Page 18 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he water pounds against my skin, hot enough to turn it red, but it does nothing to wash away the memory of last night.

Of her. Standing in the kitchen with water soaking through her thin white t-shirt, arms crossed over her chest in a failed attempt at modesty.

My fingers curl into fists against the shower wall, muscles tensing as I fight against the image burned into my mind.

This is insanity. She's the last woman I should be thinking about, but my body has other ideas.

Steam rises around me, filling the bathroom until I can barely see through the haze.

I close my eyes, but that's worse. In the darkness, she's there again.

Hailey with her wet shirt clinging to every curve, nipples hard and visible through the translucent fabric.

The way her eyes widened when she saw me in the doorway.

The flush that spread across her cheeks and down her neck.

"Fuck," I mutter, pressing my forehead against the cool tile.

I went into town last night looking for a distraction.

The Rusted Spur was packed with the usual crowd—locals nursing beers, a few tourists trying to get an authentic Montana experience.

Jenny, the bartender, gave me that look she always does when I come in alone.

An invitation I've accepted more than once over the years.

It would have been easy. A few whiskeys, some casual conversation that we both knew was just a prelude, and then back to her place for an uncomplicated release.

But I couldn't do it. Couldn't even bring myself to approach her. Every woman I looked at in that bar seemed wrong somehow. Hair too blonde. Laugh too forced. Eyes not quite the right shade of hazel.

So I left. Drove back to the ranch with tension coiled in my gut and a hardness between my legs that refused to subside.

And then, like some cruel cosmic joke, there she was.

Standing in the kitchen at three in the morning, wearing nothing but a thin t-shirt and sleep shorts that revealed miles of smooth, pale legs.

My cock stirs at the memory, hardening despite my best efforts to think about anything else. The water streams down my back, hot rivulets tracing paths that my hands wish to follow on her skin.

"This is fucking ridiculous," I growl, adjusting the temperature colder.

She's barely been here more than a week, and already she's crawled under my skin and taken up residence in thoughts that have no business dwelling on her.

I've made it clear she doesn't belong here, that her city ideas and polished presentation skills won't change anything about how we run this ranch.

And yet, when she stood in that kitchen, water dripping down her shirt, all I could think about was closing the distance between us.

Pressing her against the counter and showing her exactly what she does to me.

My hand drifts down my stomach, fingers wrapping around my length almost of their own accord. I'm rock hard, the memory of her too vivid to ignore. The way her breath caught when our eyes met. The slight parting of her lips, so pink and full and perfect for wrapping around—

No. I shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be standing in my shower thinking about Hailey while I stroke myself. It's wrong on too many levels to count.

But my hand doesn't stop. If anything, my grip tightens, movements growing more deliberate as I imagine what would have happened if I'd given in to the urge that coursed through me last night.

I would have crossed the kitchen in two strides. Would have backed her against the counter and tangled my fingers in that dark hair before tugging her head back to expose the column of her throat. Would have tasted her skin, traced the path of her pulse with my tongue until she gasped my name.

My rhythm falters at the fantasy, breath coming in short, harsh pants that echo against the shower walls. It's not enough. Not nearly enough.

My eyes snap open, immediately landing on her shampoo bottle. Before I can second-guess myself, I reach for it and flip the cap open. The scent hits me instantly—berries and vanilla and something so uniquely her. My nostrils flare, drinking it in as I squeeze a dollop into my palm.

It’s cool against my heated skin as I spread it over my length. My eyes fall shut again, the fantasy shifting. Now I imagine her pressed against the shower wall, legs wrapped around my waist as I drive into her, over and over again.

The berry scent surrounds me, filling my senses until I can almost believe she's here.

My movements grow faster, more desperate.

Pressure builds at the base of my spine, coiling tighter with each stroke.

I bite my lower lip to keep from making a sound, even though the rush of water would drown out anything less than a shout.

"Hailey," I breathe, the name a confession and a curse wrapped into one.

Release hits me like a lightning strike, sudden and all-consuming.

My body tenses, muscles locking as pleasure rips through me in waves.

White-hot ecstasy pulses along every nerve ending, momentarily wiping my mind clean of everything except sensation.

For a few blissful seconds, there's nothing but the relentless pleasure and her name echoing in my head.

Then reality crashes back, bringing shame in its wake.

What the fuck am I doing?

I watch as the evidence of my weakness swirls down the drain, carried away by water that suddenly feels too cold against my overheated skin. The shampoo bottle sits innocently on the ledge, cap still open, silently witnessing my moment of complete insanity.

Disgust rises in my throat. This isn't me.

I don't obsess over women, especially not women who represent everything I've spent my life pushing against. City girls with fancy degrees who think a few spreadsheets can fix problems they don't understand.

Women who look at this land, this life, and see only what needs changing rather than what's worth preserving.

I shut off the water and the sudden silence feels accusatory, as if the bathroom itself is judging me for what just happened. Grabbing a towel, I dry my body roughly as if I can scrub away the lingering shame along with the water droplets.

The mirror has fogged over completely, sparing me from having to look myself in the eye. Small mercies.

My movements are mechanical as I dress. The bathroom still smells faintly of berries and vanilla, a reminder I don't need of my momentary weakness.

I have a ranch to run, responsibilities that won't wait for me to sort out whatever this madness is.

My hand pauses on the doorknob, muscles tensing as I steel myself for what's to come. The day stretches ahead, full of opportunities to avoid her, to rebuild the walls she somehow broke through without even trying.

But first, I have to make it through breakfast.

The dining room buzzes with morning conversation as I push into the room, the scent of coffee and bacon hitting me like a physical force.

They're all there—Dad at the head of the table with his newspaper, Ruthie bustling between kitchen and table with plates of food, Sawyer and Beckett already halfway through their breakfast. And Hailey.

She sits with her back to me, dark hair falling in a thick braid, shoulders straight in a posture that speaks of careful composure.

For a split second, I consider turning around, escaping back upstairs before anyone notices me.

But Dad glances up, nodding in acknowledgment, and the moment passes. There's nowhere to hide.

"Morning," he says, folding his newspaper with practiced precision. "Was beginning to think you'd sleep through breakfast."

Beckett doesn't look up from his plate, but Sawyer gives me that irritating grin of his, the one that always makes me feel like he knows something I don't. "Yeah, you're usually the first one up. Must've had a late night."

The comment is innocent enough, but it hits a nerve. My jaw tightens as I move toward the empty chair, the one directly across from Hailey. Of course. Because the universe apparently hasn't finished tormenting me yet.

"Mare was foaling," I mutter, the lie slipping out easier the second time. "Had to check on her throughout the night."

"Must've gone well," Ruthie comments, setting a fresh plate of biscuits on the table. "You didn't wake me."

The back of my neck heats. "Didn't want to disturb you. Everything went fine."

Hailey shifts in her seat, the movement drawing my attention despite my best efforts.

She's wearing a deep blue blouse today, the color rich against her skin. With her hair pulled back there’s no hiding the delicate curve of her ear and the elegant line of her jaw.

She hasn't looked at me yet, her attention focused on stirring her coffee with meticulous precision.

"Bradley," Dad says, "Hailey was just telling us about her ideas for updating the guest cabins. Seems she thinks we could increase our rates if we made some changes."

"Is that right?" The word come out sharp enough to finally make her look up.

Our eyes meet across the table, and everything else in the room seems to fade.

Her gaze holds mine for only a second before dropping away, but it's enough to send heat rushing through my body.

In that brief connection, I see the same awareness that's been haunting me since last night.

The recognition that something shifted between us in that kitchen, something neither of us wanted but can't seem to ignore.

My throat tightens. I reach for the coffee pot, desperate for something to do with my hands. The first sip burns my tongue, but I welcome the pain. It's grounding, real in a way that the fantasies swirling in my head are not.