Chapter 7
Tad
Earl’s Grocery is the only place in Red Bridge where you can buy milk, sushi, and fishing bait all in the same aisle and still wait fifteen minutes to check out.
Lance—Earl’s most lethargic and unenthusiastic employee—rings up my groceries one item at a time like he’s being paid per sigh.
He scans my bread, then he sends a few texts on his phone.
He scans my peanut butter, then he zones out for ten seconds.
He scans my bananas, then he just stands there looking at the next item on the conveyor belt.
It’s a slow, unpredictable process.
He’s got an AirPod in one ear, head bobbing to what sounds like heavy metal, and the kind of posture that screams I hate this place and everyone in it. Not to mention, when I got to his checkout line, he greeted me with an eye roll.
I try not to groan aloud, for I know Lance loves to pay impatience back with spite.
I tap my fingers on the counter, settling for fake pleasantries instead. “Real busy today, huh?”
He side-eyes me without stopping his slow-motion scan. Beep. “Yeah. Wild.”
I’m pretty sure I’m the only one in the entire store, which makes us both liars.
While Lance hunts for the barcode on an apple like it’s a hidden treasure map, my gaze drifts to the rack of newspapers beside the counter.
I peruse headlines with little to no investment other than the passage of time, but three shelves down, a subconscious hiccup sends me racing back to the one I just passed.
Bishop in the Barn: Breezy Bedding Both Hanson Brothers!
I blink once. Then twice. Then promptly inhale my own saliva and start choking on it.
What the fuck?
Sound blurs to white noise as I lean over the conveyor, snatching the paper from its rack and reading frantically.
There’s a lot of fancy language about a three-way fuck fest between me and Breezy and my brother Randy, and yet, a whole lot of nothing that gives any indication how Eileen got the information.
Information I don’t even have, for shit’s sake.
The more I read, the more obvious it becomes that it’s bullshit—or at least half of it is.
I know my brother didn’t sleep with her because, for as many offers as he gets from women, he never takes them up on any of them.
He’s a creature of habit, with a mother-goose complex for taking care of me, so he doesn’t drink and keeps to himself so he’s available to get my frequently-drinking-ass out of trouble.
As for the stuff about me, I’m not really sure, but that’s not anything new. I haven’t known what’s going on—truly—in a really long time. I live life like I have to—by going through the motions.
“You gonna pay?” Lance asks, put out by me now.
“What?”
“Are you gonna pay? Sometime this century would be nice.”
Frustrated by the switch-up from Lance, the article from Eileen, and the huge fucking gap in my recollection, I growl.
He barks. Like an actual dog. Clearly, I’m not equipped to win a battle of the weird with this guy.
I sigh, digging my wallet out of my back pocket and swiping my card in the machine.
He nods. “You want a bag for all your shit?”
“Yeah. That’d be helpful.”
“Cool.” He pops his gum. “You want me to double-bag it?”
“What?”
“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?”
“I’ve had enough of this. You can see yourselves out.” Eileen storms away from her desk and toward a back room down the hall.
Two of the golden retrievers bark like they’re applauding Breezy, and the little pug previously sitting on Tracey-Jayne’s lap—now peeking around the corner in Tracey-Jayne’s arms—snorts.
“Good grief.” Breezy exhales hard, muttering, “I need a drink.”
I rub the back of my neck. “I’m pretty sure I need to cut back on my drinking. Because if I can’t remember whether I slept with a pretty woman, that’s a problem.”
Her blue eyes cut to me.
“I’m sorry I was so blitzed that night.”
“Well, far be it for me to encourage liver-bending drinking, but you did nothing wrong, Tad. You were a gentleman. Friendly. Accommodating.”
“Yeah?” I question, running a hand through my hair.
“Yeah. Eileen is the problem here.”
Something about Breezy’s confidence is infectious, and I find myself shooting a shot of my own. “Would you let me buy you lunch?”