Page 46 of Broken Trails
Me: Too old to be texting you.
Michael: I doubt that.
Me: Are you always this irritating?
Michael: Only with people who pretend not to like me.
Me: Pretend?
Michael: You tell me.
The nerve. The smug, self-satisfied nerve. My thumbs hover over the screen, caught between firing something back and tossing the phone onto the couch.
“Is that Michael?” Isla’s voice cuts in, curious but far from subtle.
I keep my eyes on my phone, pretending I didn’t hear her.
Imogen smirks knowingly. “That totally means yes.”
Isla grins. “So, you’re on a texting basis now?”
“It’s just about my car,” I say quickly, which earns me a lifted brow from Imogen.
“Mhm,” she hums.
I pointedly look back down at my phone and type.
Me: Not having this conversation now.
Me: Oh, and FYI, I’ll be bringing the car in tomorrow.
Michael: About time, Freckles. Can’t wait.
Me: Stop calling me that.
That one word—freckles—sits there, staring up at me, mocking me. I lock my phone before I can overthink it, but the damage is already done. He’s under my skin, and I hate that I’m starting to notice.
17
Ihear the engine before I can even look up to see what it is.
Smooth idle, sharp intake on the downshift, a faint rattle that shouldn’t be heard.
White Mercedes-Benz A200 sedan. 2019 model.
I don’t even have to look. It’s a knack. Engines speak before people do. With a smirk, I slide a toothpick between my teeth, wipe my hands on a rag, and head out to the front. And just like clockwork… she’s here.
Zoe’s propped against the driver’s side door, oversized sunglasses hiding most of her face, though the faint scatter of freckles still peeks out beneath the frames. Her mouth is set, her posture stiff—like just showing up here cost her more than she’s willing to admit.
“Hey, Freckles.”
Her chin barely lifts. “I’ve told you not to call me that.”
I grin, lazy and unbothered. “And I told you to bring this car in over a week ago. Looks like we both have a problem following instructions.”
A muscle ticks in her jaw. She’s fighting the urge to roll her eyes, I can feel it. She’s wearing black high-waisted jeans that hug her hips just right, and a white shirt that outlines just enough to be distracting. Not that I should be looking. We’re friends, right?
“So”—I lean against the bonnet, toothpick shifting to the corner of my mouth—“what finally made you decide to bring the Merc in, huh?”
