Chapter 14
Breezy
The music is loud, the floorboards are shaking, and I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts.
Tad’s hand is warm in mine as he spins me into the crush of people line dancing in The Country Club.
Clay is on the other side of the floor hollering like a rodeo announcer, and Bennett and Norah are tucked into a corner table, enjoying a date night while Marty Higgins’s wife Sheila babysits Autumn, and watching me with identical amused smiles.
Even Bennett—my perpetually broody brother—looks halfway entertained by my flailing attempt at a grapevine step.
“Left foot, Breezy!” Tad calls over the music, his grin wide and his eyes wicked.
“I am left-footing!” I yell back, but I’m laughing too hard to actually figure out which foot is which. He doesn’t care. He catches me by the waist, hauls me closer, and twirls me until I’m breathless.
It’s ridiculous. And fun. And nothing like my life in New York.
Back home, nights were quiet dinners, charity galas, perfectly composed smiles under dim gallery lighting. Here, I’m sweaty in my designer boots, my hair falling out of its sleek blowout, and the whole damn town seems to be watching me laugh like an idiot.
And I don’t even care.
I catch sight of Norah nudging Bennett, both of them laughing, and Clay saluting with his beer. But it doesn’t feel like they’re laughing at me; it feels like they’re laughing with me.
And I honestly can’t remember the last time I let myself go like this. Maybe I never have.
The thought catches in my chest. Over the past week, I’ve entertained the idea of figuring out my next move—scrolling through job postings at museums and galleries, clicking in and out of listings that all blur together.
I even thought about reaching out to a headhunter once or twice, but something about it feels…
I don’t know…too soon. Or maybe it feels wrong, like I’m admitting the career and life I built in New York is really over.
Instead, I hired someone to deal with the chaos in my apartment and paid movers to take all the gallery boxes to a storage facility down the street because the housekeeper couldn’t find the floors under the mess.
Everything’s technically “handled,” but nothing feels settled, and I’ve basically resigned myself to the fact that I don’t know what comes next.
For once, I’m just…here.
The song shifts and the beat slows down dramatically. Tad slides in behind me, one arm circling my waist. I lean back into him, chest still rising and falling with laughter and my cheeks aching from smiling so damn much.
To anyone watching, it all probably looks sweet. Innocent, even.
Sure, we’re probably engaging the rumor mill a little after Eileen Martin’s ridiculous article, but everyone in Red Bridge knows that woman makes shit up.
Plus, I can’t really find it in me to care what anyone else thinks right now because I’m enjoying myself too much.
Tad’s lips dip close to my ear, his breath hot against my skin, and the rumble of his voice changes everything. “Meet me at my place in thirty minutes,” he whispers, low and rough. “I want to make you come on my cock.”
Heat spikes through me so fast I stumble a little and have to catch myself against him.
The people around us keep laughing, clapping, and moving with the music. They’re completely unaware of the dirty command Tad left in my ear or the growing arousal in my belly, born of eagerness to take him up on it.
I manage a smile, shaking my head like it’s nothing, but my pulse is thrumming everywhere.
When the music ends, Tad gives me a friendly hug and says, “Thanks for the dance, Breezy Bishop,” before he starts his goodbye tour around the bar.
I head back over to where Bennett and Norah are, pretending I have no plans to leave anytime soon, but as soon as I come up with an excuse, I’m gone.
My libido is already grabbing her purse and making a beeline for Tad Hanson’s bed.