Page 24 of Where I Should’ve Been

“Oh, trust me. There is.” I drop my fork, sit back, and spread my hands wide. “A truckload of baggage, with three more trailers and a cargo ship behind it.”

His grin deepens. “Baggage is the number one contributor for moves to Red Bridge, you know.”

“Oh my God. Me? Move to Red Bridge?” That earns him a sharp and genuine laugh. “I mean, come on, Farmer Tad, do I look like a Red Bridge gal?”

“Not exactly,” he admits, eyes twinkling. “But there’s more than one way to shear a sheep, you know?”

“Do you even know what the fuck you’re saying right now?”

“All I’m saying,” he drawls, leaning closer, “is you look like the kind of person who can fit in anywhere. If you’re looking for refuge, Red Bridge isn’t a bad place to blend, you know?” He snorts. “Though, you’re a little too pretty to blend anywhere, I suppose.”

The compliment lands harder than it should. Warmth creeps up my neck, and for the first time in weeks, I don’t feel like a woman who’s lost everything. I feel seen. Wanted, even.

I can’t remember the last time I actually felt desired by a man. Has it been months? Years? I don’t freaking know. My head’s been up the gallery’s ass for so long that I hardly know who I am without it.

“I’m not staying in Red Bridge. This is just temporary until… I figure some stuff out,” I contend.

“Suit yourself.” He smiles, but this one isn’t as easy as the others. “I’ll never judge someone for handling anything they’re going through in the exact way they need to.” He takes another drink of coffee, rubbing his beard dry with a napkin when some escapes the rim of the mug. “But, hey, while you’re here, feel free to call on me anytime. You’ve got a friend in me…”

Visions of Tad Hanson and me spending time together are suddenly way too vivid. His easy laugh. His broad shoulders filling this booth. The way he doesn’t take himself too seriously and how he has this way of making everything feel fun. It wouldn’t take much to turn friends into something a hell of a lot more intimate.

But is that really so bad?

I mean, goodness knows, I deserve a little fun in my life these days. I deserve to flirt and date and laugh. And find out what Tad Hanson’s big reputation really entails.

Prying eyes pull me out of the spell when a glass tips over and Sheriff Peeler curses. Eileen Martin shushes him, her notepad balanced on her knee and at the ready, while Mayor Wallace hurriedly wipes at spilled ice and soda.

I give our main stalker the stink eye before returning my attention to Tad. “I just now cleared up the rumor that I slept with you and your brother. The last thing I need is to feed that shark Eileen more material.”

“I don’t know, Breezy,” he says through a smile. “With the way you went all New York mob boss on her at the Chronicle, I feel like she’s going to keep her distance from you.”

“She’s literally in this diner, right now, taking notes for her next supposed exposé.”

His brow furrows as he follows my gaze over his shoulder to the table of busybodies. A shocked laugh leaves his lungs. “Gotta admire that level of tenacity just a little.”

I roll my eyes, and he chuckles.

“I can be tenacious too, you know?” He says it with that easy trademark grin of his, the one I know for a fact works on half the women in town. But his eyes don’t calculate or assess or take. I’m no pawn or playmaker for him—I’m a shot at a good time.

He gets up from his side of the booth and tosses a wad of money down on the table. His smile is a goodbye—tinged with a hopeful plea of see you later. “Whatever you need, Breeze. My door’s open any time.”

Maybe I still have a little spark left under all the burnout and heartbreak and betrayal after all.

Still, logic butts in. Sure, my bank account is fine, but I’m unemployed, emotionally scrambled, and living like some homeless vagabond in Bennett and Norah’s house. If I should be doing anything right now, it’s focusing on piecing my life back together.

Spending more time with a sheep farmer has bad idea written all over it in bold Sharpie.

But then again…bad ideas are the only kind I haven’t tried.

9

Tad

Friday, January 15th

Friday nights in Red Bridge aren’t glamorous. Not for me anyway.

Most weeks, I’d be sitting on a stool at The Country Club right about now, nursing a whiskey or three, letting the live band or local karaoke singers drown out the noise in my head. Half the town is usually there, ringing in the weekend with some fun. And I willingly play along, being the charming, happy, talkative Tad they all know and love, while I use alcohol to momentarily forget all the shit that eats away at me.