Page 102 of Broken Trails
He got on his knees for me.
And I let another man—another man—finger me, devour me, unravel me. On the back of his motorbike.
Wine. I need wine.
The doorbell rings, and chaos walks in with it.
Amelia arrives first, two bottles of Moscato in hand and a wide-eyed grin that suggests the pre-game started before she left her house. Olivia follows, balancing a wooden platter piled high with different cheeses, crackers, and chocolate-covered strawberries. A massive, fluffy blanket is slung over her shoulder, oversized and clearly well-loved. Isla doesn’t bother knocking. She heads straight for the pantry, muttering about how I always have the good chips. Imogen strolls in last, drops three blocks of chocolate on the counter, and rests a hand on her hip, already judging the snack selection.
“Please tell me there’s cheese. If not, I’m going home.”
Amelia starts working on the wine. “If you didn’t cry while choosing a brie, did you even prep for girls’ night properly?”
Olivia gestures dramatically to her platter. “Hello? Do you see this masterpiece? I googled how to fold prosciutto.”
Amelia gestures at the platter. “Careful, or Olivia’s going to make you rate her prosciutto folds out of ten.”
Olivia gasps in mock offence. “Excuse me, these are art.”
Laughter breaks out—loud, easy, and unfiltered. And for the first time in a long while, mine sounds real. Not forced. Not paper-thin. We settle on the couch in a tangle of limbs, cushions, and throw blankets. Wine glasses filled, faces flushed, and we totally pig out.
Isla smirks at me. “I see you got your wheels back.”
“Oh, yes. Yesterday, thank God,” I say, grabbing a cracker.
I’d picked it up in the afternoon, all fixed and running smoothly. Michael hadn’t even charged me full price—just said I could make it up to him later. The way he’d said it, in that low tone, had heat creeping up my neck before I could stop it. And of course, I’d been standing in the middle of his workshop, surrounded by grease-stained men who probably noticed every shade of my blush. I’d tried to insist on paying the full amount, but he wouldn’t hear it. Told me if I was going to be stubborn, I could give the money to Joe instead. So I did. Because apparently, when it comes to Michael Price, my usual rules don’t work.
Conversation falls into place easily, but really, it’s all them filling me in. I soak up bits and pieces about their lives, their history. I’m not sure how much I’m giving away about myself, and the thought should make me uneasy. It doesn’t. Not with the wine softening all my edges, and not with the lingering high of finally breaking that maddening sexual tension with Michael still humming under my skin. For the first time in a long time, I feel… relaxed.
We’re about two bottles in when the tension in my shoulders starts to bleed away. Olivia points at me with the stem of her glass. “You know what absolutely shatters me? That you’re thirty-six.”
“Wow,” I reply flatly. “Thanks.”
“No, I mean it,” Olivia says quickly. “I genuinely thought you were our age. But it makes sense. In a good way, of course.”
I smirk into my glass.
“The clothes, the posture, just… everything. I can barely pull off sneakers without looking unwell.”
Imogen licks chocolate off her thumb, eyes scanning me with that knowing look of hers. “It’s the city confidence. The glossy hair. The whole don’t mess with me face.”
Confidence.
That word lands heavy in my chest. It’s been missing lately, cracked around the edges, and buried under months of pretending. Still, I smile. Even if it’s smaller than it used to be. The others nod in agreement. Isla strokes Sprinkles, who is currently sprawled across her lap like she’s royalty. The little traitor is purring hard enough to be hypnotised.
“I’m sorry,” Olivia says, gesturing toward me with wide eyes. “But how do you make loungewear look like a fashion campaign?”
I huff a laugh and glance down at my black ribbed knit pants and matching jumper—a set I’d gotten from a boutique in Sydney—and a silk scrunchie tying my hair into a low twist. It’s comfortable, but still clean.
Amelia points toward the door, her eyes wide. “Wait—is that a pair of Louboutins?”
My gaze flicks to where they sit beside the console table, still untouched since I got back from Sydney. They’ve been there for a week now. Staring at me. Reminding me of that night.
Of Michael.
Of the quiet way he looked at me after. The things he did with his fingers. The way I let him. Heat prickles down my spine. I press my thighs together under the blanket and force the memory out of my bloodstream. Not now. I don’t need that kind of distraction.
“Yeah,” I say with a quiet laugh. “One of many. I didn’t have much time to pack what I really wanted. But I’ve got plenty moreback ho—” The word catches. I pause, then correct myself. “I mean, back at my apartment in Sydney.”
