Page 69 of Where I Should’ve Been

I have to bite my lip to fight my laughter. But I also can’t stop myself from adding to the mental fucking Eileen is currently getting. “Well, I couldn’t do it without my boss’s very thorough training or the way he insists on such close supervision.”

“This is all very…fascinating.” Eileen’s pen flies across the page. “Local art dealer trades city life for sheep and…uh…hands-on…mentorship. Does this mean you’ll be staying in Red Bridge longer…maybe permanently?”

Well, shit. Apparently, she’s turning the tables on me.

I clear my throat, my heart and mind completely at war with the answer to that question. “Oh, I don’t—”

“I think what Breezy is trying to say here is that she wants to enjoy the rest of the night now,” Tad interjects with a smile. “Been real nice chatting with ya, though, Eileen. Be sure to make the headline a good one.” He winks. “Something like Bishop Gets Down and Dirty on the Hanson Farm feels apt. But hell, what do I know? You’re the brilliant reporter, right?”

Eileen, scandalized and thrilled all at once, clutches her notebook to her chest like it’s holy scripture. “I’ll definitely take that into consideration.”

The moment she’s moved on from us and to some other poor soul in the bar, Tad bursts out laughing. “Hands-on training? Way to bury the lede. I thought we were trying to keep our dirty deeds on the down-low.”

“Oh, like you should talk.” I’m glaring and smiling at him at the same time. “That headline suggestion is going to have everyone in town thinking I’m sleeping with you and Randy again.”

Tad cracks up. “Hey, I was just rolling with your punches, Betsy. And man, oh man, you sure rocked Eileen Martin hard with the close supervision line.”

“I didn’t know you were going to take it up fifty notches by suggesting a Breezy gets down and dirty headline!” I whisper-yell, but I’m also laughing. “You’re insufferable.”

He waggles his brows. “And yet you keep showing up for work.”

“Must be the benefits package,” I answer with a knowing, devious smile. “Though, I do regret that I forgot to tell her that my boss makes me call him Farm Daddy.”

“Woman, you’re trouble.” He chuckles, the sound rolling deep and warm in my chest, and before I can blink, he takes my hand and pulls me into the crush of dancers.

The fiddle kicks into something fast and wild. Boots pound. The floor trembles. Tad’s hands find my waist, guiding me through steps I clearly don’t know, and I’m laughing so hard I can’t even care.

“Left foot, Bishop!” he shouts.

I accidentally step right and crash into Sheriff Peeler, who gives me a friendly pat before spinning off again. Tad keeps me on my feet with a steady and sure hand at my hip.

“Easy,” he teases. “Or else my new farmhand is about to embarrass the whole Hanson Farm. What would Crosby think if he found out his girlfriend can’t do a two-step?”

“Oh, shut up. I’m trying over here!” I shoot back through a cackle. “It’s not my fault you have ginormous feet!”

Tad waggles his brows, a devious grin striking his lips, and I roll my eyes. However, what I don’t do is refute whatever gutter his mind has crawled into. I’ve seen and experienced his cock, and I’d be a liar if I didn’t say he lives up to the big feet equals big dick saying.

A month ago, I would’ve been paranoid that everyone was going to see through our “we’re just friendly game,” but after my teasing conversation with Eileen and the fact that I’m dancing with Tad Hanson in the middle of a town festival that isn’t even real, that must prove I currently do not give a single shit what people think.

Maybe it’s the two glasses of wine I consumed when I got here.

Maybe it’s the ambiance of this silly festival.

Or maybe it’s the man who looks like sin in a pair of jeans and is currently smiling down at me as he twirls me around the floor.

Tad’s hand brushes my hip as he spins me around again, his boots pounding the beat, and I try like hell to keep up. We fall into the rhythm badly, but we’re laughing so hard it doesn’t matter.

And I’m not thinking about New York. Or the galleries. Or the headhunter who emailed me again this morning with job offers in Milan and Chicago and Rome. I’m just…here.

Living. Laughing. Feeling.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I ignore it at first, until Tad dips me low on the last note and the crowd erupts in claps and whistles. When I sneak a glance, the screen glows with a name I don’t want to see.

Logan: What do I have to do to get you to talk to me, Breeze?

I slide the phone back into my pocket, shoving Logan back into the dark corners of my brain. Because tonight, under these string lights with fiddle music roaring and Tad’s grin daring me to keep up, I don’t owe anyone anything.

This night belongs to me.