Page 22 of Where I Should’ve Been

“You want me to give you two bags?”

“Honestly, Lance, I just want to pay and get out of here.”

“Dang, bro,” Lance answers with a roll of his eyes. “Just trying to be friendly. You in a bad mood or something?”

I have no words. Honestly. No words. But I try like hell to be nice. “Just one bag will be great, Lance. Thank you.”

I’m grateful when the charade finally ends and Lance hands me my bag and receipt, but the article burns a bright hole in any feelings of relief.

Time to go to the source.

…

The Red Bridge Chronicle sits right next to Fran’s flower shop because nothing says “Get well soon” like a side of gossip. And, because this is Red Bridge, the Chronicle shares its office with Tracey-Jayne Lintott, the town’s self-proclaimed pet psychic. People bring in their cats and dogs to read their horoscopes or figure out why their pets are mad at them, and I’m pretty sure, if Randy had his way, we’d be using her to hone our craft for sheep farming by now.

I, however, have no desire to get good at the sheep or the farming.

When I push the door open, the smell of flowers mixes with the smell of wet dog. Three golden retrievers are barking in a waiting area, a tabby cat hisses from inside its carrier, and a woman in a red sweater is wiping tears from her eyes while Tracey murmurs about her pug’s “emotional blockage.”

It’s all par for the course until Breezy’s voice cuts through the chaos like a whip.

“You can’t just make up lies about me, Eileen! It’s illegal!”

I round the corner to the reception area of the paper, and when she comes into view, she leaves an impression. Spine straight, her fancy boots making a comeback with a new and complicated sweater, and eyes blazing, she jabs her finger at Eileen across the desk. She’s polished and beautiful and furious, and I feel an involuntary tingle in my dick.

Eileen, though, is calm and coy, tapping her pen against her notepad.

“But is it a lie, Beatrice?” Eileen challenges. “You’ve only been in town a few days, and I’ve seen you with both Hanson brothers.”

“Seen with, sure. Bedded, I think not!”

As Eileen’s eyes cut past Breezy and latch on to me, she smiles. “Oh, well. Hello, Tad Hanson. Perfect timing. Would you like to offer your side of things?”

I gulp. “My…side of things?”

“Yes. Your side of things.” She nods toward the crumpled paper in my hands. “I take it you read today’s cutting-edge news story.”

“Cutting-edge news story?” Breezy scoffs. “Give me a break, Eileen. This isn’t news. It’s trash slander! Outright lies.”

Eileen purses her lips. “Tad?”

“Well…I… Well…uh…I mean… I was pretty drunk that night… I don’t think anything happened. I mean—”

“Tad!” Breezy snaps. “We didn’t sleep together.”

I blink. “We didn’t?”

“Oh my God, no! We didn’t. You were hammered drunk. I was sober. We slept—separately.”

Eileen poises her pen at her notepad, eager to take down all the new details, and Breezy smacks it out of her hand. “Don’t even go there, Martin. If you print one more lie about me in your little paper, you’ll be eating your notepad for breakfast.”

Eileen gasps. “Are you threatening a journalist, Beatrice Bishop? A pillar of the free press?”

Breezy rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. The whole damn town knows you make up your sources. Normally, it’s cute. I mean, no one’s life is ruined by a scathing article about where the grocery store gets oranges. But this? No way. This ends now. I’m watching you.”

Eileen huffs. “I should call Sheriff Peeler.”

Breezy smirks. “Oh, I dare you. But maybe remind him about that little exposé you ran on how he naps at the Red Bridge Inn during shifts?”