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)
“Tom and Betsy?”
“Yep.” She nods. “Tom and Betsy.”
Breezy sets down her mug and slides closer to me until her knee is propped up on my thigh and the hem of my flannel rides up her leg. Her hand rests on my sternum, just above where my heart is already starting to increase in rhythm inside my chest.
She doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at me. Really looks. The kind of look that feels like she might have the power to see past everything I’ve built to keep people out.
Her voice is soft when it finally comes. “You make it easy to forget what I came here to figure out.”
“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” Because she does the exact same thing for me.
Her mouth curves up, but it’s not a smile; it’s something smaller and more fragile.
She responds by leaning in and kissing me.
It’s not the grab-and-burn of the hallway or the kitchen or every other place we’ve tried to outrun ourselves. It’s slower. Steadier. More intense in a way I can’t put my finger on.
Heat follows, because it always does. She tastes like chocolate and whiskey and the kind of trouble you choose on purpose, but underneath it all runs an undeniable current. One that I won’t let myself name.
The snowstorm continues to drum on the roof. Somewhere far off, a plow passes.
But inside the house, it’s just us.
Breezy smiles against my mouth, and I kiss her deeper as I rise to my feet and carry her into my bedroom.
I want and need to be with her tonight. And tomorrow night. And the next night after that.
Every time I’m with her, every time I touch her, every time I kiss her, the world feels lighter.
For a man who swore he’d never get too close to the sun again, I know I’m doing a piss-poor job of keeping that promise.
But it’s like I can’t fucking stop.
24
Breezy
Tuesday, March 9th
Norah has been nudging me about this headhunter call.
She hasn’t exactly been pushy, but she’s definitely offered quiet reminders and soft encouragements, all while juggling Bennett’s stuff and Autumn’s adorable chaos with the kind of grace that makes me wonder if she ever actually sleeps.
“Just take the call, Breeze,” she’d said more than once. “It doesn’t hurt to listen.”
And I brushed her off each time, because why would I want to listen? I walked away from that world. Technically, I buried it with my father when he buried me in his betrayal.
But the art world isn’t letting me off the hook so easily. Everyone knows my name. Everyone knows what I built.
And according to Norah, who still very much has her toes dipped in the art world water because of Bennett, there are a lot of people out there who want a piece of me now that Bishop Galleries stopped calling dibs.
“I don’t know how that headhunter got my number or email, but with the way he’s been hounding me over getting a chance to speak with you, I feel like you need to give in to his desperation. Maybe use it to your advantage, you know? He probably has some opportunities worth hearing. Maybe even ones that spur a little excitement in ya.”
That was the one statement that came out of Norah’s mouth that ended in me scheduling a Zoom appointment with the headhunter who wouldn’t leave my sister-in-law alone.
Though, I did let two more weeks of time fly by in Red Bridge before I hit send on the email to him. And fourteen more days in this small town have been a blur of snow and Tad Hanson. Nights in his bed and mornings sneaking back across the yard and afternoons lost to laughter in his barn.
Besides when I’m spending time with Autumn, most of my time goes to him.
Sleeves rolled up, boots borrowed, and pretending I know what the hell I’m doing, I’ve even started hanging around the Hanson Farm during the day without trying to hide it.
Randy eyed me suspiciously the first time I showed up, leaning against a fence post like I might faint if a sheep sneezed too hard. But Tad shrugged and said, “Breezy has been kind enough to offer us some temporary help while she’s in town.”
I’m not so sure Randy bought that story, but he didn’t question it. He went about his usual farming business. Though, he’s yet to assign me any chores or tasks. If anything, he keeps his distance.
And my fake gig as a temporary helper on the Hanson Farm has become the official story.
When I started disappearing for full days and coming home smelling faintly like hay and sin, I had to tell Bennett and Norah something.
So now they think I’m helping the Hanson brothers with farm chores like some kind of city-girl-does-manual-labor redemption arc. It honestly sounds like a plot from a Hallmark movie more than real life, but whatever.