What I Should’ve Said
Chapter 22

Bennett

After Norah left and Summer and I had dinner, Charlie took her to get settled in bed before the night shift nurse took over. And I don’t know why, but I took a shower, got dressed, and drove to The Country Club.

It’s just after nine, and normally, this is the last place on the planet I would come on a Friday night. People are drunk, the music is loud and slightly off-key, and I have to be careful letting myself get comfortable with booze.

But my mind is a clusterfuck, and in a town this small, I’m struggling to replace anywhere else to try to sort it out.

The odd timing of my presence makes Clay do a double take.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he comments as I take a seat across from him. “Look what the devil dragged in on a Friday night.”

“Get me a bourbon, Clay.”

“On the rocks?”

I nod. Tonight isn’t about downing a bottle in an attempt to drown myself—it’s about sipping. And thinking, I guess, even though that sounds miserable.

“You’re never going to believe this, but…” He waggles his brows as he reaches down beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle. “I have your favorite on hand tonight.”

I read the label and look up at him with wide, amused eyes. “Tell me that’s a bottle of Pappy’s, and I’ll tongue-kiss you.”

“Open wide, baby.” He winks and sets two glasses on the bar. “I just opened it last night.”

Pappy Van Winkle is the holy grail of bourbon, and it’s hard as hell to get, not to mention expensive. Only eighty-five thousand bottles of the best bourbon that will ever touch your lips are produced each year.

When we were wild and crazy teenage assholes, Clay and I used to steal this bourbon from his dad’s home bar. And when I was the old Bennett Bishop who lived life in the fast lane of New York, this was all my pretentious ass would drink.

He slides one glass to me and keeps one for himself. “Cheers, Ben.”

“Cheers,” I clink my glass against his and savor the first drink of Pappy’s I’ve had in over seven years. Smooth as silk yet still holds that delicious sting down my throat, it’s fucking perfect. “Damn, that’s good.”

“I had a feeling you’d enjoy it.” Clay grins. “Though, I really thought I’d have to bring it to your house since you’re generally a fucking hermit. What gives, man? What are you doing here tonight?”

“Figured I’d come in and enjoy open mic night.”

Clay stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “In about three songs, Sheriff Peeler is going to be up there with his banjo, breaking bluegrass’s heart. You can’t tell me you don’t hate that shit.”

I shrug. “I needed to get out. Think.”

Clay snorts. “Well, good luck doing that here. Especially since part of what I reckon you’re planning to think about is climbing on the stage.”

I turn quickly, looking over my shoulder as Norah gets a hand up from Mikey, The Country Club’s resident DJ, and takes her spot at the mic.

What the fuck is she doing here? She said she was going to dinner with Josie.

Her hair is up in some kind of fancy bun that allows a few ringlets to frame her face, and her lips are painted red. She’s wearing a little summer dress and a pair of heels, and she’s laughing at something someone in the crowd in front of her said. It doesn’t take much scrutiny to replace out who it is—fucking Tad Hanson.

She looks beautiful.

“Duuuuude,” Clay comments in a low, amused voice. “Stare any harder, and I think she might combust.”

I turn back to meet his eyes. “Shut up.”

“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.