonder half the women in this small town want a piece.