Page 2 of When I Should’ve Stayed (Red Bridge #2)

Josie

My heart pounds as I sit down on the stool at the bar and wait while Clay Harris serves the hordes of people waiting for drinks.

I don’t know him well, but I’ve heard plenty of talk about the handsome bar owner since he took up residence here a few years ago and opened the only watering hole around for miles.

He’s originally from New York, moved here a couple years back, but has settled in well and has generally been accepted by the masses.

Which is a feat in this small town. It’s not that we don’t like any outsiders, but there’s a hazing of sorts, just like in a frat or a sorority—a test of loyalty that you must pass.

From what I hear, Clay Harris has managed to pass it in spades despite all the chatter about his wealthy parents and sordid past.

Eileen Martin, the town gossip and editor of the newspaper, has been telling people he’s a member of the Gambino family—like legitimate mob boss, Sopranos-type of stuff—since he arrived in Red Bridge, and supposedly, Sheriff Pete Peeler kept him under twenty-four-hour surveillance for the first year he was here.

But these days, I don’t know a single townsperson who wouldn’t let him babysit their kids or invite him over for some meatloaf and mashed potatoes on any given night.

The man has some kind of magical charisma, that’s for damn sure. The way everyone in town loves him now is proof.

It’s a typical Friday night in Red Bridge, and The Country Club is bustling with nearly half the town’s population and a third of the people from one town over.

Basically, the only ones not here are the poor souls working the overnight portion of their swing shift at the Phelps plant just outside of town, and as a result, Clay is hustling.

I watch as he prepares drink after drink with a smile on his face, chatting up everyone he encounters with amusement and patience. It’s almost as though he didn’t just have to throw someone out of his bar because of me—like the work is soothing to him.

He’s muscular, and his T-shirt stretches across his chest with every bottle of beer he uncaps.

His white smile stands out against his tanned skin, and his dark, nearly black hair curls freely at his hairline.

I dig my teeth into my bottom lip as I consider what he must think of me and the work I’ve been doing for the sisterhood.

It’s not, like, an official job or anything—catching cheaters. I work my regular shifts at Harold Metcalf’s diner on Main Street. This is just…a hobby. A public service, maybe. A way to add value with my time. But I’m well aware it’s not commonplace.

Six months ago, it would’ve been the very last thing I pictured myself doing in my free time.

Clay is finally getting close to me, having worked his way down the bar from the far end, and when I see him pouring a glass of Pinot Grigio—my drink of choice—I know the time for my “talking-to” is near.

Surprisingly, I find myself smiling at the thought of him chiding me. There’s something charming about having a rumored mob boss give you a scolding about safety, even if the only mob he’s actually in charge of is the drunken one inside this bar.

The glass hits the wooden surface of the bar top in front of me, and I grin. “It’s almost like you know my drink or something.”

He smirks. “I know everyone’s drink, doll.”

“Yeahhh. But you’ve been watching me for months. You said so yourself.”

He nods. “Figure someone needs to look out for you since you’re not looking out for yourself.”

“I can handle my own shit, Clay.”

“How old are you, Josie?” he asks, catching me a little off guard.

“Uh…twenty-five. Why?”

“Well, I’m twenty-eight, which means I have three more years of wisdom on you.

” He winks. “Not to mention, I grew up in New York. A certified rich city kid who had everything at his disposal and spent the majority of his youth and his early twenties in trouble, lots of fucking trouble , because of it. And that on its own adds, like, an additional ten years to my wisdom scale.”

“Wisdom scale?” I question on a snort. “Is that supposed to mean something important? Because I’m lost.”

“Well, if you do the math, I have thirteen years of extra life experiences— highlighted with a hell of a lot of fuckups —on you.” He taps his hand on the bar. “Which means you should take my advice and quit all this shit with these assholes while you’re ahead.”

I purse my lips. “News flash, Clay, I grew up in New York too.”

“Wait…” His eyebrows pull together. “You aren’t a Red Bridge lifer?”

I shake my head. “I was born here, but after my father died, my mother moved us to the city so she could bag a rich man. I spent the majority of my teenage years being a city kid just like you. I didn’t come back to Red Bridge until I was eighteen.

” I place both elbows on the bar and rest my chin on my fists.

“And if you knew my mother, you’d know that dealing with her narcissistic, vapid, manipulative, cruel ass adds about twenty years of wisdom to your belt. ”

After the words come out of my mouth, I’m a little shocked that I even went that deep into my past. Besides my grandmother, I don’t have a relationship with my family, just horrible memories, loss, grief, and loads of trauma. All of which I never talk about. Or at least, I don’t usually talk about.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t met my father, the great Carl Harris , a man who loves money more than anything.

And when I say anything, I mean literally anything , even his one and only own child,” Clay counters.

“The only good thing that bastard’s done is help fund this bar…

” He pauses and leans forward with a secret grin.

“It’s minor details that he thinks The Country Club is an actual country club. ”

My jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“No lies, Josie. Never lies. I’m an open-book kind of guy.

So…” He smiles at me, tapping his chin thoughtfully.

“If I do the math again, our parents cancel each other out.” He points one finger at me.

“I’ll even give you some leeway on growing up in the city, but I know for a fact you didn’t get into half of the fucked-up shit I did.

But even then, it still leaves me with three years more than you.

” He smiles at me like he’s won some kind of prize.

“And that leaves us with you taking my advice and stopping meeting up with these dirtbags.”

A sigh escapes my lungs. “You don’t understand what I’m doing.”

“I didn’t. Not until tonight anyway. Just thought you were teasin’ guys up to drop ’em on their ass. But I got enough of an earful of your conversation with your pal Drew to understand it’s a hell of a lot different from what I originally thought.”

“And let me guess, you think it’s stupid.”

“Not stupid.” His eyes turn serious. “Just concerning.”

“Wait… You’re not going to give me some line about minding my own business? About what happens between a man and a woman being a sacred, intimate thing where they make their own choices?”

“I take it you’ve gotten that speech a couple times, huh?”

I nod. “From the sheriff. And the mayor. And Earl. And Harold Metcalf.”

“Is that all?” Clay asks with a laugh.

My smile is wry. “Not even close.”

He leans a hip into the bar. “No, I’m not going to give you the same old sad speech. And I wasn’t going to, even before.”

“That’s good news,” I answer with a little smile. “Because I’m not so sure I should take advice from a mob boss.”

“Mob boss?” His laugh is hearty and happy and warms my body from my head to my toes. “Eileen Martin needs to stop spreading those shit rumors.”

“So, this bar is just a bar, then? Not a cover for your racketeering operations?”

“It’s just a bar. And I’m just a man with zero ties to the mob.”

“Man…” I pause and feign a frown. “That’s a bit of a letdown.”

“Well, sorry to disappoint, Miss Cheater Catcher, but your whole operation is kind of hard to live up to,” he says, his words one hundred percent amused. “But now that we’re back to the topic at hand, how did you end up doing it in the first place?”

“How did I end up catching cheaters? How else?” I shrug. “The internet.”

“The internet?” His laugh is incredulous, and it matches the curious quirk of his brow. “Please explain.”

“It’s hard to explain something that happened in the most random of ways.

” I lean back on my barstool and tuck some of my curls behind my ear.

“I was in a few local online groups for towns nearby. Mostly for my grandmother, to keep an eye out for upcoming flea markets and garage sales. And one day, this poor woman from Molene posted about how she was suspicious that her husband was cheating on her and didn’t know what to do.

She was devastated, clearly, and I don’t know…

” I pause and fiddle with the stem of my wineglass.

“I just felt awful for her. The post was flooded with comments, but none of them helped her. If anything, people’s opinions probably made her more on edge.

So, I sent her a private message, and, I guess the rest is history. ”

Truthfully, none of this was planned. It just happened. Once I helped that woman, another woman messaged me, and it spiraled into me being the woman from Red Bridge who caught cheaters.

“Look, I think what you’re doing is important and courageous. Men are shit a whole hell of a lot of the time, and if you can help some lady see the light about hers, I’m down with it.”

“Oh, man.” A laugh bubbles up from my lungs. “Are you telling me that men are dogs in your own special bark?”

He grins. “It’s hormonal. Some of us are just bred and trained, you know?”

“House-trained, huh? To do what? Not piss on your pretty coworker or neighbor or random stranger’s vagina while your wife is at home with the kids?”

He grimaces and chortles at the same time. “Fuck, that’s an image.”

“It’s also incredibly realistic.” I grin as I take a sip from my wine. “I’ve single-handedly caught forty cheaters since I started, and I’ve only been working in the towns around us. The freaking population isn’t that big, for crying out loud!”

“Then your service is paid.”

“Ah-ah,” I tsk. “No, it’s not. There are more. I can do more.”

“Josie. You’re going to get hurt.” Clay leans into the bar, his hands splayed out to the sides and his built shoulders flexing.

His voice is unbelievably soft. To be honest, it’s a miracle I can hear him over the crowded bar noise around us.

“That man wanted to hurt you, and I can tell you from watchin’, he’s not the first. They get an inkling of thinking they’re going to get a taste of you and then get humiliated instead.

I’m not saying they don’t deserve it, okay?

They do. But some of them don’t have a lick of sense or an ounce of manners, and if you keep it up, someone is going to do something to you I can’t stand for. ”

For the first time tonight, a very real fear of what Drew could have done to me if Clay hadn’t been there to step in washes over me. I don’t want to stop, but…Clay might be right that I should.

There’s a part of me that will feel guilty if I stop.

It’s scary how many women have asked me to help them find out if their boyfriend or husband is running around on them.

Honestly, the requests have become more than I can even technically handle.

And it’s all been by word of mouth, which makes it feel even worse to cut it off at the knees.

I sink my head into my hands and push the mountain of my curly hair back when it falls forward. By the time I look up, Clay is pouring a shot of vodka and setting it on the bar in front of me and then doing the same in another glass right in front of himself.

The bottle hits the counter with a thud, and he jerks his chin toward the glass. “Come on. All your hard work deserves a shot to celebrate.” His wink is powerful, hitting me in all the right spots as I pick up the glass, and we clink them together.

“To the cheater catcher,” he announces with a big smile.

“Yeah, yeah. The former cheater catcher, if I listen to you.” I laugh, tipping the glass to my lips and swallowing the burning liquid in one gulp.

“You can still come in here on Friday nights,” he says with a heartbreaking smile as he drops his glass to the bar. “Just leave the other guys at home.”

“The cheaters, you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He shrugs one muscular shoulder, and his smile is so addictive, I wonder if it should be considered illegal. “Feels like I might not want to see you with a good one either.”

“Why not?”

His golden-brown eyes sparkle. “Thinking maybe I’d like to see you with me.”

“Ah,” I hum. “I see now. Maybe there’s a secret agenda to getting me to stop catching cheaters, then…”

“Only in my dreams. In the real world, my agenda’s fully on the up-and-up—swear.”

I roll my eyes, shoving off the stool and adjusting the waistband of my jeans. He’s undeniably attractive and, by all accounts, a good guy, but if I stay here any longer, I’m pretty sure I’m going to end up in a different kind of trouble. “Goodnight, Clay.”

“Goodnight, Josie,” he says with a smile, snapping the end of his rag out in the air and making it crack.

I turn and strut my way out of the bar, putting a little extra sway in my hips just for him. I don’t look back to see if he’s watching, but I feel like it’s undeniable that he is.

I shove through the front door and out into the parking lot, looking up at the crisp black Vermont sky and soaking in the slight chill of late spring night air. It feels good on my overheated skin, and the stars shine bright in the inky dark.

A rush of air from inside pours out behind me, and before I know what’s happening, I’m being spun around and pulled toward Clay’s warm body. There’s a question in his eyes as he looks down at me and a beat of pause while he waits for me to stop him.

But he feels good, and I’m too overcome by the endorphins to think better of it. His lips meet mine in a soft mesh of breath and tongues, and he sinks his hand into the wild curls of my hair.

My stomach flips at the feel, and I chase at recreating it as he swipes my tongue with his own. He tastes of vodka and fresh mint, and I’m not done exploring the combination when he pulls away.

He smiles and rubs a soft thumb over my lips before turning for the door. “That,” he says. “Now that , Josie Ellis, is a goodbye.”

Nope. I’m not done at all.