Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery 2)

She became lost in his steady gaze as she slid her hands over his strong shoulders, down his flexed biceps, feeling him shiver under her touch. “Why?”

He dropped his mouth to hers. “Because we weren’t done yet.”

“No, I guess we weren’t,” she whispered against his lips, and then she let him claim her again.

12

Two weeks went in a blur of magic and possibilities, and Clara knew with each passing day that she was letting herself fall deeper for Sullivan. Everything was perfect, and during the time she had with him, she felt like she finally had the family she wanted, with Sullivan in their lives. He’d done the work, on himself and for her and Mason. She woke up this morning, and like she did every other day, she got Mason off to school before returning home to work. Only today, everything felt different, she felt…hopeful. Mason was happy and thriving, and Sullivan was fitting into their lives seamlessly. And while it still felt like they needed to go slowly, she knew she wanted to take these steps forward with Sullivan. Lately, everything seemed perfect, so perfect that she wondered if maybe, just maybe, this time everything would be different. That this time, they would get their forever they had once talked about.

With the exposure from Sullivan’s media stunt at the brewery and the baseball game lighting up their social media and causing their beer to sell out locally, Clara decided to send her final revisions of the contracts back to her lawyer for him to send off to the distributors for final negotiations. The terms were much better for the brewery mainly due to Sullivan’s help. So she grabbed a coffee from the coffee shop and returned home to get this deal done.

For once in a very long time, Clara let her heart bask in the happy glow. The day was clear without a cloud in the sky. The roads were quiet. And even though gossip had spread about Mason being Sullivan’s son after Mason told everyone at school, the townsfolk had been kind and understanding, not catty. Everything was perfect.

Until she arrived home and all hell broke loose.

Before Clara could even park, people swarmed her car. No, not people, she realized: reporters. A dozen in total, some with cameras, others with microphones, and some with video cameras. She exited the car, looking for Sullivan somewhere in the crowd, but he was nowhere in sight. “Excuse me. Please, excuse me,” she said, pushing through the people, feeling like a sardine in a can.

“Clara. Clara,” a reporter called. “Please, over here, Clara.”

A blink of the eye later, she found microphones shoved in her face, the flash of cameras blinding her, questions being hurled her way. Their voices blended together in a roar, making it impossible for her to make out what they were saying.

Feeling trapped and claustrophobic, she wiggled out from around them and ran toward the house, not looking back. Just as she made it to the porch, she spotted Sullivan running toward her from his rental truck.

He met her halfway, his eyes hard, angry. “Go inside. Now. Call the police.”

She didn’t need him to ask her twice. She booked it forward, running up the porch steps, and got inside in a second flat, slamming the door shut behind her. Her purse fell to the hardwood floor, and she dropped to her knees, ignoring the sharp pain and grabbing her phone out with shaky hands. “Hello, this is Clara Carter, over at Three Chicks Brewery,” she said, breathless. “I’ve just arrived home to a dozen of unwanted reporters on my property.” In hopes they’d get here fast, she added, “They’re being forceful in their questioning.”

A pause. Then the 911 operator said, “We’ll send a few cruisers out to the brewery now. Hang tight.”

“Thank you,” Clara breathed, ending the call. One of the blessings of living in a small town was not having to explain more than she had to nor give an address. She stayed right there, in the foyer, with her cell phone clenched in her hand, and breathed past the shakiness, trembling to her core.

After a moment, Amelia ran from the kitchen and snapped, “Thank goodness you’re home. I’ve been calling, but you must have had your phone on silent. I had no idea what to do. Do you know why they’re here?”

“I haven’t got a clue.” Feeling like her legs were under her again, Clara rose and moved into the living room. She pulled the flower-patterned curtain aside to sneak a look outside. Sullivan stood at the bottom of the porch steps, talking to the reporters still yelling out to him. “It’s a madhouse out there. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Amelia peeked around the curtain too. “Do you think that’s all for Sullivan?”

“Maybe because his suspension is ending soon. Who knows?” Her heart went out to him. Is this what he faced all the time? Where was the privacy?

“Sorry to break it to you, but it has nothing to do with his suspension.”

Clara whirled around to Maisie. “Then, what is it about?” she demanded.

Maisie cringed. “Fair warning: you’re not going to like what I’m about to show you.”

Clara noted Maisie’s shoes were still on, indicating she’d come through the

back door. It didn’t take much to know something was terribly wrong. One look at Maisie’s curled shoulders said enough. “Consider me warned. What is it?” Clara asked.

Maisie’s brow wrinkled as she closed the distance to offer her cell phone. “I saw this in my news feed on Facebook. I came right away.”

First, Clara made out she was looking at an article from a trashy rag. Then she stopped breathing at the headline: Sullivan Keene has a secret love child. That in itself wasn’t the only problem; it was all the details of their lives that followed. They’d twisted every event that shaped their lives. They knew he’d left her, and they blamed him. Only him. And the final sentence in the article was a dagger to her heart: Can she forgive him for walking out on her son and her?

“Oh, my God,” Clara breathed, glancing up at Maisie. “How could they do this to Sullivan? To Mason?” Word after word, it painted them in the worst light. Sullivan looked no better than his abusive father. Clara looked like a weak woman who drowned without Sullivan, barely able to raise her son. Mason was dragged through the mud alongside her and Sullivan. “How could they do this to a child?”

Maisie recoiled. “I know. It’s bad. I’m sorry, Clara.”

Amelia scooped up the phone, read the article, and growled, “And why do they care anyway if he left and moved away? Or that you have a son together? Don’t they have more important news to report on instead of Sullivan’s personal life?”