Page 66 of Broken Trails
I nod instinctively before realising—idiot—he can’t see that.
There’s a grin in his voice. “Words, Freckles. I need words.”
“Yes,” I say, this time with conviction, even if it’s all surface level. My insides are anything but steady.
“Good. Visor down.”
Right. The visor. I fumble for the latch, fingers trembling slightly as I yank it down. It clicks shut with a soft snap, sealing me into this ridiculous helmet that suddenly feels a little too intimate. The world muffles instantly. Dulls. Like I’ve slipped into another version of reality—one where I don’t think too hard, don’t panic, don’t look back.
Then I feel the shift beneath me.
The engine kicks to life with a low, guttural growl. It’s so bloody obnoxious and primal. The vibration moves through his back and into my chest, like I’m suddenly wired to him. Plugged directly into his pulse. Into this moment.
He revs once. Then again.
Jesus Christ.
Does it need to be that loud?
It’s so thunderous, I’m surprised the damn kangaroos aren’t fleeing for their lives, and the trees themselves aren’t uprooting in protest. So much for the quiet serenity of rural life—cue Michael Price tearing through the solitude of the Australian bush.
And just like that, we’re moving.
The bike lurches forward, not violently, but fast enough that my heart lurches into my throat. My arms, already curled around his waist, tighten on instinct. I don’t even think about it. I justhold on. Because it’s all I have to anchor me.
The air rushes past, sharp and cool, and laced with eucalyptus and dust. The scent of farmland and firewood and gravel sweeps through the night, the breeze slicing through the denim at my knees. Every part of my body feels alive, like my nerve endings have been jolted awake after years of sleep.
We arrive at mine in exactly five minutes.
Safely, I must reluctantly add, and I carefully hop off the bike. My knees are stiff, but my whole body is buzzing with adrenaline that I’m pretending I don’t feel. Michael’s already off, moving with what I’ve come to notice is his usual annoyingly relaxed swagger. He reaches for the helmet gently, fingers brushing beneath my chin as he unclips the strap. I stay perfectly still, eyes locked on his face from behind the visor. My breath stutters—not from surprise, but from something else entirely. He pulls the helmet off, and I readjust the strands of my hair.
“How’d you find that?”
“Fine.”
He smirks, as if he sees straight through my lie. “Just fine, huh?”
I shake out my arms and legs, trying to pretend my pulse isn’t still thundering from the ride. The truth? It was exhilarating. Not that I’d admit that to just anyone. There’s a flutter of something in my chest. The kind of feeling that makes your brain race ahead before your body can catch up. Like a domino in slow motion, tipping into something dangerous. I feel… special. As pathetic as that sounds, I do. There’s a small part of me—tiny, stupid, and embarrassingly loud—that already wants to do it again.
Of course, my brain decides to sabotage me. Because if I’ve ridden it, how many others have? And then, because my brain and mouth are like estranged siblings who only communicate through chaos, I blurt—
“I can just imagine how many women have ridden on the back of your bike.”
Oh my God.
What the actual fuck, Zoe?
That confident woman who once stood tall in meeting rooms, who could navigate a team of middle-aged women and men—that woman is gone. We’ve already established that, but this? This is different. He visibly stills.
That’s when I know I’ve overstepped, and I immediately regret every decision that led me here.
His gaze flicks up to meet mine. “None.”
“What?” My stomach tightens. “Seriously?”
“Dead serious.”
It knocks the wind from my chest. I hate that it matters. “So why’d you let me?”
