Page 33 of Broken Roads
"Hailey," I begin, her name coming out rough. "I…"
But what comes next? What words could possibly bridge the chasm I've created between us?
I don't know. And that terrifies me more than I care to admit.
Chapter 13
Hailey
My fist closes tighter around the chip, its edges digging into my palm as I whirl to face him. Of course he's here. Of course Bradley Walker wouldn't leave well enough alone, wouldn't grant me even this small moment of privacy to pull myself together. His presence on the porch feels like an invasion, one more boundary crossed in a morning already full of them. The fury I've been swallowing for days rushes up my throat, bitter and burning, demanding release.
"What?" I snap. "Come to throw more insults my way?"
His eyes drop to my closed fist, then back to my face. Something flickers across his expression—curiosity, maybe, or concern. I don't care which. I shove the chip deep into my pocket, away from his prying eyes. It's mine. My anchor. My reminder. It's the most valuable thing I own, and I'll be damned if I'll explain its significance to him.
"I came to apologize," he says, voice low and gruff.
A harsh and humorless laugh escapes me. "Right. Because someone told you to?"
His jaw tightens, confirming my suspicion. The apology isn't real. It's obligatory, forced from him by his father or Ruthie or whoever else at that table decided I deserved better than his scorn.
"I shouldn't have said what I did," he continues, each word sounding painful to extract. "About the bar. It was... uncalled for."
"Uncalled for," I repeat. "That's what we're calling it? One more dig at the city girl who doesn't belong? One more reminder that I'm an outsider?"
I take a step toward him, something breaking loose inside me. The careful walls I've built, the professional distance I've maintained, the endless patience in the face of his dismissal, all of it crumbles under the weight of this morning's humiliation.
"You know what, Bradley? I'm done. I'm done tiptoeing around your ego. I'm done having every suggestion I make shot down before I can even finish a sentence. I'm done being treated like I'm some kind of threat to your precious ranch."
His eyebrows lift slightly, surprise flickering across his face. Good. Let him be surprised. Let him see that the polite, professional mask he's been sneering at has limits.
"I came here to help," I continue, my voice rising despite my efforts to control it. "Your father hired me because this place is in trouble, whether you want to admit it or not. But you—" I jab a finger toward his chest, not quite touching him but close enough to make him blink. "You're so wrapped up in your own stubbornness that you'd rather watch this place sink than accept a single idea that isn't yours."
The morning sun catches in his dark eyes, turning them almost amber as they widen at my outburst. He opens his mouth, but I cut him off. I'm not finished. Not even close.
"You think I don't understand this place? You think I don't see what makes it special? I do. I see it every morning when the sunrises over those mountains. I see it in the way your father talks about this land. I hear it in Ruthie's stories." My voice cracks slightly, but I push through. "But I also see the empty cabins and the outdated systems and the bills piling up."
I step closer still, close enough to catch the scent of his soap, to see the tiny flecks of gold in his irises. My cheeks burn hot, but I don't care.
"You're so afraid of change that you can't see it's the only thing that will save what you love." The words pour out of me now. "Heaven forbid we update the website. Heaven forbid we renovate cabins that haven't been touched since the nineties. Heaven forbid we make this place accessible to a new generation who might actually keep it alive."
My hands are trembling now, fingers digging into my palms hard enough to hurt. The pain grounds me, keeps me from floating away on this tide of anger.
"You're nothing but a scared little boy afraid that someone might actually have a good idea that isn't yours," I spit. "You hide behind tradition and authenticity, but it's just fear. Fear that if something changes, even a little bit, you might lose control. And control is all you have, isn't it?"
I expect him to fight back. To match my anger with his own. To tell me I don't know what I'm talking about, that I don't belong here, that I should pack my bags and head back to the city I came from.
But he doesn't.
He just stands there, taking every word like he's been expecting them. His face remains impassive, almost stoic, save for a muscle that jumps in his jaw. His hands hang loose at his sides, not clenched like mine. His breathing remains steady while mine comes in short, ragged bursts.
His silence is worse than any argument.
"Say something," I demand, my voice rising to a pitch that might carry to the main house. I don't care. "Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I don't understand. Tell me anything."
Still nothing. Just those dark eyes, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle. Is he waiting for me to finish? Is he dismissing every word before it even leaves my mouth? Or is he simply not bothered enough to engage?
The thought sends a fresh wave of fury through me. I step even closer, our bodies now separated by mere inches.
