Page 73 of Broken Trails
Me: No judgement here, remember? Just admiration. That’s tactical surrender.
Zoe: It’s survival. She’s got the bite strength of a little demon.
I don’t text back right away. I just stare at her name on my screen. A roguish smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I do, because she texted me first. No sarcasm. No cold fronts.
Just… her.
The pizza didn’t take long to arrive, and now we’re sitting at Harrison’s small dining table. They’ve only been in this place for a few months now, and it already feels lived in, as if they’ve been here for years. It feels comfortable. Joseph refuses to eat unless his pizza slices are cut into dinosaur shapes. He’s got four lined up already—T-rex, stegosaurus, a sad-looking triceratops, and one I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a velociraptor, but just looks like a mangled rectangle.
The whole house smells like garlic bread and tomato sauce. It’s warm. Loud. Too many noises compete at once. I’m halfway through a crust when I glance up—and find Harrison watching me. Not casually watching. Not bored watching.
Watching me. I know that look. It’s his detective face. The one he uses when he’s about to dig in and refuse to let go. “You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?”
I lean back in my chair, chewing slowly. “What?”
“You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m always weird. And?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “And I’m asking why.”
“Since when do I tell you my women troubles?”
The words come out before I register them. Big mistake.
Because his grin spreads instantly, like wildfire. That annoying Price grin that says he’s already won. “So it is a woman.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re such a dick.”
“Language!” Imogen tsks at Harrison.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say it. Michael did.”
Joseph dramatically gasps. “Uhhhh… Mikey said a bad word.”
“He did. But he won’t say it again,” Imogen chides, before pinning me with a look. “Both of you, knock it off. Michael, seriously. You’ve been… off.”
I exhale hard, folding my arms across my chest. “Thanks.”
“And you.” She shoots a glare at Harrison. “Maybe try leading with something softer than ‘you’ve been weird all day.’”
He shrugs again, unbothered. Same old Harrison. Imogen’s eyes shift toward me as she wipes her hands on a tea towel, her tone dipping lower. “Did something happen between you and Zoe after you dropped her home?”
The air in the room stills for a moment. I think about it. About actually telling them everything. The ride home. The truce. The handshake. How her voice cracked when she admitted she walked away from something—no, someone—that maybe almost ruined her. How something about that night hasn’t stopped gnawing at the edge of my thoughts since.
But that’s not my story to tell. So I keep it simple.
“Nothing happened,” I say, grabbing another slice. “I dropped her off. We had a decent chat. Then I went home. End of story.”
Harrison’s brow lifts. He’s not convinced.
Imogen tilts her head. “She willingly talked to you?” It’s not a question. More of a stunned observation.
“Sort of,” I mutter. “I asked a couple of things. She answered.” No big deal. Except it is.
“Hm,” Imogen hums, exchanging a look with Harrison. “Right. So, you pushed Zoe to open up, then?”
My jaw clenches. “You make it sound like I did a bad thing. I didn’t push her. I just… gave her space. Silence. A moment to breathe. A place to land for a second. That’s all.”
