Chapter 35
Tad
Norah’s car pulls into the driveway at just after five p.m. and rocks to a stop in front of their garage.
I watch like a fucking stalker around the side of the sheer white curtain in my kitchen window, holding my breath as Breezy climbs from the passenger side, slams the door, and rounds the trunk to a waiting Norah, whose extended arm settles on Breezy’s shoulder and ushers her inside.
I texted her earlier, a little after she and Norah left the Bishops’ house in a rush, but I never received anything back.
It goes without saying that hasn’t made me feel better about whatever is going on with her, but I’d be an asshole to hold it against her. She was more than gracious and patient and kind when I went twenty-four hours no contact not so long ago.
I don’t know what is going through Breezy’s mind right now. Is it the surprise appearance of her brother Logan that’s sent her into a mental tailspin? Is she sick with some kind of bad virus? Is it a combination of all those things?
I wish I fucking knew. I wish she’d let me in because I can’t shake the feeling that I want to be there for her in whatever capacity I can. Certainly not my usual MO, but I guess that’s what happens when you care about someone.
And I really care about Breezy.
You more than care about her.
I lean a little closer to the window—trying to grow supersonic hearing or something as the two exchange words on the front steps before heading inside—and end up bumping my forehead into the glass like an idiot.
“What are you doing?” Randy asks from behind me, startling the curtain free from my hand and back into place as I spin to face him.
“Nothing.” I smile nervously. “When’d you get inside?”
No one reads me like my brother—no one. We’ve been through every imaginable high and low together, and he’s the only one who knows everything about me.
Still, after the hell I’ve put him through, admitting that I’ve become inconveniently obsessed with Breezy Bishop and even went to the length of hiring her on as a fake farmhand to create an excuse to have her around all the time feels like a betrayal.
“Five minutes ago.” Randy’s hands settle on his hips.
“I finished fixing the gate lock Crosby got through like I said I would. And then I moved over to the hole in the fence on the south side, but when you never showed up with more ribbon like you said you would, I just MacGyvered what was there for now. Sheep’ll probably be out again in ten minutes, but can’t shit out hot wire, now can I? ”
“Sorry.” I cringe, feeling a little bad for completely forgetting about him out there in the pasture. “It’s getting around dinnertime anyway. We can finish tomorrow.”
Randy shakes his head. “Fine. But I’m going to the diner for dinner, and if those fuckers get loose before I get back, I expect you to leave me out of it.”
“No problem.”
With a sigh as farewell, Randy pushes past me out the door and down the steps to his truck, firing it up and turning around to head for town while I peer out the window again.
I watch for his taillights to disappear at the stop sign at the end of Maple and then head out the same door he just left through.
Instead of going to my truck, though, I cross the lawn on quick strides, cut through the gate, and make my way up Bennett and Norah’s driveway until I’m standing at their front door.
I knock twice with gentle knuckles, hoping not to scare anyone or wake a sleeping Autumn for the second time today, and I wait, arms at my sides and mouth filled with uninvited saliva.
The inner door opens first, revealing a knowing-smile-sporting Norah through the storm door. She pushes it open too and then steps out onto the stoop beside me.
“Hey, Tad.”
“Hey, Nor. Can I see Breezy? Is she home?” I ask, pretending I wasn’t spying my ass off enough to know the answer to that question already.
“She’s here, yes, but she’s resting. I really think she needs the sleep, and with how exhausted she was, I doubt she’ll be up before tomorrow morning.”
“Is she…is she okay, though?”
Norah smiles gently. “Yes. She’s fine. Why don’t you go home for tonight—”
“Norah,” Logan says from behind me, startling both of us before I can dive into more questions about Breezy’s well-being.
I don’t know how he managed to pull in, park, and close his car door without us noticing, but he did, and his timing is really starting to make the two of us seem like a package deal—which is not to my advantage.
“Logan, what are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here? The same thing I’ve been doing here. Trying to set things right with my brother and sister. Please, let me inside so I can try.”
Norah shakes her head. “It’s not a good idea. Breezy needs to rest, and Bennett doesn’t want you here. I have to respect that. You need to leave until he’s ready to talk to you.”
“And where am I supposed to go exactly?”
“I hear the Red Bridge Inn is really nice. Or hell, maybe Tad here will put you up.”
I scoff. “Not likely.”
Norah sucks her lips into her mouth to block a laugh. “Sounds like the Inn is the place to be.”
I laugh, and she turns her energy on me, pointing in my face. “You’re laughing, but I’m pretty sure I told you to leave too.”
I sigh. “Right. I’ll try again tomorrow.”
Shoving past Logan, I make my way back over the property line to my driveway and consider my options.
The house—where I’ll be tempted to stand at the damn window all night trying to get a peek—or my truck, which quite frankly, could take me any number of distracting places even if only for a little while.
The choice is obvious.
I climb inside and fire it up, flicking the switch to turn on my headlights only after I’ve pointed myself away from Norah and Bennett’s house.
I don’t think much about a plan, and when my truck seemingly pulls itself into the parking lot of The Country Club under ten minutes later, I chalk it up to muscle memory and nothing more.
The number of nights I’ve spent drinking my sorrows away at this bar could earn me a badge if that were the sort of thing Clay got off on giving out—sidenote, it’s not.
But over the past two months, that’s clearly changed.
Nights I used to spend at the bar have been spent at my house with Breezy instead.
Well, besides a week ago, when I let myself drown in my fucking misery.
And right now, sitting with my belly to the bar tonight feels odd. Wrong, even.
Sheriff Peeler gives me a nod from the other end, and I jerk my chin back, focusing on the soda I just ordered to avoid all the other eyes.
Clay shuffles in and out from the back room, dragging in cases of beer for the inevitable weekend rush that’s a constant when you’re the only watering hole in a twenty-five-mile radius, and Marty works the bar, filling orders and giving shit where appropriate.
Marty’s wife, Sheila, is ponied up on one of the stools to my right, her low-cut top and tight jeans screaming “young mother out on the town for the night” in a way that makes me reflective.
The endless nights of feedings and light speed growth from infancy to toddlerdom.
The bittersweet feeling of a night to yourself—finally—only to spend it scrolling through pictures of your little one the whole time.
I shake my head and blow out a breath, considering a real drink.
Before I can think further on it, I wave at Marty to get his attention, and he holds up a finger while he stops on his way from the other end of the bar to flirt with his wife while they make the most of his working during their only chance for a date.
“Hey, Tad,” Hillary Howard, Red Bridge’s fast-talking real estate mogul, says from my left side, pushing into the bar behind me and throwing her own exasperated arm up at our bartending Casanova.
“Ready to put your place on the market yet? I can get you a twenty percent return. I also have a nice little Tudor that would be perfect for you right off Spruce Lane. It was Sandy McHugh’s old place before she left to live with her daughter and grandkids in Molene. ”
My chuckle is brittle at best, tired from the sheer amount of time I’ve been treading water while shark Hillary circles me. I swear she’s been on my ass since the day after I moved in.
Why does she want me to sell the farm? It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it has everything to do with my incompetence as a sheep farmer and the green beacon of dollar signs from the commission her bank account is seeking.
But I’m neither concerned with Hillary’s bank account nor being good at sheep farming. “No, Hil. Still no interest in selling.”
“Fine.” She huffs. “But if you change your mind, now’s a good time to do it.
Supply is really low with places with land like yours, and demand is high with all these city folk looking for a change of pace.
I heard even Bennett’s sister moved out of the city, so it’s only a matter of time before we’re flooded. ”
I don’t bother setting her straight on Breezy’s temporary status. Frankly, it’s none of Hustle Hillary’s business, and it’s something I’d prefer not to think about. “Okay. But I’m not selling.”
“Suit yourself,” she says then, huffing before shoving away from the bar and muttering, “Dammit, Marty, stop freaking flirting with the woman. She’s going home with you, regardless.”
She marches down to Sheila rather than waiting, blabbing at Marty as soon as she comes to a stop. Impatient, always.
But she was at least helpful in a way—dealing with her has shown me that I’m not in the mood to deal with people. I don’t need to switch to liquor; I need to finish my soda and get the hell out of here pronto, before the real Saturday night crowd floods in.
Throwing my glass back for a hearty gulp and then wiping at the condensation that’s damn near drenched my lap, I glance up just as Hollywood fuckface, Logan Bishop himself, sits down at the bar next to me.
“Jeez,” I scoff. “Sometimes this town really is too small for its own good.”