Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79621 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
This is Bryson. You’re in Elmwood?
I stared at my phone for a good minute, eventually cluing in that I was acting like a high-strung teen. Ugh, what was wrong with me?
Buzz buzz
I jumped up, swallowing hard as I read the new text.
Hi. Yep, I’m staying at the Black Horse Inn. Want to meet me at the bar at 5?
No, I didn’t.
I didn’t want to meet him at all. Not at the bar, the coffee shop, the market, the diner, the bakery, or anywhere in Elmwood. Christ. I did not want him in my town. This was supposed to be my safe space, and one-night stands with professional hockey connections were the opposite of safe.
Smitty had a lot of nerve showing up after four months anyway. The timing was weird, and I just…didn’t like it. Irritation chased my nerves away, and that felt so much better. He didn’t belong here, and I was not okay with this.
He had to go.
At 4:55, I stepped out of my Mercedes, surveying the half-full lot in front of the Black Horse Inn as I mentally prepared a speech to kick the hockey player to the curb.
No hard feelings. I like you, and that night was amazing, but we had an agreement, and you should go. Now.
Yeah, that would do it. I fussed with the collar of my oxford shirt and pulled the door open, tucking my sunglasses into my pocket. I definitely wouldn’t need them in here.
The Black Horse Inn was a throwback to rural Vermont’s idea of sophistication circa the middle of the last century when drinking martinis in dark smoky bars with low ceilings and red leatherette booths was the epitome of cool. Seventy-five years later, the only things that had changed were the flat-screens behind the bar. Oh, and smokers were now banished outdoors.
I scanned the small space as my eyes adjusted to the cavernlike atmosphere. It was early still, so the high tables were empty and only two of the booths were taken.
A boom of laughter caught my attention and there he was—all six foot five inches of massive human man straddling a barstool, nursing a beer and chatting amicably to Bill the bartender and Rick McIntyre, a local banker I’d sold a few properties to. I’d been hoping for a little privacy, but this wasn’t some chain hotel in Upstate New York—this was Elmwood.
Bill greeted me heartily. “Ah, long time no see! What can I get you, Bryson?”
I smiled politely, nodding to Rick as I approached. “The usual, please.”
“You got it.”
Rick swallowed the dregs of his drink and stood. “Take my seat, man. You need to talk real estate with this guy. I can’t believe our luck. Dustin is going to freak out when he hears Smitty Paluchek is the new high school coach. I don’t know what kind of magic hockey spell has hit this town, but I’m all for it.”
I braved my first glance at Smitty, idly sipping foam from a mug, his casual gaze locked on me.
And God, he looked good…rugged, rough, and bigger than I remembered. In fact, there was more of him everywhere. His hair was longer, his end-of-day beard was scruffier, his muscles were broader. That last one might have been a trick of the light. Or maybe the black tee hugging his biceps like a second skin added to the illusion.
Bill slid a beer toward me and chuckled. “Now the trick will be talking Jake off a ledge. We all saw that punch. Ooh! That boy got you good.”
Rick hooted, bending his large frame to squint as he signed his receipt. “Never seen him fired up like that. But that’s just hockey for ya. I bet Jake will be as thrilled to welcome a fellow pro in town as the rest of us. I better head out. I told Lizzy I’d stop by the store on my way home. G’night, fellas.”
Smitty swiveled to face me. “Hey. Take a seat.”
“No,” I said coolly, gesturing to the row of booths lining the back wall. “This way.”
He lifted a brow, but followed without comment, sliding into the very snug, very intimate booth I chose in the darkest corner of the bar.
Okay, this might not work. The original architects of the Black Horse had obviously not accounted for men of our height and stature when they designed this place. The seating was small and tight, and the booths were usually avoided by locals unless they happened to be on a date. But if we didn’t want to be overheard, this was the best option.
Smitty grunted as he settled into the faux-leather bench seat. “This is insanely uncomfortable.”
“That’s okay. This won’t take long,” I replied stiffly, knocking my knee against the table. Ow, fuck, fuck, fuck. I bit the inside of my cheek and rearranged my smile…congenial, but cold. “What are you doing here?”