Page 63 of Broken Trails
Her eyes meet mine, and for a split second—so quick I almost doubt it happened—I see her walls crack. Something real slips through, raw and unguarded. But just as fast, it’s gone. Like it never happened. She shifts in her seat. It’s a tiny movement, one most people wouldn’t even clock. But I do. I always do. Then her hand moves slowly, rubbing at the base of her ring finger. I’ve seen her do it before. That absent touch, like muscle memory. But here’s the kicker—there’s no fucking ring there. And there hasn’t been.
So, what’s the story? Was she married? Is she still? Or maybe it’s not about someone else at all. Maybe it’s just the ghosts. The same way mine still follow me. One thing’s clear, though. No ring means no claim. Right? In theory, that should make her fair game. But I’m not an idiot. If she is available, it sure as hell isn’t for me.
“People tend to disappoint, Michael.” Her voice surprises me as it breaks the silence that had settled around us.
“And you think pushing everyone out keeps you safe?”
“I think not relying on anyone is the safest way to live.”
I don’t answer straight away. I just let my gaze trace over her face—the clean line of her jaw, the set of her full lips, the way thefire turns her eyes into deep emerald green. I take one last drag from my cig before grinding it out under my boot.
“I should head home,” she says after a pause, sitting a little taller.
I shift back in my seat. “I’ll take you.”
She frowns, looking caught off guard. “That’s not necessary. I can—”
“Get an Uber? At this hour? In Wattle Creek?” I arch a brow. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Her hesitation is instant, that invisible wall sliding back into place. “Why are you offering?”
“Because that’s what friends do. And also because I need to head home and shower the grease off anyway.”
That’s the story I’m sticking to. Not the fact that I’ll take any excuse to be in her orbit a little longer. She stands, dusts her jeans off, and mutters a half-hearted thanks to the group as we make our rounds, saying goodbye. Isla says she’ll come by tomorrow with more baked goods. Olivia and Amelia try not to make a big deal of her leaving early, but they’re clearly bummed.
Of course, right on cue, Imogen swoops in. “We’ll be in touch,” she says, then adds, “Also… we’re planning a girls’ boozy brunch soon. And you, my dear, are invited.”
Zoe gives a tight nod. “Thanks.”
My brow lifts. “Where’s my invite? Do I not qualify?”
From somewhere behind me, Harrison calls out, “You and me, boys night at mine anytime, Mikey boy.”
I shoot him the bird over my shoulder. Laughter ripples around us, but Zoe stays quiet, her attention slipping to the hem of her jacket as she twists the fabric. As we round the front of the house, she scans the row of parked cars. “Which one’s yours?”
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
“No car, Freckles.”
“You mean… we’re riding home?”
“Yep.” I roll my tongue ring, making sure to stick it out just enough for her to notice. Don’t think I missed it the other day—how her eyes caught on it mid-laugh. She might’ve been giving me attitude, but her face? Her face was telling a whole different story. Her lips part, but it’s not a comeback that follows. It’s panic. Pure, unfiltered, wide-eyed panic.
“Wait, you want me to get on that thing? That… death trap? Are you serious?”
The words tumble out fast. She steps back half a pace. “Michael, there is no way that thing will carry both of us. I don’t even have a helmet—”
“You’ve got mine.”
“—and what about you? Where’s your helmet? What if we crash? What if some dickhead in a ute doesn’t see us?”
It’s the most she’s spoken to me in a single minute since I met her. And I don’t know whether to be impressed, concerned, or just stunned silent by the sheer feral energy radiating off her.
“Whoa, whoa.” I hold both palms up. “Take a deep breath.”
She doesn’t. She just scoffs and crosses her arms. “For starters, this bike could carry double our weight and still drive like it’s on a track. Secondly, you’ve gotmyhelmet.” She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but I cut her off gently. “I know it’s not ideal. I know you’re not a fan. But we’re five minutes from yours, max. No highway. No risks. Just one quiet, backroad cruise through Wattle Creek.”
She shifts her weight, eyes darting around, probably looking for an escape route. I don’t blame her. But I’m not letting her bolt.
