Chapter 8
Breezy
Metcalf’s Diner smells like bacon grease, burned coffee, and small-town curiosity. Every booth is packed. The hum of voices rises and falls around us, silverware clinking against porcelain, the coffee machine hissing like it’s part of the conversation.
“I still can’t believe you thought we slept together,” I say, leaning across the booth table and lowering my voice to make sure no busybody ears can hear me. “Now that awkward conversation at CAFFEINE makes a whole lot more sense.”
Tad doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t apologize. Instead, he grins.
“Did I meet all your needs?” I tease, mocking his exact words in a deep tone that sounds more like a cartoon cowboy than him.
“Damn, Breezy. Run my ass over the coals, why don’t you?” His laugh is a low rumble that makes heads turn from the counter. Several eyes stop and stay once they’re there, too. I imagine that’s a perk of the trumped-up article.
“Hey,” I say, smiling at him. “I’m not the one who was walking around Red Bridge for three days wondering if we slept together that night or asking you if I met all your needs.”
His grin expands. “Can’t risk a bad Yelp review. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”
God help me, it’s hard not to laugh. “Pretty sure no one in Red Bridge even knows what Yelp is, and the things you thought we did don’t have a review section.” I stab my fork at my salad and take a bite before allowing myself to ask the really hard question. “What is…your reputation exactly?”
He guffaws, a dangerous smirk melting his chocolate eyes. “It’s big. The highest standard in both physicality and performance. By far the best in the business.”
On any given normal basis, I’d find the remark smug—disgustingly egotistical, really. But under these circumstances, it’s funny, and I react accordingly.
“Oh boy, that is a big deal.”
He leans back in the booth, arm stretched casually along the top, and I use the opportunity to take him in. Everyone seems to know him, and yet, with the way they’re watching his every move during this lunch, it’s like they don’t understand him at all.
His eyes are so entrancing, I swear they could melt reason right out of my skull, and his striking smile could talk a reverend into sinning. He’s tall, but there’s something relaxed in the way he carries it, slender but muscular and strong at the same time.
Honestly, Tad Hanson is unfairly good-looking, and I think he knows it.
His shoulders are broad in a sexy way that reminds me of Olympic swimmers, and his body language is a cool, confident kind of chill. There’s something under it all, though—something rigid under the layers and layers of happy paint.
“So, how long are you sticking around in Red Bridge?” he asks, watching me over his cup of coffee.
“You know, that’s a great question.” I huff out a laugh, and his features pull toward center.
“Sounds like there’s more behind that.”
“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.