Page 54 of What I Should've Said

After I managed to drink half of my second glass of wine and Tad started getting a little too detailed about the difficulties of shearing wool, I let him convince me to get up onstage and sing “Friends in Low Places.” Poorly, I might add, because a singer I am not. The only thing I can and should do related to music is listen to it.

“And I’d like to remind you that you had fun up there onstage.”

“But I don’t want to be the only one having fun, Tad,” I tell him with a cheeky smile. “Which is why it’s time for you to pick a song and get your ass up there.”

“Okay, fine. I’ll take the bait. But only if you’ll agree to a duet.”

“I’m not dueting with you.” I roll my eyes and laugh at the same time. “But I will get up there one more time if you do the same and go first.”

“You have a deal, Norah Ellis.” A big smile covers his lips. “Already know which song I’ll sing.”

“Great.” I snort and finish off the rest of my second glass of wine with a hearty chug. I set the empty glass on a high-top table against the wall. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to run to the ladies’ room real quick before I have to follow through.”

“What song should I tell Mikey to play for ya?” Tad calls toward my now-retreating back. Mikey, the man he’s referring to, is Red Bridge’s hottest DJ. Or, you know, a twentysomething dude with a black mullet and some old DJ equipment.

“You just worry about your performance. I’ll tell Mikey when I get back,” I call back over my shoulder as I make a beeline for the restrooms.

A light flickers in the middle of the long hallway, signaling a bulb that probably needs to be changed, and I squint to adjust my vision as I seek out which of the two doors is labeled Ladies.

But I don’t get very far in my search because the person walking out of one of the doors is someone I know, someone I just saw mere hours ago—Bennett.

He’s changed his clothes from earlier today, wearing a simple pair of jeans and a clean white T-shirt with his usual brown boots. His hair looks like he’s run his fingers through it a thousand times. And his blue eyes appear ten shades darker under the bad lighting.

Though, the bad lighting doesn’t make him look bad. Not at all, actually. It simply highlights the hard edges of his muscular arms and chest and cloaks his face in something I can only describe as mystery. Sexy-as-hell mystery.

It’s confusing that God made a guy this difficult so damn good-looking.

He stops a mere foot away from me, and I have to look up, up, up to meet his eyes. Good Lord, he really is a big guy. Tall and well-built, if he were a tree, he’d be a damn redwood.

“Did you just get here?” I ask, and my heart bounces around in my chest as if I’m happy to see him. Like he was the exact person I was hoping I’d run into tonight. Which is nuts.

“Been here for a bit.” His voice is doing that honey and sandpaper thing I’ve come to know so well.

“Oh really?” I scrunch up my nose in surprise. “I didn’t see you come in.”

“Not surprised about that,” he mutters through a tight jaw. “You looked pretty occupied.”

Huh? Is it just me, or does it feel like I’m the last person Bennett Bishop wants to be around right now? After my three days of working for him and actually getting along with him, his current stone-faced demeanor is giving me whiplash. I mean, I was just in his studio with him and Summer this afternoon, and everything felt…good. It felt relaxed.

But this feels loaded.

He doesn’t give my brain time to catch up before he’s tossing a question at me. “How much have you had?”

“How much have I had?” I repeat, my mouth full of bewilderment. “What are you—”

“To drink.” He steps closer to me, leaning down to meet my eyes. “How much have you had to drink, Norah?”

“Uh…not much.”

“How much is not much?” he continues, and someone slather butter on me because I’m a kabob being grilled. “I sure as shit hope you’re not planning on driving home tonight.”

Jeez Louise. What’s his problem?

“Relax, Dad,” I tease, trying to lighten his mood. “I’m being a good girl. Only had two glasses of wine.”

It doesn’t work.

“I think it’s time you cut yourself off,” he comments, and his smile isn’t really a smile at all. It’s an accusation. “Otherwise, you might give that sheep farmer exactly what he wants.”

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