Page 37 of Broken Roads (Hard to Handle #1)

Hailey

M y phone buzzes against the nightstand like an angry hornet, pulling me from a dream where I had so much more than Bradley's hands between my legs.

I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, but the device continues its persistent vibration.

Three short buzzes. Pause. Two more. Someone's blowing up my phone, and at—I crack one eye open to glance at the clock—seven-fifteen in the morning, there's only one person it could be.

Blindly, I reach for my phone, nearly knocking over the glass of water beside it. The screen illuminates, temporarily blinding me as I squint at the notifications. Six text messages…all from Tessa.

I unlock the phone and brace myself for the interrogation I knew was coming since the moment I left the community center last night.

Tessa: WELL? Did you talk to him?? What happened?? I need DETAILS

Tessa: Hello??? Are you ignoring me because you're busy getting it on with Cowboy McHottie??

Tessa: If you don't respond I'm going to assume you're either dead or doing something so scandalous you can't be bothered to check your phone

Tessa: * string of eggplant and water droplet emojis followed by a question mark *

Tessa: I'm giving you five more minutes before I drive out there

Tessa: HAILEY MONROE I SWEAR TO ALL THINGS HOLY

I can't help the smile that spreads across my face as I scroll through her increasingly desperate messages. I set the phone down long enough to sit up and push my hair from my face.

Rather than typing out a response that would inevitably lead to twenty more questions, I hit the call button. Tessa answers before the first ring completes.

"Finally," she exclaims, her voice carrying that particular blend of excitement and exasperation that only best friends can achieve. "I was about to send out a search party."

"It's barely past seven," I remind her, voice still rough with sleep. "Some of us like to sleep in when we can."

"Sleep? Is that what the kids are calling it these days?" The smirk is audible in her voice. "Come on, Monroe. Spill. What happened after you two left the center? And don't you dare give me some sanitized version. I want the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the—"

"We talked," I interrupt, trying and failing to keep the smile out of my voice. "Really talked. He opened up about his family, about his ex."

"Uh-huh. And was this talking horizontal or vertical?"

"Tessa." Heat rushes to my face, and I'm grateful she can't see me through the phone. "It wasn't like that. We sat on this bench he built when he was a teenager. It overlooks the whole valley. It was... nice."

"Nice," she repeats flatly. "You're killing me here."

I fall back against my pillows, staring at the ceiling as I debate how much to share. The memory of Bradley's hands on me, his voice rough in my ear as he coaxed those sounds from me, feels too precious, too new to put into words.

"There might have been some kissing," I finally admit.

Tessa's squeal is loud enough that I have to hold the phone away from my ear. "I knew it. Tell me more about this kissing. On a scale from greeting your grandma to call the fire department, how hot are we talking?"

The laugh that escapes me is genuine. "Definitely leaning toward fire hazard."

"Yesss." Her triumphant exclamation is followed by a more serious tone. "So, what happens now? Are you two a thing?"

That's the question I've been asking myself since I slipped out of the kitchen and back to my room in the early morning hours, leaving Bradley with a kiss that promised more to come.

"I don't know," I admit. "I want us to be. I know that much."

"But?" Tessa prompts.

"But it's complicated. I work for his family. I'm still putting myself back together after... everything."

"Honey, listen to me." Her voice gentles. "Just take it one day at a time."

“One day at a time,” I repeat.

“That’s all any of us can do.” There’s a pause and when she takes another breath, I expect more wise words to follow. Instead she says, "Now, onto more important matters. What are you wearing today?"

The abrupt change of subject startles a laugh out of me. "I haven't even gotten out of bed yet, Tess."

"Perfect timing then. Wear that pink dress we bought last week. The one with the little tie thing at the waist. Pair it with your brown boots."

I frown, trying to picture the outfit. "For a day at the ranch? Isn't that a bit much?"

"Trust me, that dress with those boots will drive any cowboy absolutely wild. Consider it scientific research; I want to know if his eyes can actually pop out of his head cartoon-style."

After we hang up, I stand in front of my closet, staring at the pink dress in question.

It's hanging right where I left it, with the tags still attached.

I bought it on a whim during a shopping trip with Tessa, a moment of optimism that felt foreign after months of practical, forgettable clothing chosen to help me blend into the background.

There's nothing background about this dress. The soft pink fabric is cut in a wrap style that emphasizes curves. The hemline hits mid-thigh, revealing more leg than I've shown in public since before the accident.

I run my fingers over the material, my mind drifting to last night.

To Bradley's hands gripping my thighs as I straddled him on the bench.

To his fingers sliding beneath my sleep shorts in the kitchen, his voice rough against my ear as he urged me toward release.

To the way he looked at me, like I was something precious and wild all at once.

I close my eyes, the phantom sensation of his touch making my skin tingle. What do I want? To feel desirable again. To be seen. To keep seeing that hunger in Bradley's eyes when he looks at me.

Decision made, I pull the dress from its hanger and lay it on the bed. I shower quickly, then spend extra time with my hair, working product through the damp strands instead of braiding it back as usual.

The dress fits perfectly, skimming over my body in a way that feels both modest and daring. I pair it with my brown boots like Tessa suggested. A final glance in the mirror shows someone I barely recognize.

For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I look like a woman who knows what she wants. And right now, what I want is waiting for me downstairs.

Making my way down, I hover at the end of the hallway, listening to the murmur of voices from the dining room.

The familiar morning rhythm of plates clinking, coffee being poured, and Ruthie's gentle admonishments about elbows on the table.

My fingers smooth over the soft fabric of the dress, a nervous gesture that does nothing to calm the butterflies in my stomach.

I've faced board meetings with billion-dollar clients with less anxiety than I'm feeling about walking into this room.

But those meetings didn't involve Bradley Walker and the memory of his hands on my body just hours ago.

Drawing a deep breath, I straighten my shoulders and step forward.

The wooden floorboards creak beneath my boots, announcing my arrival before I even reach the doorway.

The moment I step into the dining room, all conversation stops.

Forks pause midway to mouths, coffee mugs hover in suspended animation, and five pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of surprise.

The silence stretches for one heartbeat, two, three—long enough for me to second-guess every decision that led me to this moment, starting with letting Tessa talk me into this damn dress.

I resist the urge to tug at the hemline or cross my arms over my chest. Instead, I force a smile that feels too bright, too nervous.

"Good morning," I manage, my voice steadier than I expected.

Ruthie recovers first, her face breaking into a pleased smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. "Well, don't you look lovely this morning," she says, giving me an approving once-over that somehow doesn't feel invasive. "Doesn't she look nice, boys?"

Sawyer lets out a low, appreciative whistle. "Nice is putting it mildly." His eyes dance with mischief, but there's nothing leering in his appraisal, just friendly appreciation. "You clean up real good, city girl."

Beckett, more reserved as always, offers a small smile and a quiet "Morning, Hailey,"

Bradford offers a simple nod, the fatherly gesture somehow more meaningful for its restraint. "Pretty as a picture," he says, then returns to his breakfast as if commenting on the attractiveness of his son's... whatever I am...is the most natural thing in the world.

But it's Bradley's reaction that I've been both dreading and craving.

His fork remains frozen halfway to his mouth.

His eyes travel from my boots, up the length of my bare legs, lingering at the hem of the dress before continuing their slow, deliberate journey up my body.

When our gazes finally lock, the naked hunger in his expression steals my breath.

Time seems to suspend itself as we look at each other while the rest of the room fades into background noise.

His jaw clenches, that muscle jumping in his cheek that I now recognize as a sign he's restraining himself.

The memory of his hands on my body, his mouth at my ear, his fingers sliding inside me flashes through my mind, bringing a flush to my cheeks that I couldn't hide if I tried.

"You gonna stand there all day or sit down and eat?" Ruthie asks, breaking the spell. "Eggs are getting cold."

I have options. There's an empty chair beside Sawyer, who pats it invitingly with a wink. There's space next to Bradford at the far end. But my feet carry me without hesitation to the empty chair beside Bradley, the decision made before I even consciously process it.

As I slide into the seat, Bradley shifts almost imperceptibly and angles his body toward mine.

Conversation gradually resumes around us.

Sawyer and Bradford discussing fence repairs needed on the north pasture.

Ruthie reminds everyone about the vet's scheduled visit later in the week.

Everyday ranch business that should bore me but somehow doesn't, not when it offers a glimpse into Bradley's world.

I'm buttering a piece of toast when I feel the warm weight of Bradley's hand on my thigh, just above my knee.

The touch is bold, possessive, and thankfully hidden from everyone else by the tablecloth.

My breath catches, but I manage to keep my expression neutral as his fingers give a single, meaningful squeeze.

"Pass the jam, would you, Hailey?" Bradford asks, oblivious to the heat spreading through me.

I comply, grateful that my hand remains steady despite the riot of sensations coursing through my body.

Bradley's hand remains on my thigh as I take my first bite of eggs, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin.

The casual intimacy of the gesture, performed right under everyone's noses, carries a thrill I hadn't anticipated.

"By the way," Ruthie says, refilling Bradford's coffee mug, "did anyone else hear someone in the kitchen around three this morning? Thought I was dreaming at first, but I could've sworn I heard voices."

The bite of egg in my mouth suddenly feels like a boulder. I choke, coughing violently while heat floods my face. Bradley's hand jerks away from my thigh as he reaches for my water glass, handing it to me with fingers that aren't quite steady.

"You okay there?" Sawyer asks, his eyes narrowing slightly as he looks between Bradley and me.

I nod, still coughing, unable to meet anyone's gaze. "Wrong pipe," I manage to rasp, taking another sip of water.

When I finally dare to glance at Bradley, his cheeks are stained with color that wasn't there moments before. His eyes are fixed determinedly on his plate, but the tips of his ears have turned a telling shade of red.

"Funny thing about those voices," Ruthie continues, seemingly oblivious to my near-death experience. "Sounded like they just disappeared when I came in. Left a glass on the counter, though."

I risk another glance at Bradley, finding him looking at me with a mixture of horror and barely suppressed laughter in his eyes.

The absurdity of our situation—hiding in a pantry like teenagers, then nearly being exposed over breakfast—hits me all at once.

A hysterical giggle threatens to escape, which I disguise as another cough.

"Maybe it was ghosts," Sawyer suggests, his gaze bouncing between Bradley and me with growing amusement. "Or maybe someone was having a midnight snack they didn't want to share." The emphasis he places on snack leaves little doubt that he's caught on to what's happening.

Bradley clears his throat. "Pretty sure there are no ghosts in the kitchen, Sawyer."

"No?" Sawyer's grin widens. "That's funny, because you're both looking pretty spooked right now."

The table falls silent for one painful moment before Bradford snorts. "Leave 'em alone, Sawyer. Not everyone announces their business to the whole damn county."

The tension breaks, laughter rippling around the table.

Even Ruthie joins in, though I suspect she doesn't fully understand the joke.

Under the table, Bradley's hand finds mine, our fingers intertwining in silent communication. When I look at him, he’s watching me with that same intense gaze from earlier, but now there's something else mixed in with the desire—a warmth, a tenderness that makes my heart stutter inside my chest.

"More eggs, anyone?" Ruthie asks, already standing to retrieve the pan from the kitchen.

Breakfast continues, the moment passing like a summer storm. But Bradley's hand remains firmly clasped with mine, a silent promise of what’s to come.