14. 14
I f regret had a scent, it would be burnt rubber and beer.
The moment I step out of my car, the thick, smoky air hits me like a slap.
It smells of fuel, fried food, and testosterone.
The sky above is a dull canvas of grey-blue as the sun rests low on the horizon.
Beneath my wedges, the gravel crunches, sending tiny rocks skittering, as if the ground itself is mocking my poor footwear choices.
What the hell am I doing here?
This wasn’t my idea. Jeff—the persistent bastard—had pestered me about it all week.
“You need this, babe,” he’d said. “Get out. Clear your head. You can’t hide in that house forever. ” The rest of my week flew by smoothly. My mother had backed off, miraculously. Liam hadn’t tried to reach out. Thank God, and good fucking riddance.
So, in a glorious act of rebellion, I’d said, “Screw it,” and decided to show up. And now I stand out like a neon sign in a blackout.
People are everywhere, and every last one of them looks like they rolled straight out of an R.M. Williams catalogue. Dusty jeans, faded flannels, worn-in boots, the occasional leather jacket, and at least three cowboy hats I can count without even turning my head.
Me? I’m wearing bell-bottom Versace pants I probably shouldn’t have packed, a beige crossover shirt that makes me feel vaguely exposed, and wedges that were never meant for dirt. My other jeans weren’t clean. My sneakers? Piss-stained from that damned cat.
And the only bag I brought? A black Hermès Constance slung over my shoulder. Essentially, my entire wardrobe choice screams, “I don’t belong here.”
And let’s not even get started on my hair. I’d like to say I just rolled out of bed and showed up, but no. I styled it. In loose waves, and applied a soft-glam makeup look. Perfume had been spritzed not once, but twice. And for what?
We both know why. I’m just choosing to ignore it.
The sound of engines revving cuts through my thoughts.
A thrum vibrates through the air, the kind that settles into your chest and makes everything inside rattle.
I head toward the noise, toward the crowd gathered along the edge of the track.
Dust kicks up as a motorbike spins out in the distance, a puff of smoke curling into the sky like a signal.
“Zoe!”
My head jerks toward the voice. The sound feels too loud, too personal, in a space where I already feel like an outsider.
Imogen stands with a group of people clustered by the track’s edge, waving wildly.
She’s dressed in high-waisted jeans and a loose black tee with cracked Bowie lettering across the front, her white-blonde hair falling in soft waves, half pinned back with a ribbon.
Imogen’s the kind of beautiful that’s almost offensive—all glowing skin, high cheekbones, and the kind of effortless confidence you can’t fake.
She reminds me of my old self. Comfortable in her own skin.
Strong. Outspoken. The kind of woman who laughs with her whole chest and doesn’t care who hears.
A small crowd surrounds her, men and women laughing, talking, passing drinks between them.
I hesitate. Because this isn’t my world.
Well, technically, this used to be my world. But now? I’m not so sure.
They fit here so effortlessly, all tattered boots and dust-worn jeans, that easy small-town rhythm in their voices. And me? I’m standing here in platform wedges looking like I took a wrong turn.
But then there’s Imogen, waving me over like I’m expected here. Like I’m welcome.
And for a moment, I almost believe her. Almost. Can you imagine feeling like an outsider in your own hometown? It’s been so long, I’m not even sure I’m allowed to call it that anymore.
Not yet, anyway.
But right now, Imogen is the only person I know enough not to panic around. So I force my legs to move. She beams when I reach her and loops an arm through mine without hesitation. “You made it! Thought you might bail.”
“I almost did,” I admit, shifting awkwardly on my shoes and glancing at the loose gravel beneath us. My ankles are already protesting.
She gives me a once-over and her eyes twinkle. “Well, you look incredible. Even if your shoes might not survive.”
I huff a small laugh.
“Shall I introduce you to the rest of the misfits?” she asks.
I glance warily at the group.
Imogen grins. “Don’t worry. They might be a little rowdy, but they don’t bite.”
We start walking toward the group. My shoulders pull back, but my stomach twists. She gestures first to a woman stepping forward with a sheepish grin.
“Okay, you already know Isla, right?” I recognise her straight away. The vet.
Isla waves. “Yup! Glad you came. How’s the little kitten going?”
I fold my arms. “A menace. She tried to eat a sock this morning.”
Isla lets out a musical laugh. “Sounds about right. Wait till it learns to climb curtains.”
She’s wearing a black flowy dress that hangs around her thighs and a pair of worn-in cowboy boots, with a black cowboy hat tilted back on her head. Her long brown hair cascades over her shoulders in soft waves, and her green eyes catch the light. Isla gestures to the woman beside her.
“This is Amelia.”
Amelia offers a warm smile. “Hi, so nice to meet you.” I smile politely but say nothing.
Only nod. She looks young. Maybe early to mid-twenties.
She’s noticeably shorter than the rest of the group, with nervous energy practically radiating off her.
Before I can say anything, another woman steps up, whose energy is the complete opposite.
“Hi! I’m Olivia, but everyone calls me Liv.”
Her voice carries an easy warmth, and her grin stretches wide. Olive-toned skin, bright eyes, and a tumble of long, glossy curls that frame her face, giving her an almost haloed glow. There’s something instantly likable about her. Sister vibes, but with a little mischief thrown in.
“It’s so good to finally meet you,” she says. “We’ve heard… bits.”
“Bits?” I repeat cautiously.
“Oh, nothing bad,” she says quickly. “Just that you’re staying in town. And Michael has a new cat friend.”
“Right.”
Imogen turns toward the men standing a few steps behind the women. She gestures to the tallest of the group—broad-shouldered and sun-tanned, wearing a faded flannel rolled up to the elbows, and a brown cowboy hat pulled low.
“This is Xavier,” Imogen says. “Isla’s husband and Olivia’s brother.”
He turns toward me at the sound of his name, and I’m immediately struck by his eyes—piercing blue, intense, the same as Olivia’s.
“You must be Zoe,” he says, tipping his chin toward me.
I blink. How the hell does he know who I am? My body stiffens, and I instinctively take a small step back. He must notice, because his face softens instantly.
“Michael told us you might be coming,” he adds quickly. “Didn’t mean to freak you out.”
Of course, he told them. So he just knew I’d show up? Arrogant bastard. But I don’t say that. I just nod shyly. “Nice to meet you.”
Xavier gives me a nod, lifting the beer in his hand in a casual toast. Behind him, someone shouts, “Tell Harrison to get off the damn fence before it breaks again!”
I turn toward the noise just in time to see a tall man with dark curly hair, broad shoulders, and a wicked grin laughing as he swings his legs down from the rail.
His face is sharp—a strong jaw dusted with stubble, and deep-set dimples that flash like trouble.
Dimples that look all too familiar for my liking.
He looks like the kind of man who knows exactly how to stir things up—and enjoys it. The resemblance is unmistakable.
“And that nut job would be Harrison,” Imogen says, fondness clear in her voice. “My husband.”
“And he’s Michael’s brother?” I smirk before I can stop myself.
“Yep,” she confirms with a knowing smile. “Weird how two people can look so alike but be so different, right?”
“Mhm.”
Imogen glances behind her. “Bradley—Xavier’s brother, and Amelia’s fiancé—isn’t here tonight. He’s a cop, on shift today.”
I nod, mentally recapping everything like I’m prepping for a pop quiz I didn’t sign up for. Xavier, farmer, married to Isla. Olivia, bubbly, sharp-eyed, definitely a people person. Amelia, quiet, kind, engaged to the cop.
Harrison, chaotic brother number one.
Michael, chaotic brother number two.
And Imogen, my accidental lifeline.
Why am I doing this? Why am I even trying to keep track?
It’s not like I’ll be hanging around long enough to need a cheat sheet on everyone’s relationships and personality types.
I came here for space—not new ties. I tug at the strap of my bag, shifting my weight.
“Quite the bunch,” I murmur, pressing my lips together.
Imogen grins. “Small town. Big personalities.”
The women ease me into their conversation like they’ve done it a hundred times before, as if it’s second nature to make room for someone new.
Isla nudges me about the kitten again, teasing me about whether I’ve named her yet.
I give a vague shake of my head and a non-answer.
Imogen starts telling a story about Harrison almost burning their kitchen down trying to “help” with breakfast. Olivia chimes in with a wild story about Xavier getting stuck in a chicken coop.
Amelia stays quiet, her soft smile steady, occasionally laughing under her breath.
They’re loud and lively and strangely easy to be around.
And still, I feel slightly outside of it.
Not unwelcome, just… unanchored. Like I’m hovering on the edge of something that could feel like belonging if I let it.
I scan the crowd without meaning to, eyes flicking past jackets and hats and shifting bodies.
I haven’t seen him yet. Not that I’m looking.
A static crackle cuts through the air, followed by a voice booming from the loudspeaker.
“Alright, folks, we’re ten minutes out from the first race of the day! If you want a good view, find your spots in the grandstands.”
Around us, the crowd stirs to life, bodies moving, conversations rising. I grip my drink tighter and glance toward the track.