Page 10 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he morning crashes into me before I even open my eyes.

Every muscle is a chorus of complaints, every joint stiff with yesterday's labor.

Dawn barely touches the window, but years of pre-dawn rises have trained my body better than any alarm.

I lie still, cataloging each ache, letting the weight of another day settle over me.

Another day of fences and feed, cattle and concerns.

Another day of her in my house, in my space, upending the rhythm of a life I've worked so hard to control.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling. There’s movement in the house. Dad, probably, or Ruthie. Couldn’t possibly be—

A door closes softly down the hall. Too close to be downstairs.

Her.

The realization sits like a stone in my gut. She's an early riser too, apparently. One more unwelcome similarity I don't want to acknowledge.

I force myself upright, swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

Pressing my thumb into my hip, I massage the spot where the bull's horn tore through muscle and scraped bone.

I need to work out some of the stiffness before I stand.

It doesn't help much. My first few steps are halting, the limp more pronounced than I'd like.

It'll ease up once I get moving, once the blood starts flowing and my body remembers its purpose.

Always does. But these first moments of the day are a humbling reminder of my limitations.

I grab clean clothes from the dresser—worn jeans, a faded blue flannel that's seen better days but still has life in it.

Ranch clothes. Working clothes. And as I swing my bedroom door open and step into the hall, my mind is already on the day ahead.

Fence repairs in the north pasture, checking on the pregnant mare in the back stable, avoiding the city girl as much as humanly possible.

I reach for the bathroom doorknob just as it turns from the other side. My entire body freezes mid-step.

Hailey stands in the doorway, fully dressed in a cream-colored blouse tucked into dark jeans.

Her wet hair falls over her shoulders, droplets of water clinging to the ends and darkening the fabric of her blouse.

Her eyes widen as she takes me in, surprise quickly replaced by something else, something that sends heat crawling up my neck.

Her scent hits me next—sweet and fruity, like summer berries and something deeper, more floral. It wraps around me, invasive and intoxicating all at once.

We stand there, suspended in the narrow hallway, neither of us moving.

Her eyes drop briefly to my chest, then back to my face, and I become acutely aware of my state of undress.

The pajama bottoms slung low on my hips.

My bare chest, crisscrossed with old scars from barbed wire and worse.

The way my right hand instinctively moves to cover the worst of them—a jagged line that runs from my collarbone to just above my heart.

Her cheeks flush pink, the color spreading down her neck to disappear beneath the collar of her blouse. I wonder how far down that blush goes, then immediately hate myself for the thought.

"I..." she starts, then stops, clearing her throat. "I didn't know anyone else was up."

I should say something. Something normal, something that doesn't reveal the riot happening inside my chest. But my tongue feels too thick, my brain too slow. All I can focus on is the way water from her hair traces a path down her neck.

The silence stretches between us, taut as a wire fence in summer. Her lips part slightly, and I watch, transfixed, as her tongue darts out to wet them. Something hot and unwelcome coils low in my stomach.

"Are you going to move?" she finally snaps, her voice breaking the spell.

Heat floods my face as I realize I've been staring, stock-still, blocking her exit. I cover my embarrassment with a scowl, stepping back just enough to let her pass.

"Hope you left some hot water for the rest of us," I retort, the words scraping past the thickness in my throat.

She rolls her eyes—actually rolls them, like I'm some petulant child rather than the man who runs this entire ranch—and pushes past me.

The narrow hallway forces us close, her shoulder brushing against my bare chest as she moves.

The contact is brief, but it sends a jolt through me like I've grabbed an electric fence with both hands.

Her hair sweeps across my skin as she passes, leaving a trail of cool dampness and that fruity scent. I inhale sharply, the smell filling my lungs, imprinting itself on my memory without permission.

"There's plenty," she calls over her shoulder, already halfway to her room. "Though given your charming morning personality, a cold shower might do you some good."

Before I can think of a response that isn't childish or revealing, she's gone, her door clicking shut behind her. I stand there in the empty hallway, clothes clutched too tightly in my hand, skin still tingling where she brushed against it.

Damn her. Damn her and her city ways and her berry-scented shampoo and the way her wet hair clung to the curve of her neck.

I slam the bathroom door harder than necessary, the sound echoing through the quiet house.

Inside, the air is thick with steam and her scent, making it impossible to escape her presence even here.

With a groan, I strip off my pajama bottoms and toss them onto the closed toilet lid.

The mirror has cleared just enough to show my reflection—jaw tight, eyes dark with something I don't want to name.

I look away quickly, turning to the shower and cranking the handle with more force than needed.

Cold water first, always cold, until the ancient water heater catches up to demand.

Just like every morning for the last thirty-five years.

Except nothing about this morning feels normal.

The bathroom still smells like her. Like summer and something sweeter, more delicate. It wraps around me, impossible to escape even with my eyes closed and water streaming down my face. I reach blindly for the soap, determined to override her scent.

But my hand bumps against something unfamiliar on the shelf built into the shower wall.

My eyes snap open. A bottle sits there, sleek, purple, and so fucking out of place among the utilitarian products that have occupied this shower for years. Her shampoo. She's left it here, a small invasion into the space that's always been mine.

I should ignore it. Should finish my shower and get on with my day and pretend I never noticed the damn thing. But my hand hovers near it, a traitor to my better judgment. Before I can stop myself, my fingers close around the bottle, lifting it from the ledge.

I tell myself I'm just moving it. Just setting it aside so it's not in my way. Just being practical. But the lie is thin even in my own mind.

The cap flips open with a soft click that seems too loud in the confined space. I hold it up, just to confirm it's what I think it is. Just to identify the scent more precisely so I can avoid it in the future.

The smell hits me like a physical force—berries and vanilla, something floral underneath.

It's her, distilled and bottled. The exact scent that had surrounded her in the hallway, that still clings to the steam in this room.

My eyes close involuntarily, and for one dangerous moment, I imagine her here, her wet hair between my fingers, her skin slick under my hands, her body pressed against—

"Fuck."

The curse tears from my throat as I snap back to my senses. What the hell am I doing, standing in the shower smelling her shampoo like some kind of creep?

I toss the bottle aside with enough force that it bounces off the tile wall before clattering to the shower floor.

Shame burns hotter than the water streaming down my back.

I quickly grab my own shampoo—simple, unscented, the same brand I've used for fifteen years—and scrub it through my hair with enough vigor to hurt.

My movements turn jerky and aggressive as I finish washing.

I need to be out of this room, away from her lingering presence, away from the evidence of my momentary weakness.

The soap slips from my hands twice, my fingers suddenly clumsy with anger.

At her, at myself, at whatever force dropped her into my carefully controlled life.

I shut off the water with a savage twist, the pipes protesting again with a metallic whine. Yanking back the curtain, I grab my towel and dry off with the same rough efficiency I apply to everything else.

The bathroom floor is cold against my bare feet as I step out.

My hip seizes unexpectedly, pain shooting down my leg like a bolt of lightning.

I grab the sink edge to steady myself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth.

The pain is always there but some mornings it's more than just a dull reminder.

Some mornings it's a knife, twisting with every movement.

Like today. Because of course my body would betray me like this on a morning when I already feel off-balance and out of control.

Fully dressed, I look more like the man everyone expects me to be. Bradley Walker, ranch manager. Competent. In control. Not the man who stood in the shower breathing in the scent of a woman he supposedly can't stand.

Rolling my shoulders back, I prepare to face the day.

And her.

Gathering my things, I head out. I made a promise to Ruthie, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make good on it.