Page 47 of Where I Should’ve Been

Me: And how exactly are you going to multitask?

Tad: You’d be surprised what my mouth and my fingers can do at the same time.

Me: Challenge accepted.

I school my face into perfect neutrality, but inside, I’m melting.

Autumn claps her hands along with the song that’s now coming from the television. “Dance, Bee! Dance, Bee!” she demands as she wiggles her hips in this adorable little side-to-side motion.

I set my phone down and do exactly that, shaking my hips and clapping my hands right along with Autumn.

She’s giggling and beaming at me with a full-toothed, toddler grin, and I’m laughing like a woman who doesn’t have the weight of a fallen empire on her shoulders.

When the music fades, I collapse onto the couch, breathless and smiling. Autumn curls up beside me, her eyes fixated on her television show and her little hand clutching mine.

While I enjoy my niece’s sweet little cuddles, my gaze drifts to my half-finished knitting project—fingers crossed it actually turns into a scarf—sitting on the armchair. Peggy Samuel had been working on one at CAFFEINE last week, and since I wasn’t doing much besides staring at a blank screen, she gave me a free lesson over coffee.

Now, I’ve got a tangle of uneven stitches and a ball of yarn the color of sunshine. And even though it’s probably not going to turn into a scarf someone will actually want to wear, I still kind of love it.

And deep down, I love that I’m giving something like knitting a chance.

But maybe that’s the real reason I can’t seem to settle on any plans that have me heading back to New York. Currently, my days aren’t dictated by deadlines, exhibitions, high-priced art negotiations, or anyone else’s expectations.

Instead, they’re filled with my niece’s giggles and smiles, and Norah’s and Bennett’s warmth and support, and Josie’s friendship, and the simple rhythm of a town that actually notices when you walk through the door.

And my nights? Well, they’re filled with Tad Hanson.

Maybe staying in Red Bridge a little while longer is one of those bad ideas I should entertain…

19

Tad

Monday, January 25th

It’s pushing two in the morning, and my kitchen smells like bacon and batter.

Breezy showed up at my door around midnight, all New York confidence in a snow-dusted coat, and I barely got the lock turned before she was pressed against me. There was no time for food then; we barely made it to my bed.

But two hours later, her head was still on my chest when her stomach let out a growl loud enough to make both of us laugh.

“I didn’t really eat today. My little Autumn kept me busy,” she admitted, sheepish.

So here I am, standing over a skillet in nothing but boxer briefs, flipping bacon like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The last time you felt so domesticated—

I clear my throat and cut off that thought before it can grow legs and run me into the ground.

“Tell me, Hot Farmer Tad, do you always cook in your underwear?” Breezy asks, and the playful humor in her voice has me glancing over my shoulder to find her sitting on my kitchen island, legs swinging and looking too damn good. Her hair is messy, and one of my flannels is the only thing that covers her body. She’s holding a chipped coffee mug like it’s fine china, and an adorable little smile tugs at her lips as she watches me cook.

“Hot Farmer Tad?”

“Hey,” she says with a little shrug of her shoulders. “It’s what all the single ladies of Red Bridge call you.”

“Bullshit.”

“Oh, come on, Tad,” she retorts on a snort. “You and I both know it’s the truth. You’re a hot commodity around these parts. Hell, you’ve been referred to as Studly McSheepman in the newspaper.”