Page 32 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

T ime freezes.

The hallway stretches between us like an endless void while Bradley's face contorts with guilt.

My sobriety token burns against my palm, the edges digging into my flesh as my fingers clench around it.

Seven months of rebuilding myself from shattered pieces, exposed in an instant.

And he's here. He's just witnessed my most carefully guarded secret, the one thing I wasn't ready to share.

Behind me, the meeting continues, voices murmuring in that sacred circle of shared pain and hope. But here in this hallway, silence roars between us. My heartbeat thunders in my ears, drowning out everything except the sight of Bradley—tall, strong, unshakeable Bradley—looking utterly shaken.

His hand still rests on the exit door. Those dark eyes, usually so controlled, now swim with something I've never seen in them before. Shame. It washes over his features, pulling his mouth into a grimace that makes my stomach twist.

Is that disgust I see? Disappointment? The realization that the woman he's been sharing lunches with, the woman whose ideas he finally embraced, is damaged goods?

My legs move before my brain catches up, carrying me toward him with steps that feel both too fast and impossibly slow at the same time. His posture stiffens as I approach, shoulders drawing back as if bracing for impact.

"What are you doing here?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears—too high, too damn brittle.

Bradley's throat works as he swallows, his eyes dropping briefly before rising to meet mine again. "Hailey, I—"

"Did you follow me?" I already know the answer. It's written in every line of his face, in the way his hand clenches at his side, in the rigid set of his jaw.

His silence just confirms it, sending a fresh wave of betrayal crashing through me. My fingers dig deeper into the token, its familiar ridges the only thing keeping me anchored to this moment rather than being swept away by the tide of humiliation rising in my chest.

"Why?" I demand.

He shifts his weight, the movement small but revealing in its discomfort. "I saw you leaving. I thought—" He stops, runs a hand through his hair, leaving it more disheveled than usual.

My mind races through the past three weeks, reframing every interaction through this new, terrible lens.

The shared lunches that felt like the beginning of something real, was he just keeping his enemy close?

The marketing plans he finally embraced, was he just biding his time until he found something to use against me?

"Is this what you wanted?" I ask, my voice dropping to a whisper. "A reason to get rid of me? Proof that I don’t belong at the ranch, after all?"

"No." He takes a step toward me, one hand reaching out before dropping back to his side. "Fuck, Hailey, no. That's not—"

"Don't." The word slices through his protest. "Don't lie to me."

My eyes burn with tears I refuse to shed, blinking rapidly to hold them back. I will not break in front of him. Will not give him the satisfaction of seeing how deeply this betrayal cuts. My chest feels too tight, each breath a struggle against the pressure building inside me.

The sobriety token in my hand is slick with sweat now, my palm aching from how tightly I've been gripping it. Now he knows. Without my consent, without my choice, he's seen the most vulnerable part of me.

"I trusted you." The admission slips out before I can stop it. "I was starting to—" I cut myself off, unwilling to reveal how close I'd come to opening up to him completely, to sharing this part of my life when I was ready.

The look on his face—regret, remorse, something that might be pain—only fuels the anger burning through my veins. I don't want his pity. Don't want whatever half-formed apology is forming on his lips.

"Hailey, please," he starts, his voice rougher than I've ever heard it. "Let me explain—"

"No." The word comes out stronger this time, my spine straightening as I gather the scattered pieces of my dignity. "You don't get to explain. You don't get to make this okay."

I move then, deliberately angling my path so my shoulder will collide with his as I pass. The impact sends a jolt through me, the solid wall of his body barely yielding to the force of my smaller frame. But I need it, need the physical connection to mask how deeply the emotional wounds are cutting.

"Hailey, wait—" His voice follows me out, but I don't slow my pace.

My face burns hot with humiliation, with rage, with the tears I'm still fighting to contain.

Each step feels like moving through molasses, my body simultaneously desperate to escape and reluctant to face what comes next.

The confrontation waiting outside these walls.

The drive back to a ranch where he lives just doors away from me.

The aftermath of having my most carefully guarded secret exposed by the one person I was starting to believe might actually see me—all of me—and stay anyway.

The irony cuts deep enough to draw blood. He saw me alright. Just not in the way I would have chosen. Not on my terms. Not when I was ready.

Increasing my pace, I stride toward my car, keys clutched so tightly in my hand the metal teeth bite into my palm. Behind me, I hear the community center door slam open again, followed by the heavy tread of footsteps I'd recognize anywhere.

"Hailey, wait!" His voice carries across the parking lot, urgent and rough. I don't stop. Don't turn. My car is only twenty feet away, a sanctuary of privacy where I can fall apart without an audience.

The community center door swings open again behind us.

"Honey, wait up." Tessa reaches me first, her small hand catching my elbow with surprising strength. She steps close, her body angled slightly in front of mine, a physical barrier between me and Bradley. "Are you okay?"

I shake my head, words tangled in my throat. The night air feels too thin, too insufficient to fill my lungs. Tessa's blonde curls catch the dim glow of the parking lot lights as she turns to face Bradley, who's come to a stop a few feet away.

"You've got some nerve showing up here—" she begins, her voice carrying that fierce protectiveness I've come to rely on.

Bradley ignores her, stepping sideways to look directly at me. The move is so unexpected that she falters mid-sentence, her mouth still open as he speaks.

"I followed you." The admission comes out in a rush. "I'm an asshole."

A droplet of water lands on my cheek, not a tear, but rain. A fine drizzle has started, catching in the glow of the streetlights like suspended crystals. In the distance, the rhythmic whoosh of cars passing on the highway provides a backdrop to this surreal confrontation.

Bradley runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing in uneven spikes. The gesture is so familiar, so distinctly him, that it sends an unwelcome pang through my chest.

"I thought—" he pauses, jaw working. "I saw you talking to Beckett by the corral today. I thought maybe you were meeting him. For a date." The last word comes out like it physically pains him to say it.

The absurdity of his statement momentarily robs me of breath. Beckett? He thought I was meeting Beckett?

"You followed me because you thought I was on a date?" I finally find my voice. "So what if I was? What gives you the right—"

"Nothing," he cuts in, hands spread wide, palms up in surrender. "Nothing gives me the right. That's what I'm trying to say. I was jealous and stupid and completely out of line."

The rain’s falling harder now, small droplets clinging to his eyelashes, tracing paths down his stubbled cheeks. The moisture darkens his shirt in random patterns, revealing glimpses of the body beneath as the fabric clings to his shoulders.

"Jealous," I repeat slowly.

Beside me, Tessa shifts, her stance relaxing slightly. When I glance at her, I'm startled to find her earlier fury has transformed into something that looks suspiciously like satisfaction. Her eyes dart between Bradley and me, lips curving into a smile she doesn't even bother to hide.

"I want to know you," Bradley says, his voice dropping lower, meant just for me despite Tessa's presence. "All of you. But on your terms, not like this." He gestures vaguely toward the community center behind us. "I violated your trust. I'm sorry."

His shoulders hunch forward as he speaks, a posture so unlike his usual straight-backed confidence that it momentarily disarms me.

Water drips from his hair, sliding down the strong column of his throat to disappear beneath his collar.

In the dim lighting, with shadows cutting across his face, I can see what this confession is costing him.

The muscle in his jaw works overtime, that telltale sign of emotion he's trying to contain. His hands, those large, capable hands that move with such purpose around the ranch, tremble slightly before he shoves them into his pockets.

"Well, would you look at that," Tessa murmurs beside me. "Takes a real man to apologize without excuses."

He invaded my privacy.

Yet the knowledge that he followed me out of jealousy, not disgust or suspicion, shifts something in my chest. Doesn't erase the violation but complicates it in ways I'm too overwhelmed to fully process.

"I think," I finally say. "This is a conversation best had at home."

He nods once, that sharp, controlled movement I've come to recognize. "I'll be right behind you."

The words carry a double meaning that isn't lost on me. He'll follow me back to the ranch, yes, but there's also a promise that he'll be there, waiting, when I'm ready to continue this conversation.

Tessa's hand squeezes my arm gently. "You good?" she asks, quiet enough that Bradley can't hear over the patter of rain on asphalt.

I nod, surprising myself with the honesty of the gesture. I'm not okay, not entirely, but I'm steady enough to drive, to face whatever comes next.

"Call me tomorrow," she says, pulling me into a quick, fierce hug that smells of cinnamon and vanilla. "Every detail." Her mismatched earrings—a tiny coffee cup and a miniature spoon—swing wildly as she releases me.

As I turn toward my car, I feel Bradley's eyes on me, a physical weight I've grown accustomed to over the weeks.

The rain falls between us, a curtain of silver in the dim light.

So much has changed in the span of minutes—secrets exposed, truths admitted—yet the pull between us remains, complicated now by new knowledge but no less powerful.

I slide into my car, the familiar space a momentary sanctuary.

Through the rain-streaked windshield, I watch Bradley walk to his truck, his tall frame moving with that controlled grace that always catches my eye.

In my palm, the sobriety token feels warm from being clutched so tightly. Seven months of rebuilding myself.

And now, perhaps, the beginning of building something new.