21. 21 #3
I give a quick nod. “Liv. Amelia.”
Zoe glances up when I stop beside her, surprise flickering across her face before that familiar guarded look settles back in. I shift my weight, feeling like a bit of an idiot standing here with a plate loaded high. “Imogen rope you into this tonight?”
Her eyes narrow, like I’ve just called her bluff. “She showed up at my door like I didn’t have a choice. Said something about fresh air, good people, and how it’d keep me from stewing in my own head.”
I huff out a laugh. Classic Imogen—stubborn to the bone but with her heart exactly where it should be. And for once, I’m glad she meddled. “Sounds about right.”
Zoe tilts her head. “She also said you’d be here.”
A smirk pulls at my mouth. “Ah, so that’s the real reason you came?”
She scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself, Hotshot. I was forced, remember?”
“Mhm.” I nudge the toe of my boot into the dirt. “Just admit you like my company.”
She doesn’t answer, just takes a slow sip from her thermos, gaze fixed anywhere but on me.
That wasn’t exactly a no. So I’ll take it. Before I can push further, Olivia clears her throat, and it hits me—I’d completely forgotten the girls were still sitting here.
Olivia gets to her feet. “I should head off. I promised I’d help Isla with the dessert setup.”
Amelia shoots us both a smile. “And I should go find Callie. I think she wandered off with one of Taco’s chew toys again.”
And just like that, they disappear without another word.
Zoe arches a brow at me. “Well… that was subtle.”
I exhale hard, settling into the empty chair beside her. The firelight flickers across her face, casting shadows that dance beneath her long lashes. “I, uh, brought you some food.”
Her gaze drops to the plate I’m balancing on one knee. Her brows rise at the sheer volume. “Uh, I’m good.”
“I just grabbed whatever I saw. I know Imogen’ll rip me a new one if you came here and didn’t try her pasta salad.
” The plate stays in my hand, and her stare doesn’t waver, so I continue.
“Xavier’s grill game is solid. Isla’s potatoes are worth sinning for.
You can’t leave here without at least one bite. ”
For a moment, she doesn’t make a move. But her eyes flick up to mine again, and then to my surprise, she reaches out and takes the damn plate. “I’m not going to finish all this.”
She says it like a warning. Like it means something more.
And maybe it does.
Maybe I’m reading too far into things—God knows I’ve got a bad habit of that—but there’s something about the way she says it that gnaws at me.
Like she’s had to defend her appetite before.
Like someone made her feel small for what she did or didn’t eat.
That thought crawls beneath my skin and grates hard.
Makes me want to find whoever the fuck made her feel like that and teach them something real fucking fierce.
“Just eat what you can. I’ll finish the rest.”
She mutters something I don’t catch, stabs a fork into one of the sausages, and takes a bite. It’s hesitant at first. But then she takes another. And another one. Good. At least she’s eating something.
“You stink of grease,” she mumbles around a mouthful. “And you look like you rolled straight out from under a car.”
Fair. “That’d be because I literally did.”
She hands the plate back once she’s done. As promised, I polish off the rest, then lean forward and drop it on the table beside us.
“How’s my favourite girl Sprinkles?”
“As good as she can be. Addicted to that bloody feather stick.”
A low chuckle rolls out of me. “Knew she’d love that thing. As soon as I saw it, I was like—yep, that’s the one. She’s a menace in the making.”
“She’s already figured out how to climb my curtains. So, thanks for that.”
I grin then lean back to light a cigarette, needing something to occupy my hands. Something to ground me. My nerves have been shot to hell since I sat down, and the longer I sit beside her, the tighter they pull, like wires stretched too far. I flick the lighter, the flame catching instantly.
Her gaze tracks it. “Didn’t I say you should quit?”
I smirk, rolling the cigarette between my fingers. “I don’t even listen to my own mother. What chance do you think you’ve got?”
“That stuff will kill you. You know that, right?”
“That’s the point.” I take a long drag, let it burn deep into my chest, a sharp inhale that numbs the edge of everything for a second before I breathe it out in a slow stream. “We’re all gonna die one day, anyway, are we not?”
“Sooner, rather than later, if you keep smoking those.”
I caught the scrunch of her nose before she even said it, and for some reason, it makes me smirk. There’s something almost… warm about it. Protective, even. Not that she’d admit it. Not that I’d make a thing out of it. I lower the cigarette, keeping the smoke drifting away from her.
The last thing I want is for her to bail because of me.
“Can’t handle a bit of diesel and smoke in the air, huh?” I glance at her from the corner of my eye.
“Not when it smells like motor oil and lung disease.”
I chuckle, the sound low in my chest. “This is what peak masculinity looks like, sweetheart. Don’t act like you’re not impressed.” Sweetheart? Where did that come from?
She shifts back slightly, eyes narrowing at me. “Please. I am far from impressed.” Her tone changes. It’s softer now as she adds, “Seriously, though. Have you ever thought of quitting?”
“Perhaps.” I flick ash off the end. “Right after I finish this pack, maybe.”
She mutters something under her breath about men and self-destruction, leaning back in her chair. She’s still tense, but her shoulders have dropped. She’s not braced to run anymore. I’ll take it as a win. Though I still find myself asking, “Are you always like this?”
She frowns. “Like what?”
“Closed off. Half-ready to run. Scanning for the nearest exit, like I might eat you.”
“That depends.” Her retort is sharp and completely unexpected. “You planning to?”
I blink. Once. Twice. Wait—was that… flirting? Did I just flirt with her? Jesus Christ.
What game are we even playing here? Whatever it is, I’m not tapping out. I lean forward, elbows resting on my knees, the cigarette burning low between my fingers.
“Not tonight.”
There’s a ghost of a smirk, barely tugging at the corner of her mouth.
But it’s there—I swear I’m not imagining it.
Then it’s gone. Just like that. Like it was a mistake.
Or a glitch in her armour. But something lingers in its place—something that tugs at me.
And honestly? I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.
This isn’t me. I don’t push. I don’t pry.
I keep shit surface-level and safe, because that’s how you avoid disappointment.
That’s how you don’t end up wanting someone who won’t—or can’t—want you back.
But with her? It’s different. She gets under my skin.
Under the steel doors I’ve welded shut for years.
And maybe that’s why I keep fucking pushing.
Even now. “Y’know,” I start. My voice is quieter now, more matter-of-fact than anything, “I’ve seen panic attacks before. Hell, I’ve had ‘em.”
Her eyes shift, just slightly.
“That day at the bakery? That wasn’t just someone having a bad moment.”
She turns to me slowly. Watching me curiously, like she’s waiting to see what I’ll do with the pieces I’ve noticed. “You don’t know me.”
“Maybe so,” I shrug. “But I know enough for now.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a split second—so quick I almost doubt it happened—I see her walls crack.
Something real slips through, raw and unguarded.
But just as fast, it’s gone. Like it never happened.
She shifts in her seat. It’s a tiny movement, one most people wouldn’t even clock.
But I do. I always do. Then her hand moves slowly, rubbing at the base of her ring finger.
I’ve seen her do it before. That absent touch, like muscle memory.
But here’s the kicker—there’s no fucking ring there. And there hasn’t been.
So, what’s the story? Was she married? Is she still?
Or maybe it’s not about someone else at all.
Maybe it’s just the ghosts. The same way mine still follow me.
One thing’s clear, though. No ring means no claim.
Right? In theory, that should make her fair game.
But I’m not an idiot. If she is available, it sure as hell isn’t for me.
“People tend to disappoint, Michael.” Her voice surprises me as it breaks the silence that had settled around us.
“And you think pushing everyone out keeps you safe?”
“I think not relying on anyone is the safest way to live.”
I don’t answer straight away. I just let my gaze trace over her face—the clean line of her jaw, the set of her full lips, the way the fire turns her eyes into deep emerald green. I take one last drag from my cig before grinding it out under my boot.
“I should head home,” she says after a pause, sitting a little taller.
I shift back in my seat. “I’ll take you.”
She frowns, looking caught off guard. “That’s not necessary. I can—”
“Get an Uber? At this hour? In Wattle Creek?” I arch a brow. “Yeah, good luck with that.”
Her hesitation is instant, that invisible wall sliding back into place. “Why are you offering?”
“Because that’s what friends do. And also because I need to head home and shower the grease off anyway.”
That’s the story I’m sticking to. Not the fact that I’ll take any excuse to be in her orbit a little longer.
She stands, dusts her jeans off, and mutters a half-hearted thanks to the group as we make our rounds, saying goodbye.
Isla says she’ll come by tomorrow with more baked goods.
Olivia and Amelia try not to make a big deal of her leaving early, but they’re clearly bummed.
Of course, right on cue, Imogen swoops in. “We’ll be in touch,” she says, then adds, “Also… we’re planning a girls’ boozy brunch soon. And you, my dear, are invited.”
Zoe gives a tight nod. “Thanks.”
My brow lifts. “Where’s my invite? Do I not qualify?”
From somewhere behind me, Harrison calls out, “You and me, boys night at mine anytime, Mikey boy.”
I shoot him the bird over my shoulder. Laughter ripples around us, but Zoe stays quiet, her attention slipping to the hem of her jacket as she twists the fabric. As we round the front of the house, she scans the row of parked cars. “Which one’s yours?”
A grin spreads across my face before I can stop it.
“No car, Freckles.”
“You mean… we’re riding home?”
“Yep.” I roll my tongue ring, making sure to stick it out just enough for her to notice.
Don’t think I missed it the other day—how her eyes caught on it mid-laugh.
She might’ve been giving me attitude, but her face?
Her face was telling a whole different story.
Her lips part, but it’s not a comeback that follows.
It’s panic. Pure, unfiltered, wide-eyed panic.
“Wait, you want me to get on that thing? That… death trap? Are you serious?”
The words tumble out fast. She steps back half a pace. “Michael, there is no way that thing will carry both of us. I don’t even have a helmet—”
“You’ve got mine.”
“—and what about you? Where’s your helmet? What if we crash? What if some dickhead in a ute doesn’t see us?”
It’s the most she’s spoken to me in a single minute since I met her. And I don’t know whether to be impressed, concerned, or just stunned silent by the sheer feral energy radiating off her.
“Whoa, whoa.” I hold both palms up. “Take a deep breath.”
She doesn’t. She just scoffs and crosses her arms. “For starters, this bike could carry double our weight and still drive like it’s on a track.
Secondly, you’ve got my helmet.” She opens her mouth, probably to argue, but I cut her off gently.
“I know it’s not ideal. I know you’re not a fan.
But we’re five minutes from yours, max. No highway.
No risks. Just one quiet, backroad cruise through Wattle Creek. ”
She shifts her weight, eyes darting around, probably looking for an escape route. I don’t blame her. But I’m not letting her bolt.
“I guess I don’t have a choice, do I?”
My expression softens. “You always have a choice, Freckles.”
She hesitates again, her brow pinching as her gaze flicks from me to the Ducati and back. “Is it… safe?”
I take a slow step toward her, close enough to catch the subtle hitch in her breath. “Are you dissing my riding skills?”
She opens her mouth, closes it. Her eyes narrow, and I wink at her. “Very safe. You’re in very capable hands.”
Why the fuck does that sound dirtier than I meant it? I clear my throat. “Can I put it on?”
“What, I don’t look like I know how to wear a helmet?”
“Didn’t say that,” I say, already grinning. “But the straps can be tricky.”
With a heavy sigh that screams ‘I hate this’, and a theatrical eyeroll to match, she mutters, “Fine. Put the helmet on, Hotshot.” Don’t mind if I do.
I hold the helmet by the straps, pulling them apart to widen the opening.
Her eyes remain locked on me, like she’s waiting for me to screw this up or, hell, maybe she just likes watching me squirm.
With careful hands, I tuck her hair behind her ears and guide it down from front to back, adjusting its fit.
It’s a little big, but it’ll do. I secure the straps beneath her chin, snug but not too tight.
My fingers graze her jaw this time, and I go still.
She doesn’t pull back. Doesn’t tense up.
Thank fuck for that. I step back, trying—but failing miserably—not to look at her like some starstruck idiot.
Too late . Because she catches me, and her eyes narrow into slits. “What?”
I tip a smirk her way, masking the fact that I’ve been caught out. “Nothing. It suits you.”
“I doubt that.” She’s wrong . Because it really does suit her. Way too fucking well. My helmet. On her .
That slightly oversized, almost ridiculous fit that should be funny, but isn’t.
It’s hot. Stupid hot. Fuck, she looks sexy as hell.
Her eyes? Yeah, they’re trouble. They’re locked on mine, unblinking, like she’s trying to read every thought I’m not saying.
The glow from streetlights makes her freckles stand out even more—those tiny specks scattered across her nose and cheeks like they were put there just to fuck with me.
And now I’ve got a hard-on pressing against my jeans, and somehow, I’m supposed to get on the bike and focus on the road.
Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Yeah. Good luck with that, Price.