Page 67 of Broken Trails
“Because I wanted to.”
That… doesn’t help. At all. My pulse flickers—a subtle stammer under my skin—and I clear my throat, desperate for something, anything, to fill the silence stretching tight between us. He stands so casually, helmet tucked under one arm, all loose-limbed confidence and calm. Meanwhile, I feel like my bones are vibrating. I need to retreat. Mentally. Physically. Just… get out of my own head. And I don’t know why I ask this—truly, I don’t—but the words tumble out anyway.
“You want to come in? You don’t have to. I know you wanted to head home—”
“Sure,” he cuts in, without hesitation. “Anything to see that little fluff ball again.”
Right. Sprinkles. Of course. Not because he wants to do something incredibly stupid, like… hang out with me.Get a fucking grip, Zoe. You’re thirty-six.And we’ve already established that he’s too young. For starters, I’ve never had a male friend that isn’t gay. Shoutout to Jeff, the only man who’s ever held my hair back during a blackout and called me a queen the next morning. Correction, my only male friend. My social circle used to be full of women who brunched with one hand and signed contracts with the other, not… mechanics who smell like petrol and ruin my brain chemistry with one grin.
It’s like the second I stepped foot in Wattle Creek, every rule I had about my life—aboutme—got rewritten. I open the door, and like she’s been waiting for him all night, Sprinkles bolts down the hallway and plants herself at his shoes with a high-pitched meow.
“Sprinkles! There’s my girl.” He grins, scooping her up with one arm and launching straight into a ridiculous baby voice. “Who’s my favourite chaos gremlin? You are. You are.”
I lean against the counter for a second longer than I should, caught off guard by the sight. It’s stupid—ridiculous, even—but there’s something about seeing him like this, all easy smiles and unguarded affection, that hits me somewhere I don’t want to name.
“You want a drink?” I ask, but I’m already walking toward the fridge because I need something to do.
“Just water, please.”
I grab two bottles and, without thinking, toss one over my shoulder. There’s a soft thwap as he catches it mid-air. One hand. While still holding the damn cat. Show-off.
He gently sets Sprinkles down—she meows in protest, obviously—and twists the cap open… but he doesn’t drink. He’s staring. Brow furrowed. Bottle frozen mid-air.
“You’re leaving?”
I follow his line of sight.Oh. The suitcase beside the couch. My spine straightens. “No.”
Michael doesn’t look convinced. “Then why’s it out?”
I hesitate, and I hate that I do. “I… emptied it out yesterday.”
There. It’s out. Said aloud. No takebacks. The words taste strange. Like something has finally clicked into place. After everything—after the panic attacks, after the cat, after Imogen’s forced kindness and Michael’s maddening patience—I unpacked. Properly. For the first time since arriving, everything I own is put away. Hung. Folded. Tucked into drawers that usedto feel like they didn’t belong to me. Because maybe—just maybe—I’m letting this place belong to me.
“So you’re staying?” His voice is gentler now. Like he’s asking something bigger than what it sounds like.
“I guess so.” I press my palms to my thighs. “I mean, who else is going to put up with that little demon over there?”
As if on cue, Sprinkles starts scratching at the curtain. “Oh, don’t act like you don’t love her.”
“I don’t need to act. It’s just the truth.” Which is a lie. Kind of. I’m… tolerating her. But I won’t say it.
“Mhm.” He’s grinning now. “We’ll see about that, Freckles.” I hate that nickname, but God help me, I think it’s starting to grow on me. His face lights up when he says it, and I don’t know what unnerves me more—that he keeps using it, or that some twisted part of me likes the sound of it coming from him.
He shifts slightly, and suddenly all humour is gone. “Can I ask you something?”
Every nerve in my body tenses. That sentence has never once led anywhere good. It’s a prelude to a hard truth. A pivot point I usually don’t want to take. Still, I nod.
“What made you come to Wattle Creek?” His gaze doesn’t waver. “Or should I say… come back?”
Come back? Hm. I can’t help the way I feel as though I’ve never truly belonged anywhere long enough to return to it.
I look away from him, crossing my arms, then dropping them again because I hate how defensive it makes me seem. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear instead, even though it doesn’t need adjusting. How do I answer this?
I could lie. I could deflect. But then I look at him—at the way he waits, steady and patient—and for some reason, I want to say something real. “I needed a reset. I didn’t want to be in Sydney anymore. Too many… reminders of shit I didn’t want to be reminded of.”
Well, that’s one way of putting it lightly.
My gaze drifts to Sprinkles, then to the suitcase by the couch. I rub absently at my left ring finger. It’s muscle memory at this point. That bare skin used to carry weight. Now it just itches.
