Page 90 of Where I Should’ve Been

I climb inside and fire it up, flicking the switch to turn on my headlights only after I’ve pointed myself away from Norah and Bennett’s house.

I don’t think much about a plan, and when my truck seemingly pulls itself into the parking lot of The Country Club under ten minutes later, I chalk it up to muscle memory and nothing more.

The number of nights I’ve spent drinking my sorrows away at this bar could earn me a badge if that were the sort of thing Clay got off on giving out—sidenote, it’s not. But over the past two months, that’s clearly changed. Nights I used to spend at the bar have been spent at my house with Breezy instead. Well, besides a week ago, when I let myself drown in my fucking misery.

And right now, sitting with my belly to the bar tonight feels odd. Wrong, even.

Sheriff Peeler gives me a nod from the other end, and I jerk my chin back, focusing on the soda I just ordered to avoid all the other eyes.

Clay shuffles in and out from the back room, dragging in cases of beer for the inevitable weekend rush that’s a constant when you’re the only watering hole in a twenty-five-mile radius, and Marty works the bar, filling orders and giving shit where appropriate.

Marty’s wife, Sheila, is ponied up on one of the stools to my right, her low-cut top and tight jeans screaming “young mother out on the town for the night” in a way that makes me reflective.

The endless nights of feedings and light speed growth from infancy to toddlerdom.

The bittersweet feeling of a night to yourself—finally—only to spend it scrolling through pictures of your little one the whole time.

I shake my head and blow out a breath, considering a real drink.

Before I can think further on it, I wave at Marty to get his attention, and he holds up a finger while he stops on his way from the other end of the bar to flirt with his wife while they make the most of his working during their only chance for a date.

“Hey, Tad,” Hillary Howard, Red Bridge’s fast-talking real estate mogul, says from my left side, pushing into the bar behind me and throwing her own exasperated arm up at our bartending Casanova. “Ready to put your place on the market yet? I can get you a twenty percent return. I also have a nice little Tudor that would be perfect for you right off Spruce Lane. It was Sandy McHugh’s old place before she left to live with her daughter and grandkids in Molene.”

My chuckle is brittle at best, tired from the sheer amount of time I’ve been treading water while shark Hillary circles me. I swear she’s been on my ass since the day after I moved in.

Why does she want me to sell the farm? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it has everything to do with my incompetence as a sheep farmer and the green beacon of dollar signs from the commission her bank account is seeking.

But I’m neither concerned with Hillary’s bank account nor being good at sheep farming. “No, Hil. Still no interest in selling.”

“Fine.” She huffs. “But if you change your mind, now’s a good time to do it. Supply is really low with places with land like yours, and demand is high with all these city folk looking for a change of pace. I heard even Bennett’s sister moved out of the city, so it’s only a matter of time before we’re flooded.”

I don’t bother setting her straight on Breezy’s temporary status. Frankly, it’s none of Hustle Hillary’s business, and it’s something I’d prefer not to think about. “Okay. But I’m not selling.”

“Suit yourself,” she says then, huffing before shoving away from the bar and muttering, “Dammit, Marty, stop freaking flirting with the woman. She’s going home with you, regardless.”

She marches down to Sheila rather than waiting, blabbing at Marty as soon as she comes to a stop. Impatient, always.

But she was at least helpful in a way—dealing with her has shown me that I’m not in the mood to deal with people. I don’t need to switch to liquor; I need to finish my soda and get the hell out of here pronto, before the real Saturday night crowd floods in.

Throwing my glass back for a hearty gulp and then wiping at the condensation that’s damn near drenched my lap, I glance up just as Hollywood fuckface, Logan Bishop himself, sits down at the bar next to me.

“Jeez,” I scoff. “Sometimes this town really is too small for its own good.”

“Relax, Ted. I’m just here to have enough to drink that the Inn looks a little nicer. I won’t bother you.”

Annoyed by his never-ending misuse of my name and his arrogance over the way he’s treated Breezy, I turn toward him, my heels hooked on the rungs of my stool and my knees cocked and open. “What is your deal anyway? You just want to torture your brother and sister until they break, or what? Neither one seems to want you here very much, and from what I’ve heard, I don’t blame them.”

He frowns, irritation leaching into his features. “Sounds like you haven’t heard the whole story, then.”

“I’ve heard their version, and I’ve got a feeling it’s closer to the truth than yours.”

Logan scoffs. “Yeah, I imagine you would think that. But the tits of it is, Ted, pretty much every story has three versions—yours, mine, and the third, the actual damn truth.”

This guy. I fucking swear. Honestly, the only thing holding me back from punching him again is the fact that remnants of my first two punches are already showing up in the form of blue and purple bruises around his eyes.

“Okay, then,” I challenge. “Enlighten me. What’s your version so I can average the two of ’em out.”

“I…well, I’m not perfect by any stretch of the imagination,” Logan answers, though I sense a hint of hesitation in his voice. “I’ve done a lot of fucked-up shit, and I own that. But I did most of it with pure intentions, and for the last five years, I haven’t made any choices I would change.”