Page 87 of Broken Trails
He just lifts both hands in surrender, laughing under his breath. “Yes, ma’am. Passenger princess, it is.”
My eyes narrow. “You’re an idiot.”
“Maybe. But you’re quite fond of this idiot, aren’t you?”
The truth is already there, simmering beneath the surface. It’s in the way my chest tightens at the thought of driving into the city alone. In the way his voice cuts through the fog in my head and makes the world feel a little less overwhelming. In the way I keep watching him—too long, too much, too often.
“Don’t lie to me, Freckles.” His voice drops low. That crooked grin curves his mouth, and the bastard winks. “You know you like me. Plus, I brought coffee for the ride.”
I didn’t expect him to gawk.
But he did.
The second I stepped out of the bedroom—dressed, packed, and already regretting every choice I’d made—Michael turned from where he was lounging in my kitchen and froze. His eyes dragged down the length of me, slow and stunned. Jaw slack. Mouth parted slightly. He didn’t say anything. Just stared.
My Gucci pencil skirt clung to my hips in a way that used to feel powerful. Now it just felt… tight. The matching belt was a stupid impulse buy because I couldn’t not get the belt to match the skirt. My shirt was crisp, white, and one of my favouritesfrom Zara. The stockings were black and sheer, the kind that used to make me feel pulled together.
Today? They were suffocating.
He’d let out a low whistle, shaking his head, and mumbled, “Jesus Christ, Zoe. You’re gonna make this drive hell.”
I lifted my chin and grabbed my bag. I didn’t let it show, but my pulse jumped in my throat. The moment he saw my shoes, he physically recoiled.
“Hold up. There is no way in this world you’re driving in those, love,” he said, eyes wide with genuine horror.
“What? They’re fine.”
“They look like ankle-snapping death traps.”
“They’re also one thousand dollars and the most reliable heel I have.”
Michael glared. “You’ll kill us both. Or break a leg getting out of the car, let alone be able to drive.”
“Watch me, Hotshot.”
He muttered something under his breath, threw his hands in the air, and walked out to the passenger side like I’d sentenced him to death.
I grinned. Just a little.
We’re about an hour out. The sky is stretched dusky and low over the road ahead. We stopped at a servo because Michael had to use the bathroom and then insisted on grabbing sustenance.
Surprisingly, the car’s been fine so far. It only took me a minute or two to figure out that the wipers and indicators were on opposite sides, and don’t even get me started on the fact that I have to manually wind the window up. Full old school.
Michael drums his fingers against his thigh, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the tyres on asphalt. I glance sideways at him. “Don’t you have a shop to run? Won’t people ask where you are?”
“Nah,” he replies easily. “Just sent Harrison a text to tell Joe.”
“Joe… your Dad?” I ask, still unsure where the lines blur between friends and family in this town.
“Uh, yeah. Something like that.”
His tone is too nonchalant, too vague, and it sparks something restless in my chest.Something like that?What does that even mean? My brain starts spiralling, running through scenarios I have no right to imagine—complicated family dynamics, patched-over pain, the kind of history people don’t talk about out loud.
“So they just allow you to go on a drive to Sydney with a stranger?” The wordstrangerlands hard, even though I say it on a shrug. It’s not entirely true.
He turns his head toward me. “First of all, I’m a big boy. I can handle myself. And secondly, you’re not a stranger to me, Zoe. I know it. Everyone knows it.”
His voice is steady, maybe too steady. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter. “But just not me, right?”
