Chapter 22
Breezy
The past month and a half that I’ve been flitting aimlessly about this small town, I seem to end more nights in Tad Hanson’s bed than anywhere else. But tonight, I’m spending the evening at The Country Club.
And when I say seem to, that’s clearly me lying to myself because let’s be real, my primary hobby has been being a freak in his sheets.
Sex with Tad Hanson is out-of-this-world addictive.
Apparently, so are midnight pancakes with Tad. And dinner with Tad. And TV with Tad…
What can I say? The man’s stupidly charming, dangerously easy to be around, and I’m a woman who’s overdue for some fun.
Tonight, the bar’s still packed, but instead of karaoke and beer-soaked dancing, it’s poker night.
The lights aren’t as dim as they usually are, and green felt-top tables are filling every nook and cranny of the bar. The hum of conversation blends with the clink of glasses and the shuffle of cards.
Poker night in Red Bridge is as close as you get to high society around here, and it’s all for a good cause.
Betty Bagley, self-appointed queen of small-town fundraising, announced earlier that tonight’s buy-ins and side pots are going to “Operation Playground.” Red Bridge Elementary’s swings are evidently so rusted they look like tetanus on chains, and the town decided poker might be the fastest way to get the kids something safe to climb on.
One might’ve thought a bake sale would be more appropriate, but the people in this small town apparently prefer gambling to cupcakes.
My table is a mix of family and familiar faces.
My brother Bennett sits to my left, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, and Norah leans comfortably against him, playing with her chips like she’s been doing this her whole life.
Josie Harris is across from me, bright-eyed and competitive, and her husband Clay is dealing.
Sheriff Peeler, Betty Bagley, Eileen Martin, and a few other townsfolk are at the next table over, already bickering about rules, and Marty Higgins is behind the bar, his wife Sheila perched on a stool beside him.
“Breezy, you play a lot of Texas Hold’em in New York?
” Tad asks as he folds his hand to Clay.
He’s two seats down from me, and his broad shoulders are framed in flannel, while his forearms showcase strength from beneath rolled-up sleeves.
His favorite faded ball cap is turned backward—which, damn, I’m starting to understand the appeal.
Basically, he looks like sin in denim, and it’s no wonder half the women in this small town want a piece.
Randy’s wedged between us, grumbling over his cards, and I put on my most neutrally friendly face to look over him to meet Tad’s eyes as I answer his question.
“Occasionally,” I answer smoothly, glancing back at my cards like I’m easy peasy, cool and breezy, and haven’t spent the last week sneaking into his bed every night. “But this is certainly my first time playing where my Hold’em skills can affect children.”
He chuckles at that. “Small-town stakes are high.”
“Who taught you how to play poker, Breezy?” Bennett asks, one brow raised.
I don’t even hesitate. “Just some guy named Tom.”
Across the table, Tad coughs into his ice water to cover a laugh, and I have to look away before my face gives me away. To be honest, ever since Norah told me I had to come to this little charity event a week ago, Tad has been teaching me how to play Texas Hold’em.
Mind you, most of the time we’ve been naked and in his bed, but lessons were definitely being had.
“Tom?” Bennett repeats slowly, his tone suspiciously casual. “Would that be the same Tom I’ve heard you on the phone with at night?”
Uh-oh. Maybe I’ve gotten a little too comfortable with those secret code names I made us choose two weeks ago. I freeze for half a second before I jump into offensive mode. “You’re eavesdropping on my phone calls, Ben?”
“It’s kinda hard not to hear your calls when you’re cackling like a lunatic.” Bennett smirks. “And when were you going to tell me you’re seeing some dude named Tom?”
“I’m not seeing him,” I say quickly. “He’s just…uh, a business contact. Likes to call late because of the time difference.”
“The time difference?” Bennett echoes. “Where’s he based, Mars?”
“London,” I blurt. “He’s British.”
Josie laughs into her drink. “A British Tom. How fancy. Maybe he should teach me poker.”
“Slow your roll, woman,” Clay interjects, and Josie just sticks her tongue out at him. “Shall I remind you I’m a very jealous man when it comes to you?”
“Oh, trust me, I know,” Josie retorts. “You were the one who kept me married to you for five years against my will.”
Clay just smiles. “And I still don’t regret a single second of it.”
“Me either.” Josie leans over to press a playful kiss to his lips. “Macho man.”
Clay waggles his brows. “Oh, I’ll show you macho, baby.”
“Get a room!” Norah shouts, a giggle on her lips. “We’re trying to gamble for the kids here!”
Clay just chuckles and dives straight back into his dealer role.
The whole table breaks into easy laughter, chips clinking and cards shuffling again. It’s loud and warm and full of small-town energy, but under it, there’s something quieter. A pulse I can feel from two seats away, where Tad’s shoulder shakes with silent laughter.
The bastard is loving that Bennett’s overheard some of my phone calls with “Tom.”
I send him a discreet glare, but he just meets my gaze, a slow, infuriating grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
The smug bastard. I shake my head and smile despite myself.
To anyone else, Tad and I are just acquaintances. Just neighbors-of-neighbors, nodding and smiling politely, and occasionally teasing each other the way small-towners do.
But under the table, my phone buzzes against my thigh.
Tad: Honestly, Betsy, I would’ve thought a New Yorker would’ve been better at bluffing…
I school my face into neutrality, sliding two chips into the pot.
Me: Well, Tom, I think it’s safe to say you’re shit at teaching. Also, I just saw your ass fold pocket queens three hands ago.
Tad: Maybe I just wanted to keep my hands free so I can text you about how fucking delicious your ass looks in those jeans.
Tad: PS: I’ve been imagining your thighs wrapped around my face all night.
Heat rises in my cheeks, but I keep my gaze steady on the table.
Clay flips the river card and reveals a nine of hearts. The table hums with tension as it’s quite clear that anyone holding two hearts in their hands is probably going to win this one. Norah pushes a small stack forward, Josie raises, and Bennett sighs like the tortured artist he is.
Randy mulls over his decision, alternating between cursing under his breath and staring at Josie across the table like he can see into her skull. My hand is utter garbage, and I definitely should fold, but I wait on Randy to decide his move.
Tad: If I were you, I’d cut my losses. You and I both know your hand is shit.
My head snaps up, but his face is unreadable. How the hell?
Me: And how would you know that?
Tad: Because you’ve got “bad hand” written all over that pretty face.
The urge to kick him under the table nearly wins, but once Randy folds on a curse, I follow his lead and fold my cards too, flashing a discreet scowl toward Tad.
Tad: Don’t be mad. I just saved you money.
Me: What if Josie’s hand is shit too?
Tad: It’s not.
Me: And how would you know that?
Tad: Because her knee is bouncing under the table. She’s too fucking excited.
Josie flips over her cards, revealing not just a flush, but a straight flush, and Norah groans when her sister whoops in excitement over her lesser-than flush.
“Jeez, Josie,” Norah says on a groan. “You do remember this is for the kids, right? You’re not pocketing the money.”
“Yeah, but I can be excited for the kids and getting to kick my sister’s ass at poker at the same time.”
Norah sticks out her tongue at Josie, and Bennett chuckles as he wraps his arm around his wife.
“Nice hand, sweetheart,” Clay says, and Josie turns her competitiveness up several notches.
“Oh, honey, you’re next.”
Clay just laughs and starts shuffling the cards, and my phone buzzes in my lap.
Tad: Told you.
I roll my eyes.
Me: It’s a shame your stack of chips over there doesn’t showcase how good you think you are at poker.
Tad: I’m slow-rolling, woman. It’s only a matter of time.
“I’m going to sit out this hand,” I tell Clay as I rise to my feet. “Need a quick bathroom break.”
Clay nods and starts dealing to the rest of the table, and I don’t miss the little smirk Tad flashes me as I head for the bathroom.
The hallway is quiet, a stark contrast to the buzz of the bar. I make quick work of using the restroom, and as I’m finishing washing and drying my hands, my phone buzzes in my jeans pocket.
I check the screen, expecting it to be a dirty text from Tad, but I’m stunned into silence when I find I have a voice mail from Logan.
Against my better judgment, I press play as I step back into the dim hallway.
“Breeze, it’s me. Look, I know you hate me, and you feel betrayed and everything else.
I know I’m the last person on the fucking planet you want to talk to, but I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here.
I’m drowning. Everything is going tits up with the galleries.
You’re the only one who knows them inside and out.
Just…call me back. Please. I’m begging you. ”
His voice cracks on the last word, and the ache that follows is sharp enough to steal my breath. I lean back against the wall, phone pressed tight to my chest.
There’s a small part of me that wants to step in and save him. But the part of me that’s tired of sacrificing myself for everyone else’s needs prevents me from doing anything at all.
“You okay?”
My head jerks up, and there’s Tad, half shadowed at the end of the hall. His gaze is steady, too steady, like he can see the crack in my armor even in the dim light.
I waver between telling him the truth or just keeping it surface-level. Deep down, I want to tell Tad everything. And boy oh boy, that’s fucking scary.
Sure, one night I confessed to him about Logan and the galleries and how I ended up on hiatus in Red Bridge and he revealed fond memories about his mom, but that’s not something we need to be doing all the time.
Frankly, we shouldn’t be doing it all.
Because we’re supposed to be casual.
We are casual.
“I’m fine,” I eventually say and tuck my phone away.
He doesn’t look convinced. He takes a step closer, then another, until his presence is a wall in front of me. “You sure? You don’t look fine.”
“It’s nothing.” I force a smile that doesn’t quite fit.
For a second, I think he’s going to press, dig deeper, and urge me to be vulnerable with him in ways I shouldn’t be with a man I’m not in a serious relationship with.
But he doesn’t do that at all.
He kisses me instead.
His mouth crashes against mine, and it’s not gentle or teasing. It’s hungry. It’s raw. It’s deep and powerful in a way that I can feel all the way to my bones.
His hand cups the side of my face, the other anchoring at my hip, and every part of me screams yes, even as logic whispers, “we’re just casual” into my ear.
But the only thing I can do is kiss him back.
A little moan escapes my throat as I clutch at his shirt and pull him even closer to me. The world narrows to the taste of him, the feel of his tongue stroking mine, and the deep, throbbing ache between my thighs that’s screaming for more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Clay’s voice booms over the speaker system, jolting us to abruptly end the kiss. “We’re going to take a fifteen-minute break. Grab a drink, use the bathroom, and remember, if you’re not back at your table in time, you’re disqualified.”
Instantly, footsteps start echoing down the hall as people spill from the poker room, and we break apart as quick as we can. We’re both breathless, and our eyes are still locked like we’ve just been caught doing something forbidden.
Which is ridiculous, I know. We’re both adults. We could walk right out there hand in hand, and no one could say a damn thing.
But there’s a rush in the secrecy. An electric, dangerous thrill that makes my pulse skip and my knees a little weak and makes me want more.
More of his kiss. More of being in his bed. More of his hands on my body. More of him and the way he makes me feel.
Tad leans in, and his mouth just barely brushes my ear. “Betsy,” he murmurs, low enough that only I can hear, “you better be in Tom’s bed tonight.”
A shiver dances down my spine.
By the time I walk back into the crowded poker room, my lips are still tingling and my pulse is doing its own wild shuffle.
As I slide back into my seat and catch Tad’s grin from across the table, I remind myself what this is supposed to be.
Light. Casual. A distraction.
No strings. No stakes. No promises. That’s the deal.
But the longer this game goes on, the harder it is to pretend I’m not tempted to go all in.