Page 55 of Broken Trails
“Never. Always wanted a dog growing up, though. One of those big ones you could take camping or out on the farm. But cats…” He glances at the kitten, then back at me, and the dimpled edge of his mouth tilts upward. “They’re alright. I guess.”
I study him for a moment. The way he folds his arms, shifts his weight onto one leg, eyes still flicking back to the cat with something close to hesitation.
“Well,” I say, softer now, “technically, you adopted her. So, she’s yours.”
His brow creases slightly, and I watch him process that. “Huh. I never thought of it that way.” The room falls quiet except for the sound of the kitten crunching happily on her food. Michael leans back against the counter, arms still folded, gaze moving between me and her.
He clears his throat. “Did you… want to talk about earlier?”
I knew he’d bring it up. Of course he would. You don’t walk in on someone mid-panic attack and pretend it didn’t happen. Still, knowing it was coming doesn’t make it feel any less awkward. The idea of him seeing me like that should make me burn with embarrassment, but weirdly… it doesn’t. “No. Not really.”
“Not really, or just no?”
He waits, watching me, and I sigh. “Not yet, Michael.”
He nods once. “Whatever happened… whatever caused it, just know you’ve got a friend. If you ever need to get something off your chest.”
I narrow my eyes, taking him in. The way his arms are crossed makes his biceps strain against the fabric. I have to look away before my brain drifts somewhere it shouldn’t. “Thanks. And… for showing up.”
“Wouldn’t have stayed away, even if you told me to.” The way he says it makes something in me shift, though I’m not sure I likethe feeling. “I want you to know you can talk to me,” he adds. “I’ve been told I’m a great listener.”
“By who? Other women?” The words are out before I can catch them. I freeze, mentally cursing myself six ways to Sunday. Why the fuck would I say that? Out loud? To him?
And worse—why is my brain instantly conjuring up images of him with other women? Smirking at them the way he smirks at me. The thought twists in my stomach, and I hate that it does. God, it makes me hate him even more. I have no business going there. None.
“Well, uh, yes. But not in the way you think. More from my family and friends.”
“Right.”Duh, Zoe.
I fidget with the hem of my shirt, eyes darting anywhere but at him. God, if the floor could just open up and swallow me whole, that’d be great. He must sense my unravelling, because instead of pressing me further, his attention shifts to the kitten. “You should probably give her a name.”
And that’s what we spend the next five or so minutes doing. Throwing names around—or rather, he does, and I shoot them all down. I don’t exactly mind, though. It steers him away from the mess of what just happened. And if I’m being honest, I don’t mind his presence. Something about the way he fills this small space keeps me tethered when I should be falling apart.
“Misty?”
“No.”
“Dot?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Princess Sparklepaws?”
I stare at him. “What the fuck, Michael? Sparklepaws? Are you twelve?”
My horrified retort earns a laugh out of him, and the sound is low. He leans forward as he does, and I notice somethingcatching the light inside his mouth. My brain takes a second to register what it is.
Oh. My. God. Is that a tongue piercing?
Heat prickles the back of my neck before my thoughts take a sharp, dangerous turn into territory they have absolutely no business wandering into. I clear my throat, hard, forcing my focus back on the cat, like that will erase the image forming in my head. Seriously, what is wrong with me? Am I ovulating or something? This is absolutely uncalled for. I’ve never seen a man with a tongue piercing before, and my brain clearly doesn’t know how to behave about it.
Nope. Not thinking about it. Not now. Not ever.
He smirks, clearly unaware that I’m standing here trying not to combust. Asshole. “What? She looks like a Sparklepaws.”
“She does not.”
“Fine. Pickles?”
