Page 61 of Broken Roads
The abrupt change of subject startles a laugh out of me. "I haven't even gotten out of bed yet, Tess."
"Perfect timing then. Wear that pink dress we bought last week. The one with the little tie thing at the waist. Pair it with your brown boots."
I frown, trying to picture the outfit. "For a day at the ranch? Isn't that a bit much?"
"Trust me, that dress with those boots will drive any cowboy absolutely wild. Consider it scientific research; I want to know if his eyes can actually pop out of his head cartoon-style."
After we hang up, I stand in front of my closet, staring at the pink dress in question. It's hanging right where I left it, with the tags still attached. I bought it on a whim during a shopping trip with Tessa, a moment of optimism that felt foreign after months of practical, forgettable clothing chosen to help me blend into the background.
There's nothing background about this dress. The soft pink fabric is cut in a wrap style that emphasizes curves. The hemline hits mid-thigh, revealing more leg than I've shown in public since before the accident.
I run my fingers over the material, my mind drifting to last night. To Bradley's hands gripping my thighs as I straddled him on the bench. To his fingers sliding beneath my sleep shorts in the kitchen, his voice rough against my ear as he urged me toward release. To the way he looked at me, like I was something precious and wild all at once.
I close my eyes, the phantom sensation of his touch making my skin tingle. What do I want? To feel desirable again. To be seen. To keep seeing that hunger in Bradley's eyes when he looks at me.
Decision made, I pull the dress from its hanger and lay it on the bed. I shower quickly, then spend extra time with my hair, working product through the damp strands instead of braiding it back as usual.
The dress fits perfectly, skimming over my body in a way that feels both modest and daring. I pair it with my brown boots like Tessa suggested. A final glance in the mirror shows someone I barely recognize.
For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I look like a woman who knows what she wants. And right now, what I want is waiting for me downstairs.
Making my way down, I hover at the end of the hallway, listening to the murmur of voices from the dining room. The familiar morning rhythm of plates clinking, coffee being poured, and Ruthie's gentle admonishments about elbows on the table. My fingers smooth over the soft fabric of the dress, a nervous gesture that does nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach. I've faced board meetings with billion-dollar clients with less anxiety than I'm feeling about walking into this room. But those meetings didn't involve Bradley Walker and the memory of his hands on my body just hours ago.
Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and step forward. The wooden floorboards creak beneath my boots, announcing my arrival before I even reach the doorway. The moment I step into the dining room, all conversation stops. Forks pause midway to mouths, coffee mugs hover in suspended animation, and five pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of surprise.
The silence stretches for one heartbeat, two, three—long enough for me to second-guess every decision that led me to this moment, starting with letting Tessa talk me into this damn dress. I resist the urge to tug at the hemline or cross my arms over my chest. Instead, I force a smile that feels too bright, too nervous.
"Good morning," I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.
Ruthie recovers first, her face breaking into a pleased smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Well, don't you look lovelythis morning," she says, giving me an approving once-over that somehow doesn't feel invasive. "Doesn't she look nice, boys?"
Sawyer lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Nice is putting it mildly." His eyes dance with mischief, but there's nothing leering in his appraisal, just friendly appreciation. "You clean up real good, city girl."
Beckett, more reserved as always, offers a small smile and a quiet "Morning, Hailey,"
Bradford offers a simple nod, the fatherly gesture somehow more meaningful for its restraint. "Pretty as a picture," he says, then returns to his breakfast as if commenting on the attractiveness of his son's... whatever I am...is the most natural thing in the world.
But it's Bradley's reaction that I've been both dreading and craving. His fork remains frozen halfway to his mouth. His eyes travel from my boots, up the length of my bare legs, lingering at the hem of the dress before continuing their slow, deliberate journey up my body. When our gazes finally lock, the naked hunger in his expression steals my breath.
Time seems to suspend itself as we look at each other while the rest of the room fades into background noise. His jaw clenches, that muscle jumping in his cheek that I now recognize as a sign he's restraining himself. The memory of his hands on my body, his mouth at my ear, his fingers sliding inside me flashes through my mind, bringing a flush to my cheeks that I couldn't hide if I tried.
"You gonna stand there all day or sit down and eat?" Ruthie asks, breaking the spell. "Eggs are getting cold."
I have options. There's an empty chair beside Sawyer, who pats it invitingly with a wink. There's space next to Bradford at the far end. But my feet carry me without hesitation to the empty chair beside Bradley, the decision made before I even consciously process it.
As I slide into the seat, Bradley shifts almost imperceptibly and angles his body toward mine.
Conversation gradually resumes around us. Sawyer and Bradford discussing fence repairs needed on the north pasture. Ruthie reminds everyone about the vet's scheduled visit later in the week. Everyday ranch business that should bore me but somehow doesn't, not when it offers a glimpse into Bradley's world.
I'm buttering a piece of toast when I feel the warm weight of Bradley's hand on my thigh, just above my knee. The touch is bold, possessive, and thankfully hidden from everyone else by the tablecloth. My breath catches, but I manage to keep my expression neutral as his fingers give a single, meaningful squeeze.
"Pass the jam, would you, Hailey?" Bradford asks, oblivious to the heat spreading through me.
I comply, grateful that my hand remains steady despite the riot of sensations coursing through my body. Bradley's hand remains on my thigh as I take my first bite of eggs, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin. The casual intimacy of the gesture, performed right under everyone's noses, carries a thrill I hadn't anticipated.
"By the way," Ruthie says, refilling Bradford's coffee mug, "did anyone else hear someone in the kitchen around three this morning? Thought I was dreaming at first, but I could've sworn I heard voices."
The bite of egg in my mouth suddenly feels like a boulder. I choke, coughing violently while heat floods my face. Bradley's hand jerks away from my thigh as he reaches for my water glass, handing it to me with fingers that aren't quite steady.
