Page 53 of What I Should've Said

“I thought it’d take a little longer before you gave in and fucked her,” Clay remarks instead. I reach out to punch him in the shoulder.

“Ow. Fuck, Ben.”

“It’s not like that. I haven’t fucked her. She’s working for me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Ben. Both of you are magically here on a Friday night?”

I run a hand through my hair. “I don’t know why I’m here. But I didn’t know she was coming either.”

“All right. All right. Consider the white flag raised.” Clay raises both hands in the air. “But I will say I had a nice little convo with her when she first got here. She had nothing but good things to say about her new job as Bennett Bishop’s assistant. Didn’t even call you a dickhead or asshole once.”

“She was talking to you about working for me?”

“Yeah, but it’s only because I asked her about it.”

Of course he did. “You’re such a nosy prick.”

He just laughs, but then his eyes take on a tenderness. “She also seems pretty damn smitten with your daughter.”

That revelation, along with the fact that Summer couldn’t stop waxing poetic about Norah today, might as well be a sucker punch square in the nose. Only a few days of working for me, and my daughter wants to keep her forever. What will Summer feel for her after a few weeks? Months?

When I start thinking about timelines, I feel like someone just rammed a rusty knife into my heart.

Clay reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. “Don’t sweat it, Ben.”

Don’t sweat it? That’s cute. I might as well be standing inside a sauna with hot coals under my fucking feet.

I sigh and take another hearty drink of bourbon.

“But just so you know, if you end up trying to kick Tad Hanson’s ass in the middle of my bar, I’m sending you the bill for any damages that occur in the process.”

“Relax.” I roll my eyes. “I’m not going to start a fight.”

Before Clay can offer some kind of sarcastic retort, he’s called to the other side of the bar. I stay in my seat, looking up at the random baseball game that’s playing on the television screens. The Cleveland Guardians and the Atlanta Braves—safe to say I don’t have a dog in that fight. But it gives me something to think about other than the sound of Norah’s voice as she sings about having “Friends in Low Places.”

She’s not bad, considering what I know the rest of Red Bridge sounds like on karaoke night, but I’d be remiss to suggest she quit her day job.

Though, her quitting her day job would sure make my life easier.

I fight against looking back at her as she finishes the song and focus instead on the TV screens with avid fascination. More people sing, and I sip my bourbon. And I sip my bourbon some more.

Until the glass of bourbon I’ve consumed means I need to take a piss, so I get up from my seat and head to the bathroom. Unfortunately, I have to pass the pool tables on my way there, and evidently, that’s where Norah is now. Farmer Tad is still chatting her ear off, and she has her back against the wall, sipping on a glass of wine.

He says something and she offers a little smile, and I force myself to keep walking even though a vivid fantasy of breaking Tad’s sheepy fingers plays out in my mind.

Fuck, I’m losing it.

Norah

Tad grins at me as he drops a binder onto the edge of the pool table that has the words Karaoke Songs labeled on the front.

I chortle at the sight. “That was your secret mission?”

I’ve spent the past hour or so hanging out with Red Bridge’s hottest sheep farmer, and I can’t deny that I’m enjoying myself. Tad is cute, friendly, and quite the talker. Maybe a little too good at talking, if I’m being honest. I’ve learned way more about sheep farming than I’ve ever wanted to know.

“Hey, you don’t know how difficult it is to get this binder on a Friday night. Karaoke is Red Bridge’s most popular pastime.” He nudges me playfully with his elbow. “So, what’s it going to be, Norah?”

“I’d like to remind you that I already did a song. And I don’t think Garth Brooks would appreciate if I do another.”

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