Page 21 of Broken Roads
"Don't take it personally. Apparently Bradley's like that with everyone new."
His words should comfort me, but they don't. Because while Bradley might be cold to everyone, my reaction to him feels dangerously specific.
My mind traitorously slides back to this morning, to opening the bathroom door and finding him standing there. The shock of seeing him shirtless had stolen my breath, my words, and my ability to think clearly. His broad chest was bare in the hallway light, defined muscles shifting beneath tanned skin as he'd clutched his clothes. The dark trail of hair disappearing beneath pajama bottoms that hung low on his hips. The unexpected vulnerability in his eyes before they'd hardened again.
The scars. I hadn't expected those. A jagged line across his collarbone. Smaller marks scattered across his torso like a constellation of past pain. He’d moved to cover the worst of them, a protective gesture that seemed instinctive rather than calculated.
In that moment, he'd looked different. Not the cold, controlled ranch manager who'd dismissed me, but a man of flesh and blood and imperfection.
My mouth goes dry at the memory, and I force myself to focus on the passing landscape. This attraction, or whatever it is, needs to be buried. Deep. There's too much at stake. I can't afford complications, especially not ones that come in the formof hostile cowboys with trust issues and bodies that make my pulse race in ways it shouldn't.
"So what made you take a job all the way out here?" Beckett's voice drags me back to the present. "Seems like a long way from Chicago."
The question pokes at wounds still raw and bleeding. What can I say? That I totaled my car and could’ve killed someone while driving drunk? That I lost my job, my apartment, my self-respect? That some days, I still wake up with the phantom taste of vodka on my tongue?
"I needed a change," I say instead, the same half-truth I gave Bradford. "And Ruthie mentioned they needed someone with my background."
Beckett nods, accepting the answer without pushing. Another contrast to Bradley, who looks at me like he's trying to peel back my skin to see what lies beneath.
We crest a hill, and suddenly the town spreads out before us. A handful of streets lined with weathered buildings, some dating back to what looks like the early nineteen-hundreds. Main Street cuts through the center, storefronts painted in faded colors that have stood up to decades of Montana sun and snow. It's small, impossibly small compared to Chicago, but there's something solid about it. Something enduring.
He pulls onto Main Street, the truck's tires bumping over uneven pavement. People walk along the sidewalks, many stopping to wave or nod at our passing.
"I need to grab that feed from Harrison's," he says, pulling into an empty spot in front of a hardware store. "Shouldn't take more than an hour. That work for you?"
"Perfect. I was hoping to check out that bakery, The Wildflower Oven?"
Something flickers across Beckett's face, the slightest tightening of his jaw. It disappears so quickly I almost think Iimagined it, but the sudden stillness of his hand on the steering wheel tells me I didn't.
"Yeah, it's just down that way," he says, voice slightly strained as he points down the street. "Two blocks, on your right. Can't miss it. The owner's..." He pauses, then seems to choose his words carefully. "She makes good pastries."
I study his profile, trying to read the sudden shift in his demeanor. "Is something wrong with the bakery?"
"No," he says too quickly. "No, nothing wrong. It's great. Tessa's great." He forces a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Meet back here in an hour?"
I nod slowly, filing away his reaction for later consideration. "Sure. An hour."
As I climb out of the truck, I can't help but wonder what nerve I've accidentally touched. In a town this small, I suppose everyone has history with everyone else. And something tells me Beckett and Tessa share more history than most.
The Wildflower Oven announces itself with scent before sight—warm cinnamon and yeasty bread wrapping around me like a hug the moment I turn the corner. The storefront is small but charming, with window boxes bursting with purple wildflowers and a hand-painted sign gently swinging in the breeze. Through the large front window, I can see mismatched furniture and the glow of pendant lights hanging from an exposed beam ceiling.
A little bell chimes as I push open the door, and the smell intensifies. Butter and sugar and something floral, maybe lavender or rose, mingling with the heavier notes of coffee and chocolate. The space is cozy rather than cramped, with tables in various shapes and sizes scattered across worn wooden floors. Vintage baking tools decorate the walls; ancient rolling pins, copper molds shaped like fish and flowers, faded recipe cards in spidery handwriting preserved behind glass.
A display case dominates the counter, filled with pastries that look almost too perfect to be real. Glossy fruit tarts, golden croissants, cookies the size of my palm. Behind it stands Tessa, her blonde curls piled haphazardly on top of her head, secured with what appears to be a pencil. She's talking animatedly to an elderly couple, her hands gesturing in wide arcs that threaten to knock over the coffee cup beside her.
She spots me mid-sentence, her face lighting up with recognition. "Hailey." she calls out, loud enough that several customers turn to look at me. "You made it."
The elderly couple glances my way with curious expressions. In a town this size, I realize, a new face is probably an event. I offer a small wave, suddenly self-conscious under the collective gazes.
Hurrying around the counter, Tessa wipes her flour-covered hands on her apron. It’s a vintage piece covered in cupcakes and profanities that somehow work with her mismatched outfit of denim overalls and a bright pink t-shirt. Today's earrings are a teapot and a teacup, dangling from each ear like tiny porcelain flags declaring her eccentricity.
"I thought you were going to stand me up," she says, pulling me into a hug before I can prepare for it.
"Sorry," I say as she releases me. "I meant to come earlier, but—"
"But ranch life waits for no woman." She waves away my apology. "I get it. Those cowboys probably had you up at the crack of dawn, right? Sit, sit. You need coffee and sugar."
Before I can protest, she's steering me toward a small table by the window overlooking Main Street. The chair creaks as I sink into it.
