Page 30 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Bradley

T he red taillights of Hailey's car shrink down the long gravel driveway, dust rising in her wake like a veil between us.

I sit motionless in my truck, engine idling, pretending I'm just heading into town myself.

It's a lie so transparent I can barely stomach it, but I keep telling it anyway.

My fingers flex around the steering wheel, knuckles white with the strain of holding back.

Holding back from what, I'm not entirely sure.

From following her too closely, from turning around and pretending I don't care where she's going, or who she's meeting.

But I do care. Heaven help me, I care more than I should.

I count to thirty before easing off the brake, letting my truck roll forward.

"I can't tonight. I have... plans already."

Plans. Such a deliberately vague word. My jaw clenches so tight I can feel my teeth grinding, a dull ache spreading through my temples. The road stretches before me, her taillights still visible in the distance, and I press the gas a little harder.

This isn't me.

I don't follow women like some crazy person.

I don't burn with this sick, twisting jealousy that's making my stomach clench and my pulse hammer against my throat.

But I can't shake the image I witnessed earlier—Beckett leaning close to her at the corral, their heads bent together in conversation, her laugh carrying across the yard.

My hands tighten on the wheel until my fingers tingle from lack of blood flow. Beckett. Of all people. The man who, unlike me, knows how to smooth his rough edges when a beautiful woman is around. The man who, this afternoon, made Hailey laugh in a way I've been trying and failing to do for weeks.

I check my speed, forcing myself to ease off the gas. If I'm going to do this—this pathetic, stalking bullshit—I at least need to keep enough distance that she won't spot me. The thought sends a wave of shame through me hot enough to burn.

What the hell am I doing?

The answer comes unbidden, rising from some place I've kept locked and guarded.

I'm falling for her. Not just the physical attraction I've been fighting since she first stepped onto the ranch, but something deeper, more dangerous.

I'm falling for the way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she's concentrating.

The fierce intelligence in her eyes when she presents her ideas.

The careful way she holds her coffee mug with both hands in the morning, like she's cradling something precious.

I'm falling for Hailey Monroe, and the possibility that she might be falling for someone else is tearing me apart.

My pulse throbs in my ears, loud enough to drown out the country station playing softly on the radio.

This isn't just jealousy, it's fear. Fear that I've waited too long, hidden behind my stubborn pride until someone else saw what I was too blind to value.

Fear that once again, I'm going to watch something I want slip through my fingers because I couldn't bring myself to reach for it in time.

I've barely admitted to myself how much I want her, and now I might have already lost her.

I want her. Not just in my bed—though fuck knows I've spent enough sleepless nights imagining that—but in my life. I want her quick mind and stubborn determination. I want her sharp tongue and careful tenderness. I want all of her, every complicated, city-bred inch.

The intensity of the feeling scares the shit out of me.

Claire's face flashes through my mind. Another woman I thought I couldn't live without.

Another woman who left anyway, who couldn't bear the life I couldn't give up.

The ranch was in my blood, part of me in a way she never understood.

Would Hailey be any different? Or would she too eventually tire of the isolation, the endless work, the simple rhythms of ranch life?

I run a hand through my hair, frustration coiling tight around my chest. It doesn't matter. It doesn't fucking matter because right now, she's driving to meet Beckett, and I'm following her like a damn stalker instead of a man with an ounce of self-respect.

Her brake lights flare red in the distance as she slows for the turn into town.

I ease off the gas, letting the gap between us widen.

The doubt creeps in again, whispering that I should turn around, drive back to the ranch, and pretend none of this happened.

That I should salvage what little dignity I have left.

But the jealousy burns hotter, drowning out the whispers of reason. I need to know. Need to see with my own eyes where she's going, who she's meeting. Need to confirm if the worst of my fears is true.

My heartbeat quickens as I realize she's heading toward the center of town, toward the small cluster of restaurants where someone might take a woman they wanted to impress. Is that where Beckett is waiting? Has he been planning this, watching me fumble my chances while he smoothly moved in?

The thought sends a surge of anger through me so intense I have to force myself to breathe through it, counting each inhale and exhale until the red haze begins to clear from my vision.

I've never felt this way before—this possessive, this consumed.

It's like some essential part of me recognizes her as mine, even while my brain argues that I have no claim on her.

Her car slows again, and I drop back further, watching as she turns into a parking lot. The community center. My brow furrows in confusion. What could she possibly be doing here on a Thursday night?

I pull my truck to the side of the road, engine still running, and watch as Hailey steps out of her car. She pauses to check her phone, then glances around the parking lot as if looking for someone. My hands clench into fists on the steering wheel, my entire body tense as I wait to see who appears.

Is this where Beckett is meeting her? Somewhere private, away from the prying eyes at the ranch? Somewhere he thinks I won't find them?

I'm already imagining the confrontation, what I'll say, how I'll maintain some semblance of dignity while making it clear that if he wants to keep his job, he'll stay the hell away from her when the truth hits me square in the chest.

I don't have any right to demand that. Hailey isn't mine. I've never even kissed her, never told her how I feel, never done anything but dance around what's growing between us. If she's chosen Beckett, that's her right. And his.

The thought doesn't ease the jealousy burning through my veins. If anything, it makes it worse, adds helplessness to the toxic cocktail of emotions churning inside me.

I should leave. Should put the truck in gear and drive back to the ranch before I'm seen. Before I do something I'll regret.

Instead, I cut the engine and sit in the darkening evening, watching the community center entrance with a single-minded focus that would be better directed at almost anything else. I need to know. Need to see. Need to understand what I'm up against.

I'm so focused on watching the entrance that I almost miss the blue hatchback parking two spaces away from Hailey's car.

Tessa steps out, her wild blonde curls unmistakable even in the dim parking lot lights.

Not Beckett. Not any man. Just Tessa Morgan with her mismatched earrings and flour-dusted jeans.

The jealousy churning in my gut doesn't evaporate, but it transforms, uncertainty replacing the possessive rage of moments before.

Hailey steps forward, meeting Tessa halfway between their cars.

The women embrace briefly, a casual hug between friends that carries none of the romantic undertones I'd been imagining with sick certainty.

They talk for a moment, heads close together, and even from this distance I can see the tension in Hailey's shoulders, the careful way she holds herself.

Different from the easy confidence she exhibits during our marketing discussions, or the playful flirtation of our hallway encounters.

Relief washes through me, so powerful it leaves me light-headed.

Not Beckett. She's not here for Beckett.

The thought repeats itself, a mantra that eases the vise grip around my chest, and allows me to draw a full breath for what feels like the first time since I watched her drive away from the ranch.

But relief quickly gives way to new questions. If not a date, then what?

I watch as they walk together toward the building, something intimate in their body language that speaks of shared secrets. The protectiveness in Tessa's posture as she places a hand on Hailey's back. The way Hailey seems to draw strength from the other woman's presence.

The rational part of my brain tells me to leave.

I've confirmed she's not meeting Beckett, not meeting any man.

The beast of jealousy has been temporarily caged.

I have no business sitting here in the growing darkness, spying on a woman who deserves her privacy.

I should start my truck and drive away, back to the ranch where a thousand tasks await my attention.

My hand even reaches for the ignition, fingers brushing the key.

But I don't turn it.

"Fuck," I mutter, dropping my forehead against the steering wheel. What am I doing? This isn't me. I don't follow women, don't invade their privacy, don't let myself get tangled up in emotions that have no clear resolution.

Except, apparently, I do. Because I can't make myself leave, can't stop wondering what's happening inside that building that Hailey couldn't or wouldn't share with me.

My curiosity wars with my conscience, a battle that twists my stomach into knots. If I go inside, if I invade her privacy this way, what does that say about me? About my respect for her? About the man I thought I was?

Nothing good.