Page 48 of Broken Roads
My heart leaps, a physical reaction so intense it's almost painful. Yes. Holy shit, yes. The word forms instantly, my body already anticipating an evening away from the ranch, time alone with him beyond the professional boundaries we've maintained. I can almost taste the excitement on my tongue.
Then reality crashes in. Thursday night. Seven o'clock. The community center with its circle of folding chairs and stale coffee. Tessa waiting to meet me outside, her steady presence a lifeline I can't afford to abandon.
"I can't tonight," I say, the words tasting like acid. "I have... plans already."
Something flickers across his face—disappointment, confusion, perhaps a flash of suspicion—before his expression smooths into careful neutrality. "No problem," he says, the casualness in his tone too forced to be genuine. "Another time."
"I'd really like to," I add quickly. "Maybe tomorrow night instead?"
He nods, but something has shifted between us, a subtle withdrawal I feel like a physical chill. "Sure," he says, already pushing away from the fence. "I should check on that mare. Foal's due any day now."
It's an excuse, and we both know it. The mare isn't due for another week—I'd heard him tell Ruthie as much at breakfast. But I can't call him on it without revealing how closely I track his words, how deeply I've begun to care.
"Bradley…" I start, though I'm not sure what I plan to say. I can't tell him about the meeting, about my sobriety that still feels too fragile to share, too personal to expose to potential judgment.
"We'll talk later," he says, already turning away. "I've got chores to finish before dinner."
I watch him walk away; his shoulders set in a rigid line that wasn't there minutes ago. The distance between us grows with each step he takes, and it feels like more than just physical space. I've built my walls so high for protection that they've become a prison, keeping others out while trapping me within.
My fingers find the sobriety chip in my pocket, thumb tracing its familiar contours. Seven months and counting. An accomplishment hard-won through tears and determination. I won't risk it, not even for the promise in Bradley's eyes when he looked at me just now.
But as I watch him disappear into the stables, I can't help wondering if, someday, I'll find the courage to let him see all of me. Not just the polished professional with marketing plans and spreadsheets, but the broken woman who's carefully rebuilding herself, one day at a time.
Chapter 20
Bradley
The red taillights of Hailey's car shrink down the long gravel driveway, dust rising in her wake like a veil between us. I sit motionless in my truck, engine idling, pretending I'm just heading into town myself. It's a lie so transparent I can barely stomach it, but I keep telling it anyway. My fingers flex around the steering wheel, knuckles white with the strain of holding back. Holding back from what, I'm not entirely sure. From following her too closely, from turning around and pretending I don't care where she's going, or who she's meeting. But I do care. Heaven help me, I care more than I should.
I count to thirty before easing off the brake, letting my truck roll forward.
"I can't tonight. I have... plans already."
Plans. Such a deliberately vague word. My jaw clenches so tight I can feel my teeth grinding, a dull ache spreading through my temples. The road stretches before me, her taillights still visible in the distance, and I press the gas a little harder.
This isn't me.
I don't follow women like some crazy person. I don't burn with this sick, twisting jealousy that's making my stomach clench and my pulse hammer against my throat. But I can't shake the image I witnessed earlier—Beckett leaning close to her at the corral, their heads bent together in conversation, her laugh carrying across the yard.
My hands tighten on the wheel until my fingers tingle from lack of blood flow. Beckett. Of all people. The man who, unlike me, knows how to smooth his rough edges when a beautiful woman is around. The man who, this afternoon, made Hailey laugh in a way I've been trying and failing to do for weeks.
I check my speed, forcing myself to ease off the gas. If I'm going to do this—this pathetic, stalking bullshit—I at least need to keep enough distance that she won't spot me. The thought sends a wave of shame through me hot enough to burn.
What the hell am I doing?
The answer comes unbidden, rising from some place I've kept locked and guarded. I'm falling for her. Not just the physical attraction I've been fighting since she first stepped onto the ranch, but something deeper, more dangerous. I'm falling for the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating. The fierce intelligence in her eyes when she presents her ideas. The careful way she holds her coffee mug with both hands in the morning, like she's cradling something precious.
I'm falling for Hailey Monroe, and the possibility that she might be falling for someone else is tearing me apart.
My pulse throbs in my ears, loud enough to drown out the country station playing softly on the radio. This isn't just jealousy, it's fear. Fear that I've waited too long, hidden behind my stubborn pride until someone else saw what I was too blind to value. Fear that once again, I'm going to watch something Iwant slip through my fingers because I couldn't bring myself to reach for it in time.
I've barely admitted to myself how much I want her, and now I might have already lost her.
I want her. Not just in my bed—though fuck knows I've spent enough sleepless nights imagining that—but in my life. I want her quick mind and stubborn determination. I want her sharp tongue and careful tenderness. I want all of her, every complicated, city-bred inch.
The intensity of the feeling scares the shit out of me.
Claire's face flashes through my mind. Another woman I thought I couldn't live without. Another woman who left anyway, who couldn't bear the life I couldn't give up. The ranch was in my blood, part of me in a way she never understood. Would Hailey be any different? Or would she too eventually tire of the isolation, the endless work, the simple rhythms of ranch life?
