Page 70 of Broken Trails
I sit up with a grunt, dragging a hand down my face. I should feel relieved. Grateful, even. She laid it out, she opened up. She’snot looking. Which means I don’t have to pretend like I am.“As a friend.”Yeah, that’s what I said, too.
It was supposed to be simple. Something solid to fall back on when this whole thing inevitably gets too complicated. But even as I said the words, something inside me pulled tight. Because I don’t know if I meant it. Not fully. Not when I keep replaying her voice, her face, the way her fucking eyes went glassy when she said she walked away. But that’s not what sticks.
It’s the other stuff. The shit she didn’t mean to let slip, but did anyway.
The crack in her voice when she talked about leaving. The way her hand kept rubbing that bare ring finger, like it still burned. Like there was a memory ghosting across her skin that she couldn’t shake. And the look on her face when I called herZoe.
Not Freckles. Not a joke. Just her given name.
And fuck me, if it didn’t feel like saying her name out loud gave it more weight. Like I’d spoken something I shouldn’t have. Like I’d crossed a line I had no business crossing.
And what pisses me off the most? The part I can’t shake?
“Did he do something to hurt you?”
Her answer wasn’t simple. Wasn’t no. It wasn’t a concrete yes either.
It was that in-between. The complicated kind. The kind of pain that lingers in your bones. And I swear to God, I’ve been trying not to spiral ever since. But my brain? Yeah, it doesn’t listen to logic. Becausehurtcan mean a lot of things. It can be emotional. Mental.
Subtle shit no one sees. But all I can picture is someone laying a hand on her.
And yeah, maybe that makes me a possessive asshole. Maybe I’ve got no right to feel it. She’s notmine. We’ve barely scratched the surface of whatever this is. If there even is athis.I’m not evenmaking sense at this point, but fuck if it doesn’t piss me the fuck off.
What kind of low-life fuck thinks it’s okay to hurt a woman? Or anyone for that matter? Let alone someone like her—sharp-tongued, all fire and bite and buried fragility. The kind of fragility you have to earn your way past. That takes strength just to carry.
But what do I know? My jaw flexes as I swing my legs over the bed. My boots are still by the door, my jeans and shirt from last night crumpled on the floor where I dropped them. And no, I didn’t throw them in the wash. I never learned how, because Mum still does it for me.
Every time she tries to teach me, I tune out. She says it’s a skill I’ll regret not learning. Maybe she’s right. But fuck it. We all have our flaws.
I walk over and grab my shirt, but something makes me pause. A scent. Something floral. Rose? I don’t know what the fuck it’s supposed to be, but it smells like something expensive. Something you spray once, and it lingers for hours. Long after the person’s gone. It’sherscent. Embedded into the bloody fabric. I bring it closer, just for a second. Just to confirm.
A little sweet, but a whole lot spicy. Just like her.
I close my eyes inadvertently and breathe it in—because I hate myself apparently—just for a second. Once I realise what the fuck I’m doing, I curse under my breath and shove the shirt in the laundry basket by the door and get changed for work, flicking off the small lamp on my bedside table.
This is fucking ridiculous. I don’t do this. I’m notthatguy.
I’m not the one thinking about how that woman fit so well behind me on a bike seat.
Or how her hands tightened around me like I wouldn’t notice. Like I wouldn’t pay attention.
If there’s one thing Zoe needs to know about me, it’s that I’m one observant motherfucker. Always have been. Always will be. I’m the guy who keeps his head down. Gets the job done and doesn’t get involved.
I’m definitely a guy who doesn’t get twisted up over a woman who says she’s not looking for anything. So why does it feel like I’m already in too deep? I don’t have the answer. Which is probably why I’m halfway to Joe’s Auto before I realise I haven’t even eaten anything.
As I walk into the workshop, I’m hit with the familiar aroma of engine oil and burnt coffee. A comfort I didn’t realise I needed until now. My stomach groans in protest. Yeah, I should probably eat something before I become ‘hangry’, as Harrison puts it.
He’s already elbow-deep in a gearbox, grease smudged across his forehead. He glances up when I walk in, eyes narrowing before he speaks. “You look like hell.”
“Thanks.” I toss my keys on the bench and roll my shoulders.
His grin spreads. Predictable. “Or maybe…” He tilts his head, assessing. “You look like a man who didn’t sleep alone last night.”
I shoot him a warning look. “You done?”
“Not even close.” He sets a screwdriver down and wipes his hands on an old rag. “So, are we talking literal ‘not alone’? Oremotionally not alone? Because you’ve got that look. That dazed, far-off expression. You don’t do dazed, Mikey boy.”
I don’t answer. Just move past him to the back bench, where Joe left out the parts invoice from yesterday. Paperwork. Something boring. Something safe.
