Page 126 of Broken Trails
“You’re predictable,” he smirks. “And I saw you eyeing it before.”
I hum, unconvinced, but let it slide. “Fine. And a ginger beer, please.”
Michael adds, “Just a Coke for me,” before handing back the menus.
We chat for a while, easy with our usual teasing. He tells me about work, about Harrison being in a mood, about Joseph putting peanut butter on his little sister, which did not end well. I laugh. He grins. Yet, something still pulls at the edge of me. I shift, glancing around again, just for a second. But it’s long enough for Michael to notice.
“You hate this,” Michael says suddenly.
I frown, confused. “Hate what?”
“This,” he says, motioning around. “The place. The whole vibe.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say honestly, even though I smooth my dress over my thighs again.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I just… don’t really feel likemehere.”
He cocks his head, watching me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… there was a time when I loved places like this,” I say, voice low. “Dressing up. Ordering overpriced wine. Feeling like I belonged.”
“And now?” he asks, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Now…” I hesitate, then shrug. “I just want peace. Quiet. A life that’s slow and messy and mine. A house with a back verandah.A job that doesn’t chew me up. I want to drink wine out of a chipped mug and grow my own tomatoes. That’s it.”
His smirk curves slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Michael goes still for a beat, and his eyes flick up to mine. Darker now. Slower. Like something I said struck a nerve. But not in a bad way. In adangerousway. The kind that makes my stomach flutter.
“You okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
He leans back in the booth, arms stretched across the top like he owns the place.
“That was a very specific fantasy, Freckles.”
I arch a brow. “It’s not a fantasy. It’s just… the life I want.”
His grin curves. “Right. So should we get married now, or wait till spring?”
My face burns instantly. “Michael.”
He shrugs, like he’s only half-joking. “You basically just listed everything I’ve ever wanted. Back verandah, slow mornings, wine in a chipped mug? Fuck, Zoe. Careful what you offer. I might just take it literally.”
My heart thuds harder than I want to admit. “Marriage is overrated,” I mutter, aiming for flippancy. But his expression shifts. The grin fades—not gone, just softened. The heat in his gaze doesn’t dim, but something deeper pools behind it now. Something a little raw.
“Fuck marriage,” he says, quiet but firm. “I don’t know much about that part, but I do know you don’t need a ring or a certificate to prove you love someone. You don’t need a piece of paper to build a life together. To grow with someone. Bleed with them. Wake up every day and still choose them.”
I’m silent as I watch him. Because… goddamn. For a man so young, he’s so fuckingwise. So painfully observant. And itshakes something loose in me, something I didn’t even realise I’d been gripping tight.
“Where the hell did you learn to say things like that?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Michael’s lips twitch, like he knows he’s caught me off guard. “I’ve done a lot of listening in my life. Maybe too much.” He picks up his drink, takes a slow sip, then adds, “When you’ve seen what love shouldn’t look like, you start to pay attention to what it could.”
I swallow. Hard. Because I’m not thinking about chipped mugs and tomato plants anymore. I’m thinking about him. And wondering just how deep those roots go. What he’s seen to be thinking of all of this.
