Page 31 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

I close my eyes, count to ten, trying to find clarity in the jumble of emotions clouding my judgment. When I open them again, my decision is made—a decision I'll probably regret, but seem unable to change.

I'm going in.

The night air hits me as I step out of the truck, cool against my face after the heated interior.

Shame coils in my gut, hot and insistent, as I close the door as quietly as possible.

My shoulders hunch involuntarily, body language betraying my guilt as I glance around the parking lot, half-expecting someone to point and shout, "Stalker! "

But there's no one to witness my transgression, just the empty parking lot and the muted sounds of traffic on the main road.

My boots scuff against the asphalt as I approach the building, each step slower than the last as my conscience continues its protest. I pause at the bottom of the short flight of steps leading to the entrance.

One last chance to turn back, to preserve whatever respect Hailey might still have for me if she ever discovers what I've done.

I go in.

Inside, low voices echo down the hallway to my right, and I follow the sound, moving as quietly as my boots will allow on the linoleum floor. Guilt presses down on my shoulders, making me walk with an uncharacteristic hunch, as if I could somehow make my six-foot-two frame less conspicuous.

The hallway opens into a larger corridor with doors on either side.

All closed except for the one at the end.

A small sign has been taped beside it: "Meeting in Progress.

" The voices are clearer now, though I can't make out individual words.

Just the cadence of someone speaking to a group, and the occasional murmur of response.

I approach slowly, heart hammering against my ribs, mouth dry with anxiety and shame. This is my last chance to walk away, to preserve whatever decency I still possess. To respect the boundaries Hailey has clearly set, even if I don't understand them.

But I don't take it.

Instead, I step closer to the door, close enough to peer through the narrow window set into its upper half. Close enough to see what Hailey has been hiding from me.

About fifteen people of varying ages sit facing each other, their expressions attentive as a woman speaks from across the circle.

I don't immediately register what I'm seeing, my brain struggling to categorize the gathering.

Then my eyes land on a small table near the front—pamphlets stacked neatly beside a coffee urn, and behind them, the unmistakable blue triangle logo.

Alcoholics Anonymous. The realization drives the air from my lungs in one fell swoop.

This isn't just any meeting. This is an AA meeting.

And Hailey is sitting there, between Tessa and an older man, her fingers worrying what looks like a small coin.

I step back from the door as if burned, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs. The pieces fall into place with brutal clarity. Her refusal to join us at the Rusted Spur, the tension that entered her body whenever Sawyer mentioned drinks.

The coin she clutched that morning on the porch, the one I caught her holding like a lifeline.

She's an alcoholic. A recovering alcoholic.

And I teased her about being too good for our local bar.

Shame floods me, hot and suffocating. I lean against the wall beside the door, legs suddenly unsteady beneath me.

Through the narrow window, I can still see the meeting in progress, though I can't make out individual words.

The woman who was speaking has finished, and a middle-aged man has taken her place.

I know I should leave. Every second I stand here is another violation of Hailey's privacy, another betrayal she hasn't consented to. As he speaks several people, Hailey included, nod in understanding.

I close my eyes, unable to watch any longer.

The memory of that morning on the porch rises unbidden—Hailey whirling to face me, fingers closed tight around something in her palm.

The hurt in her eyes when I confronted her after Sawyer's invitation.

The quiet dignity with which she absorbed my barbs and continued to work alongside me despite them.

She wasn't hiding a secret boyfriend. She was protecting her sobriety. And I've been too blind, too wrapped up in my own feelings to see what was right in front of me.

My hand rises to roughly scrub across my face, stubble scratching against my palm. My skin burns hot with shame, pulse throbbing in my temples. I need to leave, need to get as far from this door as possible before someone notices me lurking like the stalker I've become.

My boots sound too loud on the linoleum as I quickly walk down the hallway, each step punctuated by self-recrimination. What the fuck was I thinking? What kind of man follows a woman, spies on her private meetings, and invades the sanctuary she's created for herself?

Not a man I want to be.

I barely make it to the main exit when my name cuts through the evening air like a blade.

"Bradley?"

My blood turns to ice. I stop dead, one hand on the heavy glass door, my whole body going rigid. Slowly, I turn around to find Hailey standing at the far end of the hallway, her face a mask of shock and something else, something that looks dangerously close to betrayal.

What the fuck have I done?