13. 13 #2
“Don’t flatter yourself.” I fold my arms, resting against the doorframe. “You got what you came for.”
He nods toward the house. “Have you thought of a name yet?”
I blink. “For what?”
He points with his chin. “Your new roommate.”
“No,” I mutter, and then turn to head back inside.
“Hey—” His voice halts me. “You free this weekend?”
I stop. Not fully, but enough. The question hangs there between us, weighted with something I don’t understand. “Why?” I don’t bother hiding the suspicion in my voice. “What’s it to you?”
Michael shifts his weight, glancing back toward the road where the sound of his motorbike still seems to hang in the air.
“There’s a race this weekend,” he says, then meets my gaze again.
“It’s local, and I, uh, will be riding. It’s a bit of a thing ‘round here. Same with our rodeos. There’ll be food trucks, music, and a bonfire after.
People bring their families, their Eskies.
Thought maybe you’d want to come see what all the fuss is about.
” He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Figured it might be fun. Different. Maybe a way to settle in a bit, if you’re planning on sticking around. ”
Is this his way of asking me out?
The thought sneaks in before I can stop it. Am I overthinking it? Reading into things that aren’t there? God, I hope so. Because this isn’t that. This can’t be that. Still, I let out a dry laugh, which is more of a defence than amusement.
“Wait. This”—I gesture between us—“isn’t happening.”
He pauses for the briefest second, a small frown tugging at the corners of his eyebrows, but it’s gone before it settles. That familiar smirk slips back into place. “Wasn’t suggesting anything,” he says, shrugging a shoulder. “Just trying to be welcoming. You know, as a friend.”
“A friend?” I say, more in disbelief than acknowledgement.
“That’s what I said.”
I arch a brow. “Bold of you to assume we’re friends.”
“Well,” he says, casually pointing to my Mercedes in the driveway, “I did fix your car, and I gave you a kitten. So, I’d say we’re past acquaintances, right?”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
He shrugs, the perfect picture of unfazed. “I still think you should come.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
“I want to,” he says, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he’s offering the safest version of himself. “As a friend. I just think we got off on the wrong foot. First impressions and all that.”
I don’t respond. Instead, I shift my weight to one side, pressing a shoulder into the wooden post beside the steps.
My arms stay folded, brow lifted, gaze steady.
If he’s looking for a crack, he’s going to have to try harder.
But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t fumble. He just stands there like he’s got all the time in the world.
He drags a hand across the back of his head, which seems to be a recurring thing for him. “It’ll be fun. You can meet everyone.”
Everyone. The word lands heavier than it should, coiling something tight in my stomach. Why does that make me nervous?
“Why?” It comes out sharper than I mean it to.
“I don’t need to make friends. I’m not here for this.
Anyway, you’ve got your wallet. You can leave now.
” I turn, taking a single step. But I don’t make it far, because curiosity—the kind that’s never done me any favours—halts my feet.
I glance back at him. “How old are you, anyway?”
It spills out before I can think better of it. I study him, really study him. Smooth skin, wide shoulders, a youthfulness in the way he stands—too relaxed, too confident. He doesn’t look old enough to be doing whatever it is he’s doing here. Certainly not old enough to be orbiting me.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to ask someone their age?” he says with a rogue grin, but his tone tells me he is completely unbothered by the intrusive question. When I don’t answer, he fills the silence. “I’m twenty-seven.”
And suddenly, I can’t breathe quite the same.
Nine years. I’m nine years older than him. That’s almost a decade.
The old me—the one who lived in heels and believed charm could last—might’ve laughed, might’ve leaned in just to feel something again.
But I’m not her anymore. I’ve seen what men do when the novelty wears off.
I’ve watched promises rot from the inside out.
He’s young. He’s got time. Time to settle down with someone who doesn’t flinch at the idea of being touched.
Someone soft. Younger. Uncomplicated. I swallow down the lump forming in my throat.
“Okay,” I murmur, stepping back, spine stiffening. “You should leave.”
His brow furrows as he studies me, something flickering behind his eyes. Not unkind, just… puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?”
The look on his face knocks the breath out of me all over again. It softens his edges, makes him look even younger. I force a shake of my head, eyes darting past him to the street. “No. Just…” My throat tightens. “You can go now.”
He lingers, and I hate that he doesn’t just walk away.
“Imogen’ll be there,” he says after a moment.
That name stills me. Imogen. The woman from the coffee shop—fiery, clever, quick with a smirk that told you she didn’t miss much.
I liked her. There’d been something steadying about her presence, even when I was wound tight and awkward as hell. I wouldn’t… mind seeing her again.
God knows how long I’ll be in this town. I haven’t made a decision about staying—not yet. I miss my people. Jeff and Dani. I miss the life I had before everything fell apart.
“I can sense that you’re thinking about it.”
My arms tighten across my chest. He doesn’t know I’m married. Not for long, but still. This boy knows nothing about me. Not the wreckage I crawled out of. Not the vows I’m still untangling. Not the damage I refuse to let define me.
“Look, if you change your mind,” he says, taking a step back, “it’s at Dutton’s Raceway. Not far from here.”
I offer a noncommittal “Mhm.”
He pauses at the bottom of the steps, helmet in hand, before slipping it on without another word.
In minutes, his bike is roaring to life, and in seconds, he’s gone.
All that is left is a blur of red tearing down the street.
I stay where I am, arms folded, heart too loud, thoughts too knotted to make sense of. I need a glass of wine.
Fuck it. It’s five o’clock somewhere.
I should FaceTime Jeff.