Chapter 5
Tad
I like my coffee the same way I like my relationships. Hot. A little sugar. No fuss, no muss.
Red Bridge offers more in both departments, though, even if I’m not interested in consuming them.
At Josie Harris’s coffee shop, CAFFEINE, you can go wild with twenty kinds of syrups and foam-art shaped like hearts, and if you’re looking for a long-term relationship, there are at least fifteen different women with the tenacity and desire to take you up on it to choose from waiting on every corner of Main Street on any given day.
Fiona Blue, the children’s librarian at the Red Bridge Library, is one of them.
“Tad Hanson,” a voice sings, sweet as syrup. For me, it’s the kind that sticks to your fingers after sticking to the bottle, but I’m sure it’d taste good if the feeling didn’t annoy me so much.
Fiona makes her way up the sidewalk, having spotted me the moment I stepped out of my truck in front of CAFFEINE, wearing a fuzzy pink coat, a wool hat with antennae that look suspiciously like butterfly feelers, and a smile that could power the town’s Christmas lights.
“Well, if it isn’t our town’s most eligible sheep farmer,” she teases, adjusting the strap of her oversized tote bag.
“Morning, Fiona,” I greet, smiling over at her. “What’s the costume this week? I’m guessing caterpillar season’s over?”
She’s a local celebrity for the performances she puts on in the library every Wednesday afternoon, the town’s unofficial morale booster, and her pretty face is the number one reason all the single dads show up to toddler story time.
She laughs. “Yep. This week is all about the butterfly. And next week is ladybug bonanza, so prepare yourself for lots of polka dots.”
“I’ll alert my sheep,” I reply. “They’re real fashion-forward these days.”
“You know, Tad, you should come read to the kids sometime,” she says, and her eyes are bright as she briefly puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. “They’d love it. You could bring a lamb. You’d be the hit of the century.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “Not sure if you’ve noticed, but my sheep aren’t much for behaving.”
“I think that’s just because your sheep like to be around people.” Fiona winks. “But Sheep Farmer Tad at story time? You’d steal the show. But then again, you always do.”
Her voice drips with flirtation, and I smile politely out of habit. Fiona’s sweet—hell, everyone in town loves her—but my brain is doing its usual autopilot thing. The kind of natural gear that knows when to smile and when to charm but isn’t looking to get anywhere.
“Just think about it, okay?” Fiona says and reaches out to squeeze my bicep. “And also, maybe, if you ever want to grab a bite to eat or something, let me know.”
I smile and nod, letting her down easy. It’s not her fault I’m unattainable for anything other than a quick shag. “That’s very kind of you. Pretty sure ol’ Randy’s got a complex about me eating dinner without him, though. Thanks for the offer.”
“Pity you’re always so busy, honey. You’d be surprised just how kind I can be for the right man.” She winks. “I’ll see ya around.” Marking her exit with a floppy wave, she flutters off toward the library, her butterfly hat bobbing in the cool winter air.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself, and head for the door of CAFFEINE.
It’s warm inside, smells like espresso and cinnamon rolls, and the bell above the door chimes as I walk in.
Most mornings, it’s crowded, but that’s probably because half of Red Bridge stops here before work.
It’s also where the newspaper bulldog Eileen Martin usually tracks me down, notebook in hand, claiming she needs “just a few quotes” for the Red Bridge Chronicle.
I don’t know how one woman can come up with that many questions about sheep, but I suppose the motivation of a chance to check out my ass is a creative catalyst.
I don’t really mind—I’ve taken to embellishing my answers for fun just to see if she’ll print them—but I’m thankful not to see her in here today.
After stomping snow off my boots on the rug, I get in line behind Sheriff Peeler, who’s so busy complaining to Marty Higgins, one of the bartenders from Clay Harris’s bar, The Country Club, about the Red Bridge youth, he’s forgotten the art of volume control.
“I’m tellin’ ya, Marty,” Sheriff Peeler says through a shake of his head.
“The damn kids wrote obscene words in the snow outside town hall. Took Deputy Felix two hours of plowing to remove it all, and Betty Bagley just about broke her hip when she saw the word d-i-c-k on her way to Melba’s bakery to get some pastries. ”
“Pete, I’m pretty sure the youth haven’t changed.” Marty chuckles. “I recall hearing some stories about your wild teenage days.”
Sheriff Pete huffs. “Things were different back then. We didn’t have any fancy-schmancy cell phones. Stirring up a little trouble was the only damn thing to do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Marty grins. “Speaking of which, you gonna be in to stir up some trouble at the bar later?”
Besides The Diner and CAFFEINE, The Country Club is a top Red Bridge hangout spot for locals, so I’m not surprised when the sheriff says yes.
It’s a home away from home for many of us—probably more than it should be.
But far be it for me to judge anyone else for the overconsumption of Clay’s alcohol.
I’m a lot of things, but I try like hell not to be a hypocrite.
As the line shifts, so do Marty and the sheriff, and I get a clear view of the woman standing directly in front of them.
Beautiful Breezy Bishop, in the flesh. I suck in my stomach and lick my lips as my balls jump inside my body.
It’s not that she’s not a fair damn sight to look at; it’s that I still don’t know what happened between us Monday night.
She’s at the counter talking to Josie, her dark hair shining under the lights, jeans tucked into sleek boots, and a soft gray sweater on top that looks straight out of a fancy magazine spread.
Her outfit is perfectly practical for the snow, but she still looks like Red Bridge accidentally ordered her from the city.
I don’t imagine she’ll be blending in anytime soon either.
She’s too fucking beautiful for people not to notice her.
Josie hands her a cup, shaking her head with a smile. “Bishops and their coffee. Strongest stuff in the house, every time.”
Breezy laughs, low and easy, and my stomach does a slow, guilty somersault as I’m reminded that less than forty-eight hours ago, this woman walked out of my house like it was the most casual thing in the world, looking like she looks, and I can’t even remember a damn nipple. It’s criminal, really.
Maybe I should judge the overconsumption of Clay’s alcohol. I’d remember whether we had sex.
I’d remember the sight of a damn fancy nipple like hers.
I wouldn’t have had to let Randy be the knight in the shining armor and drop her keys and car off at Bennett’s place to assure I wouldn’t end up with a black eye or two. Randy and I drove out to the main road with Tommy Lockland’s tow truck; I could have taken a little credit.
Breezy stays glued to the counter, chatting up Josie and Todd and Camille—two of CAFFEINE’s full-time baristas—regardless of the line behind her, and this small town has everyone acting so nice, nobody even says anything.
Back in Chicago, even in the suburb of Elgin where I lived, curses would have been lobbed by now about being late.
I don’t have anywhere to be per se—the sheep don’t own a clock—but I’m sweating like I’m about to sit for confession.
I’m not used to playing the fucking fool. I’ve kept a hard rule of never bringing any women home when I’ve been drinking, up until now, and clearly, that rule was for a damn good reason.
Marty and Sheriff Peeler place their orders, yammering about their piss-poor deer seasons—everybody always sees a monster they don’t kill—while they wait, and I play Russian roulette with eye contact with Breezy every time she turns a little bit toward me.
I want to see her eyes, but I’m terrified to let her see mine.
Get it the fuck together, man.
I’m a forty-one-year-old adult man, not some Red Bridge high schooler who just finished drawing dicks all over the town hall lawn. If we fucked, we fucked.
Right?
Right.
The pep talk works until it’s my turn, and Breezy looks directly at me. Her smile is devastating, and my tongue gets tied in a fucking knot.
I clear my throat and try to find my easy talk—the rhythm I’m known around Red Bridge for falling into—but it’s a struggle.
“Hey, Breezy. How have you been?” I manage, which isn’t too bad, but when the next words out of my mouth are “It’s good to see you here in Red Bridge,” I feel like punching myself in the dick.
One of her perfectly shaped brows arches, and a smile tugs at her mouth. “Tad, I’m pretty sure we just saw each other the other morning…unless you forgot.”
It’s half tease, half dismissal, and it knocks the wind out of me. I’m used to women caring a fair share more than I do. Meanwhile, this time, it’s the opposite. Ironic, I suppose, that sex I can’t even remember is all I can think about.
“Definitely didn’t forget,” I say quickly. “Just…making conversation.”
“Mm-hmm.” She crosses her arms. She’s amused. She’s relaxed. She’s the exact opposite of me, and it’s a humbling moment, to say the least. “Well, conversation accepted. I’ve been fine. You?”
“Good. Great.” I clear my throat again. I lean in a fraction, lowering my voice to something that sounds far too much like a guilty whisper. “You, uh, sleep okay the other night?”
Her brow furrows for half a second, then smooths. “I slept fine. You were very hospitable.”
Hospitable? Is that code for something? It sounds like it was. Especially in the oogly googly way she said it.
“Did I…uh…meet all your needs?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck. Beating around a bush you’re not even sure exists gives new meaning to awkward. “You know, despite my being so drunk that night.”