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)
A month ago, I would’ve been paranoid that everyone was going to see through our “we’re just friendly game,” but after my teasing conversation with Eileen and the fact that I’m dancing with Tad Hanson in the middle of a town festival that isn’t even real, that must prove I currently do not give a single shit what people think.
Maybe it’s the two glasses of wine I consumed when I got here.
Maybe it’s the ambiance of this silly festival.
Or maybe it’s the man who looks like sin in a pair of jeans and is currently smiling down at me as he twirls me around the floor.
Tad’s hand brushes my hip as he spins me around again, his boots pounding the beat, and I try like hell to keep up. We fall into the rhythm badly, but we’re laughing so hard it doesn’t matter.
And I’m not thinking about New York. Or the galleries. Or the headhunter who emailed me again this morning with job offers in Milan and Chicago and Rome. I’m just…here.
Living. Laughing. Feeling.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it at first, until Tad dips me low on the last note and the crowd erupts in claps and whistles. When I sneak a glance, the screen glows with a name I don’t want to see.
Logan: What do I have to do to get you to talk to me, Breeze?
I slide the phone back into my pocket, shoving Logan back into the dark corners of my brain. Because tonight, under these string lights with fiddle music roaring and Tad’s grin daring me to keep up, I don’t owe anyone anything.
This night belongs to me.
The song changes, the beat faster, and Tad leans down so close his lips brush my temple. “Need you in my bed tonight.”
It’s more of a demand than anything else. But you fucking love it.
I’ve never been anywhere that actually felt like home. When I was a teenage girl and my parents were going through a divorce, I chose to go to boarding school to escape the madness. And as an adult, my life in New York wasn’t exactly cozy. Busy? Definitely. But cozy in a way that it makes you want to curl up on the couch and stay a while? Not even close.
But this small town is starting to crawl under my skin. It’s starting to pull me under the comfy quilt of its quirky charm and funny gossip and easy chatter and sexy sheep farmers whose laughs and smiles and dirty talk breathe some life into my veins.
And oh man, I can’t decide if that’s something I should feel happy about or straight-up terrified.
27
Tad
Saturday, March 13th
The house feels wrong without her.
But it’s not because Breezy’s loud in a way that demands attention. Hell, she’s graceful as fuck. Half the time, she moves like a cat, barefoot and soft, humming nonsense under her breath while she raids my fridge or steals my clothes.
I don’t know what it is about her presence in my house, but the place breathes differently whenever she’s around.
Tonight, the air feels too thin. Like half the oxygen has been sucked out.
Norah and Bennett had to make an overnight run for some art thing for Bennett, so Breezy’s at their house in the room Autumn calls “Bee’s woom,” probably with a toddler foot dug into her ribs and a cartoon murmuring low on the television.
And I’ve gotten so accustomed to her being in my bed that I kind of feel like one of my limbs is missing, but I tell myself it’s good she’s spending time with her niece.
Still, the quiet sits on my chest like a brick house.
I try to make myself useful. I try to find remnants of my old evening routine before Breezy started staying here most nights. I make a lap through the kitchen and open the fridge, but when nothing inside it urges an appetite, I close it.
Though I keep standing in the kitchen anyway, I have zero desire for food. I even grab my phone off the counter and see if I have any missed messages from Breezy. There’s nothing to be found besides my lock screen with the time and date staring me back in the face.
Saturday, March 13th
11:58 p.m.
My tongue goes dry.
I look away from my phone. And then I look back. 11:59 p.m.
The house hums with noise—the fridge, the baseboards, and the wind sweeping across the roof. Under it, though, something starts up in me I don’t invite. A faint ringing. Heat where there isn’t any. The sharpest whiff of smoke that is absolutely not in my kitchen, not in this life.
I wish Breezy would text me something silly to yank me out of it. A simple Hey, Farm Daddy would do. But when I thumb my phone awake again and pull up our ongoing text thread, the photo of Autumn in tiny cowgirl boots she sent me a few hours ago stares back at me. Still, my fingers hover over the keyboard long enough to feel stupid about it until I set the phone back on my counter.