Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
“Thank you,” I say, waving him off with my hand, “but that’s not necessary.”
“I insist.” He smirks and proceeds to flag down a bartender named Marty, letting him know to refill my glass of Pinot when he gets a chance. “So…” Tad turns back to me. “What’s the job we’re celebrating?”
“Um…” I pause, suddenly feeling protective over Bennett’s privacy. Sure, my sister and Clay know I’m working for him, but I don’t know what the rest of the town knows. And while Tad Hanson might seem like a nice guy, I don’t know him from Adam. “It’s just an assistant position but pays pretty well.”
“Nice.” He grins. “Who are you—”
“You know, from what Josie has said, your sheep have quite a history with the town,” I cut him off with a teasing smirk before he can ask me more questions I don’t feel comfortable answering.
Tad’s responding smile is equal parts apologetic. “Uh-oh. Is she still mad about last week?”
Last week, Josie had a little run-in with Tad’s sheep. She was trying to get home from the coffee shop, and they were determined to stand in the middle of Main Street. Apparently, it took her a good fifteen minutes in the rain to herd them back toward the pastures.
She came home that night drenched, covered in mud, and madder than a hornet.
“I wouldn’t say she’s still mad, but she definitely wasn’t happy with you when she got home that evening.”
“I figured as much.” Tad grimaces. “Honestly, I’ve been trying to hire more help, but it’s been difficult. It’s just me and my brother Randy and far too much work.”
“I actually saw your job ad at Earl’s when I was on my employment search.”
“Wait…” He grins and tilts his head to the side. “You saw my posting, and you didn’t try to apply for the job?”
“No offense, but I’d be worse at shearing sheep than I was at barista-ing.” I eye him with a knowing but tickled smile. “Honestly, you should be thankful that I steered clear of your sheep. They’re better off.”
Tad’s responding laugh is infectious as bartender Marty sets down a fresh glass of wine and just-opened bottle of beer in front of us.
“Appreciate it, man.” Tad hands him a credit card. “And you can keep it open.”
Marty just nods and heads over to the cash register, and I finish off the last few sips from my first glass of wine before setting it back on the bar.
“So, Norah, I have to ask you the most important question of the night…”
“Okay…?”
“When do I get to hear you sing?” Tad asks, and a giggle spills from my lips.
“Sing? As in, karaoke?”
He nods.
“Well, I guess that depends.”
His eyes are intrigued. “On what?”
“On how much liquid courage I manage.”
A secret smile etches Tad’s lips, and he grabs bartender Marty’s attention again with a wave of his hand. “Norah’s drinks are on my tab tonight!”
“What?” I laugh. Outright. “Are you trying to get me drunk, Tad Hanson?”
“No, I’m not trying to get you drunk.” He winks at me. “I’m just trying to make sure a beautiful woman has a good time tonight.”
Is it just me, or am I being sweet-talked by a hot sheep farmer right now?
It feels good to be flirted with.
Too bad you’re secretly wishing it was someone else doing the talking…
22
Bennett
After Norah left and Summer and I had dinner, Charlie took her to get settled in bed before the night shift nurse took over. And I don’t know why, but I took a shower, got dressed, and drove to The Country Club.
It’s just after nine, and normally, this is the last place on the planet I would come on a Friday night. People are drunk, the music is loud and slightly off-key, and I have to be careful letting myself get comfortable with booze.
But my mind is a clusterfuck, and in a town this small, I’m struggling to find anywhere else to try to sort it out.
The odd timing of my presence makes Clay do a double take.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he comments as I take a seat across from him. “Look what the devil dragged in on a Friday night.”
“Get me a bourbon, Clay.”
“On the rocks?”
I nod. Tonight isn’t about downing a bottle in an attempt to drown myself—it’s about sipping. And thinking, I guess, even though that sounds miserable.
“You’re never going to believe this, but…” He waggles his brows as he reaches down beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle. “I have your favorite on hand tonight.”
I read the label and look up at him with wide, amused eyes. “Tell me that’s a bottle of Pappy’s, and I’ll tongue-kiss you.”
“Open wide, baby.” He winks and sets two glasses on the bar. “I just opened it last night.”
Pappy Van Winkle is the holy grail of bourbon, and it’s hard as hell to get, not to mention expensive. Only eighty-five thousand bottles of the best bourbon that will ever touch your lips are produced each year.