Page 19 of Broken Roads
I slam the bathroom door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet house. Inside, the air is thick with steam and her scent, making it impossible to escape her presence even here. With a groan, I strip off my pajama bottoms and toss them onto the closed toilet lid. The mirror has cleared just enough to show my reflection—jaw tight, eyes dark with something I don't want to name. I look away quickly, turning to the shower and cranking the handle with more force than needed. Cold water first, always cold, until the ancient water heater catches up to demand. Just like every morning for the last thirty-five years. Except nothing about this morning feels normal.
The bathroom still smells like her. Like summer and something sweeter, more delicate. It wraps around me, impossible to escape even with my eyes closed and water streaming down my face. I reach blindly for the soap, determined to override her scent.
But my hand bumps against something unfamiliar on the shelf built into the shower wall.
My eyes snap open. A bottle sits there, sleek, purple, and so fucking out of place among the utilitarian products that have occupied this shower for years. Her shampoo. She's left it here, a small invasion into the space that's always been mine.
I should ignore it. Should finish my shower and get on with my day and pretend I never noticed the damn thing. But my hand hovers near it, a traitor to my better judgment. Before I can stop myself, my fingers close around the bottle, lifting it from the ledge.
I tell myself I'm just moving it. Just setting it aside so it's not in my way. Just being practical. But the lie is thin even in my own mind.
The cap flips open with a soft click that seems too loud in the confined space. I hold it up, just to confirm it's what I think it is. Just to identify the scent more precisely so I can avoid it in the future.
The smell hits me like a physical force—berries and vanilla, something floral underneath. It's her, distilled and bottled. The exact scent that had surrounded her in the hallway, that still clings to the steam in this room. My eyes close involuntarily, and for one dangerous moment, I imagine her here, her wet hair between my fingers, her skin slick under my hands, her body pressed against—
"Fuck."
The curse tears from my throat as I snap back to my senses. What the hell am I doing, standing in the shower smelling her shampoo like some kind of creep?
I toss the bottle aside with enough force that it bounces off the tile wall before clattering to the shower floor. Shame burns hotter than the water streaming down my back. I quickly grab my own shampoo—simple, unscented, the same brand I've used for fifteen years—and scrub it through my hair with enough vigor to hurt.
My movements turn jerky and aggressive as I finish washing. I need to be out of this room, away from her lingering presence, away from the evidence of my momentary weakness. The soap slips from my hands twice, my fingers suddenly clumsy withanger. At her, at myself, at whatever force dropped her into my carefully controlled life.
I shut off the water with a savage twist, the pipes protesting again with a metallic whine. Yanking back the curtain, I grab my towel and dry off with the same rough efficiency I apply to everything else.
The bathroom floor is cold against my bare feet as I step out. My hip seizes unexpectedly, pain shooting down my leg like a bolt of lightning. I grab the sink edge to steady myself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth. The pain is always there but some mornings it's more than just a dull reminder. Some mornings it's a knife, twisting with every movement.
Like today. Because of course my body would betray me like this on a morning when I already feel off-balance and out of control.
Fully dressed, I look more like the man everyone expects me to be. Bradley Walker, ranch manager. Competent. In control. Not the man who stood in the shower breathing in the scent of a woman he supposedly can't stand.
Rolling my shoulders back, I prepare to face the day.
And her.
Gathering my things, I head out. I made a promise to Ruthie, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make good on it.
The murmur of voices reaches me before I even hit the bottom step. Laughter—Sawyer's deep chuckle, Ruthie's familiar tsk of mock disapproval, and something lighter, more melodic. Hailey. My feet falter for half a second. I shouldn't care that she's down there, already part of the morning routine, already fitting herself into spaces that were never meant for her. Shouldn't care how easily she seems to have won over everyone in less than a day. But something sharp twists behind my ribs anyway, something I refuse to name.
Pausing in the doorway, I take in the scene before anyone notices me. Dad sits at the head of the table, newspaper in hand, his reading glasses perched low on his nose. Ruthie moves around the table with practiced efficiency, setting down plates heaped with eggs and bacon. Sawyer lounges in his usual spot, hat tipped back on his head despite Ruthie's countless lectures about hats at the table. His long legs are stretched out, boot tapping some rhythm only he can hear.
And then there's Hailey, sitting next to Beckett, her hair now dry and falling in a thick braid over her shoulder. She's laughing at something he's saying, her head tilted slightly to the side, revealing the elegant line of her neck.
"You better get some decent boots if you're going to be working around here," Ruthie says, placing a glass of orange juice next to Hailey's plate. "Those city shoes won't last a day in the mud and muck."
Hailey glances down at her feet, hidden beneath the table. "I know. I didn't exactly pack for ranch life. I wasn't sure what I'd need."
Something about the admission—this small vulnerability, this acknowledgment that she might be out of her depth—should satisfy me. Should feel like confirmation of what I've been saying all along: that she doesn't belong here. Instead, it tugs at something unwelcome in my chest.
"You can come into town with me later," Beckett offers. "I need to pick up some feed, anyway."
My jaw clenches so hard I'm surprised my teeth don't crack. Beckett's only been working here six months, barely knows the difference between a heifer and a steer, and already he's offering to play tour guide?
A smile spreads across Hailey's face. It’s warm and genuine and absolutely nothing like the guarded expressions she's worn around me. "That would be great, actually. Thanks."
Something hot and ugly unfurls behind my ribs. Something that has no right to exist, given how clearly I've made my feelings about her known. Something that makes me want to assign Beckett to the furthest, filthiest corner of the ranch for the next month.
"Well, look who finally decided to grace us with his presence," Sawyer calls out, spotting me in the doorway. "Mornin’, sunshine."
