Page 62 of Broken Roads
"You okay there?" Sawyer asks, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks between Bradley and me.
I nod, still coughing, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Wrong pipe," I manage to rasp, taking another sip of water.
When I finally dare to glance at Bradley, his cheeks are stained with color that wasn't there moments before. His eyes are fixed determinedly on his plate, but the tips of his ears have turned a telling shade of red.
"Funny thing about those voices," Ruthie continues, seemingly oblivious to my near-death experience. "Sounded like they just disappeared when I came in. Left a glass on the counter, though."
I risk another glance at Bradley, finding him looking at me with a mixture of horror and barely suppressed laughter in his eyes. The absurdity of our situation—hiding in a pantry like teenagers, then nearly being exposed over breakfast—hits me all at once. A hysterical giggle threatens to escape, which I disguise as another cough.
"Maybe it was ghosts," Sawyer suggests, his gaze bouncing between Bradley and me with growing amusement. "Or maybe someone was having a midnight snack they didn't want to share." The emphasis he places onsnackleaves little doubt that he's caught on to what's happening.
Bradley clears his throat. "Pretty sure there are no ghosts in the kitchen, Sawyer."
"No?" Sawyer's grin widens. "That's funny, because you're both looking pretty spooked right now."
The table falls silent for one painful moment before Bradford snorts. "Leave 'em alone, Sawyer. Not everyone announces their business to the whole damn county."
The tension breaks, laughter rippling around the table. Even Ruthie joins in, though I suspect she doesn't fully understand the joke. Under the table, Bradley's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining in silent communication. When I look at him, he’s watching me with that same intense gaze from earlier, but nowthere's something else mixed in with the desire—a warmth, a tenderness that makes my heart stutter inside my chest.
"More eggs, anyone?" Ruthie asks, already standing to retrieve the pan from the kitchen.
Breakfast continues, the moment passing like a summer storm. But Bradley's hand remains firmly clasped with mine, a silent promise of what’s to come.
Chapter 26
Bradley
Istack the breakfast dishes with more concentration than the task requires, my hands moving mechanically while my mind races a thousand miles ahead. The ceramic plates clink together too loudly in the kitchen's morning quiet, betraying the unsteady tremor in my fingers. Across the room, Ruthie softly hums to herself as she wraps leftover biscuits in a checkered cloth, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from me like heat from an overworked engine. But I know better. Nothing escapes Ruthie's notice in this house.
"You're going to crack those plates if you keep gripping them like that," Ruthie says without turning around.
I loosen my hold, not realizing how tightly I'd been clutching the dishware. "Sorry."
My voice comes out gruff, another thing I can't seem to control this morning. Last night's encounter with Hailey plays on repeat in my mind—her body pressed against mine in the kitchen, those little gasps she made when I touched her, the way we froze like guilty teenagers when we heard Ruthie's footsteps. Thenbreakfast, with Hailey in that pink dress that made my brain short-circuit, followed by Ruthie's innocent comment about hearing voices in the kitchen that nearly made Hailey choke and turned my ears the color of a summer sunset.
Fuck, I'm in deep.
"Hand me that dish towel, would you?" Ruthie asks, breaking into my thoughts.
I reach for the faded blue towel hanging from the oven door handle and when I pass it to her, she pause and studies my face.
"Alright, out with it," she says, taking the towel but making no move to use it. "You've been fidgeting like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs since breakfast ended."
I open my mouth, then close it, the words I've been rehearsing in my head suddenly evaporating. Instead, I turn back to the sink and grab another plate, scrubbing at a spot that doesn't exist.
"Bradley James Walker," Ruthie says, her voice taking on that tone that's been stopping me in my tracks since I was knee-high. "I've known you since you were in diapers. I can tell when something's eating at you."
The plate in my hand suddenly feels too slippery. I set it down carefully before I drop it and brace both hands against the edge of the sink.
"It's nothing," I mutter, the lie sitting uncomfortably on my tongue.
Ruthie snorts, the sound both affectionate and dismissive. "And I'm the Queen of England." She moves to stand beside me and waits, patient as always, giving me the space to find my words. It's a gift she's always had—knowing when to push and when to simply stand in silence until I work through whatever's knotted up inside me.
Exhaling slowly, I turn to face her. "It's about Hailey."
Ruthie's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes softens. "I figured as much."
My fingers tap an anxious rhythm against the counter. "You did?"
