Page 28 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

T he spreadsheets on my screen blur together, numbers and projections swimming before my tired eyes.

I've been staring at the same marketing plan for over an hour, unable to focus as my thoughts drift repeatedly to Bradley.

It's been three weeks since our relationship shifted from cold war to cautious alliance, three weeks of shared lunches and collaborative planning that's left me craving his presence in a way I never anticipated.

With a sigh, I push away from my desk and stretch, my back protesting the hours spent hunched over my laptop and head out. I tell myself it’s just to confirm the photoshoot for later this week but deep down, I know it’s more.

I want to see him.

The ranch yard spreads before me, alive with activity as the day winds toward evening.

Two ranch hands lead horses toward the stables, their laughter carrying on the breeze.

Chickens peck at the ground near the coop, their movements frantic and purposeful.

The air smells of dust and hay and that indefinable something that I've come to recognize as the scent of Walker Ranch itself, earth and animals and history soaked into every plank and post.

I adjust my course toward the stables, where I spotted Bradley earlier from my office window. A strange nervousness flutters in my stomach, like I'm a teenager seeking out her crush rather than a professional consultant with a legitimate question.

The corral comes into view first, the weathered fence posts standing like sentinels around the packed earth arena.

I slow my approach as I spot him, not wanting to interrupt.

Bradley stands in the center, one hand on Max's bridle, the other gesturing as he speaks to two children—a boy about ten and a little girl who can't be more than seven or eight.

Both kids look up at him with expressions of intense concentration.

I stop at the fence, my planned approach forgotten as I watch this version of Bradley I've never seen before. Patient and gentle, his usual commanding presence is softened but not diminished as he kneels to the little girl's level.

"That's it, Annie," he says, his voice carrying to where I stand. "Hold your hand flat, like this." He demonstrates, his large palm extended, fingers straight. "Max is a gentleman, but we still show him respect."

The little girl mimics his position, her tiny hand trembling slightly as the horse lowers his massive head toward her. Bradley's hand hovers just beneath hers, not interfering but ready to assist if needed. "Perfect," he murmurs as Max's nose bumps against her palm. "See? He's saying hello."

A smile breaks across Annie's face, radiant with wonder and newly discovered courage.

Bradley matches it with one of his own, and the sight hits me straight between the ribs.

I've seen his smiles before. They’re quick, restrained things that disappear almost before they form. But this, this is different.

"Now you try leading him," Bradley tells the boy, carefully transferring the lead rope. "Remember what I showed you. Confident but gentle."

The boy straightens his shoulders, clearly trying to embody the instruction. He takes a tentative step, and Max follows, his massive body moving with surprising delicacy behind the child. Bradley walks alongside them, his hand not touching the rope but ready if needed.

I’m captivated by details I've tried not to notice before.

The way his shirt stretches across his shoulders as he demonstrates how to hold the rope.

The gentle strength in his hands as they guide the little girl's smaller ones.

The low rumble of his laugh when Max nudges the boy's pocket, searching for treats.

Over the past three weeks, these shared lunches have become the highlight of my days.

What started as Ruthie's well-intentioned meddling has evolved into something we both seem to crave.

Our conversations flow easier now, professional discussions of marketing strategies and website designs bleeding into personal revelations and shared jokes.

I've discovered he has a dry sense of humor that emerges when his guard is down.

He's shared stories of growing up on the ranch, each anecdote revealing pieces of himself he's kept carefully hidden.

My fingers tighten around the rough wood of the fence post as I watch him demonstrate to the children how to walk properly beside the horse.

There's a grace to his movements that contradicts his size, a gentleness that belies his strength.

My body responds to the observation with a warmth that starts low in my belly and spreads outward, a physical awareness I've been fighting since that morning in the hallway when we nearly collided.

Since I’ve arrived on the ranch, if I’m being honest.

This attraction is inconvenient at best, dangerous at worst. I came here to do a job, to prove myself capable of building something instead of destroying.

Not to develop feelings for a man whose life is rooted in this land while mine has been blown like a leaf in the wind.

And yet, watching him now, those feelings swell within me, impossible to ignore.

The little girl stumbles slightly, and Bradley's hand is there instantly, steadying her with a touch so light it's barely visible. "You've got this," he encourages. "Max trusts you. Trust yourself."

The words, though meant for the child, find their way beneath my skin, settling somewhere deep in my chest. Trust. Such a simple concept, so impossible to execute when every instinct has been honed by loss and regret.

I shift my weight, suddenly aware I've been standing motionless, staring, for longer than can be easily explained.

The movement catches Bradley's attention, his eyes lifting to find mine across the distance.

For a moment, everything else falls away, there's just his gaze holding mine, and a current passing between us that makes my breath catch.

He lifts his hand in a small wave as a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Not the full, unguarded one he gave the children, but something softer, more private. Something meant just for me.

My heart performs a complicated maneuver inside my chest, part somersault, part free fall. This is more than physical attraction, more than professional respect. This is something new and fragile and terrifying.

"You like him." The voice at my shoulder makes me jump and my hand flies to my chest to physically contain my startled heart.

Beckett stands beside me, his approach so quiet I never heard him coming.

He leans against the fence post beside me, his gaze following mine to where Bradley still works with the children and Max.

"Sorry," he says, though the slight quirk of his lips suggests he's more amused than apologetic. "Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine," I manage, trying my best to compose myself. I wonder how long he's been watching me watch Bradley. The thought sends heat crawling up my neck. "What did you say?"

"The kids," Beckett clarifies, nodding toward the corral. "They like Bradley. Most do. Something about that gruff exterior makes winning his approval feel like a real accomplishment."

I smile, recognizing the truth in his observation. "I can relate to that."

Beckett's eyebrows lift slightly, but he doesn't press the point. Instead, he shifts, crossing his arms over his chest. "How are you settling in? It's been what, almost a month now?"

"Just about," I confirm. "And better than expected, honestly. The ideas are coming together nicely." My eyes drift back to Bradley automatically, watching as he demonstrates something to the boy, his hands moving with that careful precision that seems at odds with their size.

"And the people?" Beckett asks. "We can be a bit... set in our ways out here."

There's something in his tone—a gentle probing beneath the casual question—that pulls my attention fully back to him.

"The people have been..." I search for the right word, my gaze involuntarily sliding back to the corral where Bradley now has his hand on the little girl's shoulder, steadying her as she reaches up to stroke Max's neck. "... surprising."

"Mmm." It's barely a sound, more vibration than word, but somehow it carries volumes of understanding. "Bradley can be particularly surprising once you get past the initial wall of grouchiness."

Heat floods my cheeks. Am I really that transparent? "He's been very helpful with the marketing plans," I say, aiming for professional detachment and missing by a mile. "We've made good progress."

"I've noticed." Beckett's voice carries a hint of something that makes me wonder exactly what he's noticed. The shared lunches? The way my eyes follow Bradley across a room? The electricity that seems to charge the air whenever we're close?

Before I can formulate a response that doesn't reveal more than I intend, Bradley looks up from the corral. Our eyes meet, and that now-familiar current runs between us, invisible but undeniable. He says something to the children, then calls out.

"Beckett! Come give me a hand with these future ranchers." His voice carries easily across the distance, deep and commanding. "Annie wants to try brushing Max."

Beckett pushes away from the fence. "Duty calls," he says with a small smile. "You coming in?"

I shake my head. "I'll watch from here."

As Beckett enters the corral, Bradley says something to him that I can't quite hear, then hands over the lead rope.

The transition is seamless, Beckett naturally slipping into the role of instructor.

Bradley doesn't stay. Instead, he walks to where I stand.

With each step he takes, my pulse quickens, a ridiculous reaction I can't seem to control.

He reaches the fence and plants his hands on the top rail, close enough to mine that our fingers are separated by mere inches.