Page 34 of Broken Trails
No, of course not. I hear the roar before I even look out the window to see a red motorbike slicing through the quiet street like it owns the place.
It’s sleek. Loud. Flashy. The kind of thing that looks too fast, too dangerous, too expensive. I don’t know the make, but it’s clearly not a commuter’s choice. It’s a statement.
I shake my head, grab the wallet from the bench, and stalk toward the front door. No part of me wants a repeat of yesterday. I don’t want his infuriating scent seeping into this house. The cat’s curled up in the hallway, half-asleep and entirely indifferent as I crack open the front door and step onto the verandah.
He’s just walking up, helmet under one arm, the other swinging loose at his side. No rush. No nerves. Completely at ease. I chuck the wallet without warning. He catches it mid-air, like he was expecting it.
“Nice throw,” he says, grinning. “You always this hospitable, or am I special?”
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I fold my arms, resting against the doorframe. “You got what you came for.”
He nods toward the house. “Have you thought of a name yet?”
I blink. “For what?”
He points with his chin. “Your new roommate.”
“No,” I mutter, and then turn to head back inside.
“Hey—” His voice halts me. “You free this weekend?”
I stop. Not fully, but enough. The question hangs there between us, weighted with something I don’t understand. “Why?” I don’t bother hiding the suspicion in my voice. “What’s it to you?”
Michael shifts his weight, glancing back toward the road where the sound of his motorbike still seems to hang in the air.
“There’s a race this weekend,” he says, then meets my gaze again. “It’s local, and I, uh, will be riding. It’s a bit of a thing ‘round here. Same with our rodeos. There’ll be food trucks, music, and a bonfire after. People bring their families, their Eskies. Thought maybe you’d want to come see what all the fuss is about.” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Figured it might be fun. Different. Maybe a way to settle in a bit, if you’re planning on sticking around.”
Is this his way of asking me out?
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it. Am I overthinking it? Reading into things that aren’t there? God, I hope so. Because this isn’t that. This can’t be that. Still, I let out a dry laugh, which is more of a defence than amusement.
“Wait. This”—I gesture between us—“isn’t happening.”
He pauses for the briefest second, a small frown tugging at the corners of his eyebrows, but it’s gone before it settles. That familiar smirk slips back into place. “Wasn’t suggesting anything,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “Just trying to be welcoming. You know, as a friend.”
“A friend?” I say, more in disbelief than acknowledgement.
“That’s what I said.”
I arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume we’re friends.”
“Well,” he says, casually pointing to my Mercedes in the driveway, “I did fix your car, and I gave you a kitten. So, I’d say we’re past acquaintances, right?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
He shrugs, the perfect picture of unfazed. “I still think you should come.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
“I want to,” he says, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he’s offering the safest version of himself. “As a friend. I just think we got off on the wrong foot. First impressions and all that.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I shift my weight to one side, pressing a shoulder into the wooden post beside the steps. My arms stay folded, brow lifted, gaze steady. If he’s looking for a crack, he’s going to have to try harder. But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fumble. He just stands there like he’s got all the time in the world.
He drags a hand across the back of his head, which seems to be a recurring thing for him. “It’ll be fun. You can meet everyone.”
Everyone. The word lands heavier than it should, coiling something tight in my stomach. Why does that make me nervous?
“Why?” It comes out sharper than I mean it to. “I don’t need to make friends. I’m not here for this. Anyway, you’ve got your wallet. You can leave now.” I turn, taking a single step. But I don’t make it far, because curiosity—the kind that’s never done me any favours—halts my feet. I glance back at him. “How old are you, anyway?”
