Feisty Red (Three Chicks Brewery 2)

Determination glowed in her pretty eyes. Her voice was steady, lower pitched. “Well, first, stop running away and face this. I heard one of the reporter’s from earlier is currently working at the coffee shop. So, let’s go talk to her. Let’s tell our story. Our way. Our truth.”

He cupped her warm cheek. “What if that hurts you and Mason?”

“It won’t,” she said, lifting her chin, adamant. “It can’t. You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because it’s the past, and it no longer hurts me. We wouldn’t be us if we hadn’t been through what we’ve been through. I’m tired of pretending. All of it happened, the good, the bad, and the awful, but somehow we came out of it all better people. I’m really proud of that. Aren’t you?”

Damn. He loved this woman. “I am proud of us.”

“Good,” she said, firmly. “Then, let’s go tell our story. No more hiding. No more pretending. Let’s put it all out there so the only story out there is our story.”

Hayes, Beckett, and Amelia closed in around them—his chosen family—and he felt all the shame of his life melt away, surrounded by so much love. “Let’s tell our story. Our way. Our truth.”

15

When Clara and Sullivan entered the coffee shop, she found the space nearly empty, but she spotted the wives of the Blackshaw brothers—Harper, Megan, and Emma—chit-chatting over dessert in a booth by the large window overlooking downtown. The barista stood behind the counter stacked with chrome espresso and frothing machines. Freshly brewed coffee infused the air, alongside the tingle of spices. Clara gave the Blackshaw wives a quick wave, which they returned, but she stayed focused on the woman sitting at the booth near the window. She was a cute twenty-something girl with long brown hair, black glasses, and bright-colored lipstick. Clara remembered her from when the reporters had showed up at the house earlier.

“We got this,” Sullivan said, next to her, obviously sensing her slight hesitation.

“Yeah, we do,” she said, taking his outreached hand. She was taking Pops’ advice to heart, and now that she knew what he meant, it all seemed very simple. The truth had to end this. They got lucky that they’d found any of the reporters, but small towns were good for keeping tabs on people. One visit to the local B&B, and Clara had learned the reporters came to the coffee shop often. The reporter’s head was down, her fingers flying over her keyboard, likely writing a story on Clara and Sullivan’s life. Determined to put a stop to this for good, Clara sidled up to the booth. “Hi,” she said by way of greeting. “I’m Clara Carter, but I’m guessing you already know that.”

The reporter glanced up, her eyes going wide, her face losing some color.

Clara heard Amelia ordering dessert behind them, as she gestured at Sullivan, “And as you know, this is Sullivan Keene.”

The reporter finally blinked. “Um, hello, yes, I do know who you both are.” She drew in a sharp breath then seemed to collect herself. “I’m Mindy Sommers.”

Sullivan stepped in closer, wrapping a protective arm around Clara’s waist. “Well, Mindy Sommers, we’ve got a story for you. Do you mind if we sit to tell it to you?”

Mindy’s gaze suddenly scanned the area, obviously looking for some sign that this was a joke or a mistake. When she settled her gaze on Clara again, she said, “Er, no, I don’t mind.”

“Great.” Clara slid into the booth, Sullivan next to her. The radio station played soft rock in the background as Clara drew in a big deep breath and blew it out slowly. Pops was right—she was sick of pretending. Her past, no matter how messy and complicated, was hers, and that past had shaped her into who she was today. “Yes, Sullivan left me, but I was the one who never told him he had a son.”

Someone’s fork clanged against a plate. Clara glanced up to see the Blackshaw wives sitting statue-still. She waited for the instant regret of speaking her biggest moment of shame aloud, but it never came. “I’d like to tell you our story, and I’d like you to print it. This will be an exclusive.”

Mindy looked as frozen as everyone else seemed in the coffee shop. “Okay,” she eventually said, after she clearly processed what she’d heard. “An

d what do you want from me in exchange?”

Clara had considered this from every angle. “I want to make sure the story reflects that our son, Mason, is loved, not a dark secret from Sullivan’s past.” Because in all this, Mason still mattered above all else. His mental health. His happiness. She didn’t want him to face the heartbreak that she and Sullivan endured. She wanted better for him.

Before Mindy could reply, Sullivan grabbed Clara’s hand under the table, bringing it onto his thigh. His palm was clammy, cold. To Mindy, he added, “I trust you’ll tell this story exactly as we say it, but in case you don’t.” He reached into his pocket, took out his cell and opened the Voice Memos, and hit record. “You don’t want a lawsuit from me.”

Mindy didn’t even give the recorder a second look. She reached for her laptop, her fingers hovering over her keyboard. “I’m ready when you are.”

The long lump in Clara’s throat shifted, the words she never thought she could say aloud, spilling free. “Our son’s name is Mason. He’s six years old. As you already know, Sullivan and I were high school sweethearts.” She sent a smile his way.

His warm smile erased the ache in her heart.

Focusing back on Mindy, she continued, “Thing is, back then, our lives were very complicated. Sullivan’s mother died of cancer. It was a long terrible death, which impacted his family. Most importantly, his father. Before her death, his dad was loving, warm, and affectionate. After her death, he struggled with alcoholism. Later, his kidneys shut down.” Her gaze fell to Sullivan again, who watched her closely with adoration glowing in his expression. “But we all knew he died the day Sullivan’s mom did. It’s just his body took longer to go.”

Sullivan swallowed. Hard. His fingers tightened around hers, though his gaze was all for her. Only for her.

The words fell easily from her lips because this was her narrative. Her way to tell their story. “Sullivan’s father became physically and emotionally abusive. So much so, that Sullivan was taken out of his father’s home when he was sixteen years old.” Sullivan’s jaw muscles clenched and unclenched, but Clara pressed on. “To escape the abuse, he moved away from River Rock to chase his dreams like his mother would have wanted.”

Mindy stopped typing and lifted her eyebrows, no judgment on her face, only curiosity. “You couldn’t go with him?”