Page 35 of Broken Trails
It spills out before I can think better of it. I study him, really study him. Smooth skin, wide shoulders, a youthfulness in the way he stands—too relaxed, too confident. He doesn’t look oldenough to be doing whatever it is he’s doing here. Certainly not old enough to be orbiting me.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask someone their age?” he says with a rogue grin, but his tone tells me he is completely unbothered by the intrusive question. When I don’t answer, he fills the silence. “I’m twenty-seven.”
And suddenly, I can’t breathe quite the same.
Nine years. I’m nine years older than him. That’s almost a decade.
The old me—the one who lived in heels and believed charm could last—might’ve laughed, might’ve leaned in just to feel something again. But I’m not her anymore. I’ve seen what men do when the novelty wears off. I’ve watched promises rot from the inside out. He’s young. He’s got time. Time to settle down with someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of being touched. Someone soft. Younger. Uncomplicated. I swallow down the lump forming in my throat.
“Okay,” I murmur, stepping back, spine stiffening. “You should leave.”
His brow furrows as he studies me, something flickering behind his eyes. Not unkind, just… puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?”
The look on his face knocks the breath out of me all over again. It softens his edges, makes him look even younger. I force a shake of my head, eyes darting past him to the street. “No. Just…” My throat tightens. “You can go now.”
He lingers, and I hate that he doesn’t just walk away.
“Imogen’ll be there,” he says after a moment. That name stills me. Imogen. The woman from the coffee shop—fiery, clever, quick with a smirk that told you she didn’t miss much. I liked her. There’d been something steadying about her presence, even when I was wound tight and awkward as hell. I wouldn’t… mind seeing her again.
God knows how long I’ll be in this town. I haven’t made a decision about staying—not yet. I miss my people. Jeff and Dani. I miss the life I had before everything fell apart.
“I can sense that you’re thinking about it.”
My arms tighten across my chest. He doesn’t know I’m married. Not for long, but still. This boy knows nothing about me. Not the wreckage I crawled out of. Not the vows I’m still untangling. Not the damage I refuse to let define me.
“Look, if you change your mind,” he says, taking a step back, “it’s at Dutton’s Raceway. Not far from here.”
I offer a noncommittal “Mhm.”
He pauses at the bottom of the steps, helmet in hand, before slipping it on without another word. In minutes, his bike is roaring to life, and in seconds, he’s gone. All that is left is a blur of red tearing down the street. I stay where I am, arms folded, heart too loud, thoughts too knotted to make sense of. I need a glass of wine.
Fuck it. It’s five o’clock somewhere.
I should FaceTime Jeff.
14
If regret had a scent, it would be burnt rubber and beer.
The moment I step out of my car, the thick, smoky air hits me like a slap. It smells of fuel, fried food, and testosterone. The sky above is a dull canvas of grey-blue as the sun rests low on the horizon. Beneath my wedges, the gravel crunches, sending tiny rocks skittering, as if the ground itself is mocking my poor footwear choices.
What the hell am I doing here?
This wasn’t my idea. Jeff—the persistent bastard—had pestered me about it all week.
“You need this, babe,”he’d said.“Get out. Clear your head. You can’t hide in that house forever.” The rest of my week flew by smoothly. My mother had backed off, miraculously. Liam hadn’t tried to reach out. Thank God, and good fucking riddance.
So, in a glorious act of rebellion, I’d said, “Screw it,” and decided to show up. And now I stand out like a neon sign in a blackout.
People are everywhere, and every last one of them looks like they rolled straight out of an R.M. Williams catalogue. Dusty jeans, faded flannels, worn-in boots, the occasional leather jacket, and at least three cowboy hats I can count without even turning my head.
Me? I’m wearing bell-bottom Versace pants I probably shouldn’t have packed, a beige crossover shirt that makes me feel vaguely exposed, and wedges that were never meant for dirt. My other jeans weren’t clean. My sneakers? Piss-stained from that damned cat.
And the only bag I brought? A black Hermès Constance slung over my shoulder. Essentially, my entire wardrobe choice screams, “I don’t belong here.”
And let’s not even get started on my hair. I’d like to say I just rolled out of bed and showed up, but no. I styled it. In loose waves, and applied a soft-glam makeup look. Perfume had been spritzed not once, but twice. And for what?
We both know why.I’m just choosing to ignore it.
