Chapter 21 #3
“I sacrificed everything to keep Bishop Galleries going,” she admits quietly, and I don’t miss the way her voice shakes a little around her words.
“To keep them successful. To keep my family’s legacy intact.
And then, my father up and died, and he left them to my littlest brother Logan, who hasn’t done jack shit for the galleries. He doesn’t have a clue about art.”
She exhales a shaky breath.
“And if that’s not bad enough, I found out that Logan knew, Tad.
He knew for six months before my father died that the galleries were going to him, and he never told me.
I was blindsided. Everything I built—everything I gave up—just handed over like I wasn’t good enough.
Like what I built and created and sacrificed for didn’t mean anything.
” She blows out a shaky breath and moves her head from side to side.
“Now, even though I still have a place in New York, I’m living in Bennett’s guest room like I’m twenty again because going back to the city is…
too much for me right now. Too big of a reminder of everything I sacrificed and everything I lost.”
She scrubs a hand down her face, lifts her eyes to mine, and lets out a self-deprecating laugh. “So there it is. The story of why I’m hanging out in Red Bridge. Why I currently have no plan. No direction. Why I’m basically just lost…lost and pathetic.”
“You’re not pathetic, Breezy,” I refute, reaching up to gently run my knuckles along her cheek. “You’re the exact opposite of pathetic, actually.”
She searches my gaze closely, like she’s trying to measure if I mean it. And I don’t hesitate to keep going.
“That’s fucking terrible, what happened to you.
I’m sorry it did. I’m sorry you were betrayed by the people who should’ve protected you,” I say and brush my thumb across the firm line of her lips.
“And again, you’re not pathetic. Not at all.
Whatever you’re feeling, whatever you’re doing or not doing right now, it all makes sense, Breeze.
Everything you built got tragically ripped away from you.
That’ll rattle anyone. It would make anyone feel untethered and completely fucking lost. And that doesn’t mean you’re weak. It just means you’re human.”
Her mouth quirks at the corners, though it doesn’t quite turn into a smile. “Sounds like you know a thing or two about being rattled.”
“I guess maybe I do.” I shrug and look away, toward the window and the way the shadows of the trees are pressed into the glass.
I don’t say or do or reveal any more. I don’t fill her head with the kind of dark, heavy shit that sits inside my soul on a daily basis. Don’t tell her that most nights I dream about smoke and ash and everything I couldn’t save.
Instead, I press a kiss into her hair, pulling her closer until her leg hooks over mine and her breath evens against my skin.
And I try not to think too hard about the fact that having Breezy here keeps my ghosts at bay better than anything else ever has. Or the fact that when she does eventually leave Red Bridge, I’m not sure how that’ll feel.
“Yeah. Okay. I think that’s enough sad shit for the night,” Breezy says, and she leans up to press a gentle kiss to my lips. “Sorry for being a Debbie Downer for a moment there.”
“I’m glad you told me,” I say, meaning every word, even though I know it’s dangerous for me to feel anything when it comes to her.
“And I’m glad you told me about your mom.”
All I can do is nod.
“By the way,” she says and surprises me by reaching up and literally booping me on the nose like you would a cute dog. “We do have something important we need to discuss. Something very serious, actually.”
I laugh, but it’s a little nervous. “Okay…”
“We need code names.”
I blink. “Code names?”
She grins up at me, and her face is all teasing sparkle again. “You know, for risky situations like when you have to call me on the phone and I’m in public. That way, I can be, like, ‘Oh hey, Tom, so glad you called,’ and all the Red Bridge busybodies will be none the wiser.”
“Tom?” I laugh. “That’s my code name?”
“I figured you’d like it better than Farm Daddy.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Plus, you pull off being a Tom. Reliable. Steady. Probably owns too many flannels.”
“I’m not so sure I’d peg me as reliable, but if I’m Tom, who are you?”
“Hmmm.” She tilts her head to the side and taps her chin. “Has to be something close to Breezy. Belinda?”
“Feels too church choir.”
“Bianca?”
“Too fancy. I don’t think Bianca would want anything to do with reliable Tom.”
“Oh, I know.” Her grin widens. “Betsy. Short and sweet and kind of perfect, if you ask me.”
“Betsy,” I repeat, liking the way it slides off the tongue. “Okay, Betsy. How do you feel about a round two with Tom?”
“A round two?” She giggles, and I catch the sound with my mouth as I kiss the corner of her smile.
“Oh, come on, Betsy. You know Tom’s dependable,” I murmur against her lips. “You can always count on him.”
That makes her laugh, full and unguarded, before she pulls me in and kisses me deep.
And I let myself get lost in it. In her. In the way she looks at me like I’m not broken Tad, but steady, dependable Tom.
Which, yeah, is a dangerous fucking thing for a man like me to do.