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)
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.”
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.