Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 507(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 338(@300wpm)
I smile lightly, hoping it looks less stilted than it feels, when Clay pauses in his release of my hand, studying the bruise on my arm. His jaw hardens. “Shoulda made it three, Ben.”
My eyebrows pull together, losing track of the conversation. “Excuse me?”
“Nothin’, darlin’.” Clay’s smile is…soft. Tender, even. “Just glad you’re all right.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.” I glance between Bennett and Clay, and suddenly, having an audience for this conversation feels akin to skinning myself alive. “Would you…do you mind giving me a minute with Bennett? Just the two of us?”
He nods. “Of course.”
“Thanks. I’ll only be a minute, I swear. My sister is waiting for me anyway.”
Clay’s olive face fades to stone white in a flash. “Josie’s here?”
“Yeah. By the door. She—” I don’t even finish the sentence before he’s on the move, throwing down his towel on the bar top and heading in my sister’s direction, practically shoving patrons out of the way as he goes.
“That was weird,” I find myself remarking aloud.
“History always repeats itself,” Ben replies, taking another swig of amber from his glass.
“What?” I ask, unsure if I heard him right. He turns to face me, and for the first time, I see how bloodied and cut up the knuckles of his right hand are. “Oh my God,” I gasp, grabbing for the offending limb without permission. “I’m so sorry.” Tears threaten as I inspect the wounds, and I have to fight for my life not to break down in front of him. Instead, I take my mouth on a marathon run as fast and far in the opposite direction of tears as I can. “This is why I came in here tonight! To apologize. For the trouble and the knuckles and for…Thomas. I’m so sorry you ended up getting involved and hurt in the process.”
“I don’t need an apology from you, Norah,” he says as he pulls his hand away from mine. “I don’t need anything other than to be left alone.”
Okay, ouch.
I know my face falls, I can feel it, and he shocks the hell out of me by…well, caring.
“Shit. Don’t take it personal, okay? I just need a breather. Punching assholes in the face is the absolute last thing I should be doing, and still, I did it anyway.”
I just need a breather. Oh hell. That certainly hits right in the chest.
I fidget on my feet, just standing here awkwardly, while I silently try to calm my pounding heart from hearing my dad’s words fall from his lips.
And he turns back to the bar and shakes his head at himself. “Fuck.”
Silence stretches between us for several painfully long moments, and when he doesn’t say anything or look back at me, I reach a point of climax. I have to do something, say something—anything, or I’ll expire right here on the spot.
“The Broken Circle Breakdown,” I blurt out, and his powerful blue gaze returns to me. He has no flipping clue what I’m talking about. “The song they’re playing.” I nod toward the bluegrass band onstage. “It’s from a movie called The Broken Circle Breakdown.”
“Never seen it.”
“You should,” I comment. “It’s the most beautifully heartbreaking thing you’ll ever watch. It will make you feel every possible emotion in the span of two hours.”
He looks at me closely—silently—and I start to feel like the biggest idiot on the planet. What am I even saying right now? He wants nothing to do with me, and I’m trying to give him movie recommendations?
I dig my teeth into my bottom lip and silently wish I could just have a normal conversation with this guy. It feels like I’m either apologizing, trying to navigate his gruff demeanor, snapping at him for something he said, or wading in our deep pool of uncomfortable silence.
My eyes dart around the bar, mentally seeking something to say that would actually encourage normality. But all I come up with are liquor bottles and beer and drunk townspeople. Not exactly great conversation starters. Eventually, my gaze makes its way back over to him where he sits at the bar, eyes forward and mouth set in a firm line.
When he lifts his glass of amber-colored liquor to his lips for a drink, I catch sight of the Sum tattoo on his left hand. But this time, I spot an additional three letters that wrap around his finger.
S-u-m-m-e-r.
Summer.
Summer?
Surely this is a woman’s name. I mean, a man like Bennett—grumpy, broody, ill-tempered—is most certainly a winter. Not to mention, his tattoo isn’t on just any finger. It’s on his wedding ring finger.
Right then, it hits me. His sullen mood. His “I need a breather.”
I’m such a fool.
“Is your…uh…” I pause and shift a little on my feet. “Is your wife mad about today?”
“My wife?” He jerks his head back as his eyes meet mine again. “I don’t have a wife.”