36. 36
Too Hurt To Fall In Love - Lauren Spencer Smith
Carry It Well - Sam Fischer & Hana Effron
I haven’t spoken to my mother.
I meant it when I said I didn’t want to see her. And even though the silence eats at me, even though my stomach knots every time I glance at my phone, I’ve stuck to my word.
My dad, however, has called. Deep down, I knew he would. It’s what he’s always done. After any altercation with my mother, he’s always the one to bridge things. Of course, as expected, he told me that we “needed to talk.” And I’ve been putting it off ever since.
I’m halfway through folding laundry when the knock comes. Three sharp raps, then the door swings open, making me jump. “Jesus, Michael,” I scowl as I meet him in the hall.
He’s already walking in like he owns the place.
Wearing a black long-sleeve shirt that fits a little too well and those worn black jeans of his that sit just right.
Deliciously low, and I need to force my eyes away.
His, however, sweep over me slowly, taking in my bare feet, oversized tee, the folded tea towel in my hand, and yet, he still looks like he wants to devour me.
“Get dressed,” he says simply. “You’ve got ten minutes.”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m taking you out.”
“You’re what?”
“Dinner. You and me. Now.”
I stare at him, stunned. “You can’t just—”
“I can,” he cuts in, stepping closer. His voice drops low, rough. “I’ve gone a day and a half without seeing you. I can’t do another. I’m not sorry.”
Michael smiles. The cocky, shit-eating grin he wears when he knows he’s won.
Before I can fire back, he pulls three long stems of red roses —from who the fuck knows where—and holds them out to me.
“Did you know the rose bush out the front is blooming? Looks real fucking pretty. Thought they were fitting. Pretty flowers, for my pretty woman.”
The words knock the air right out of me. My lips part, but nothing comes. I don’t know what to say. As casually as if this were the most normal thing in the world, he bends and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Ten minutes, Freckles.”
And then, like he didn’t just upend my entire night, he walks straight into the kitchen to greet Sprinkles like this is normal.
The restaurant’s in a nearby town, called Clifftop Haven. A thirty-minute drive through winding country roads, with the air cool and still by the time we arrive.
It’s… nice.
Secluded. Quiet. The kind of place with a manicured courtyard, mood lighting in the entrance, and French jazz playing low through invisible ceiling speakers.
We’re seated in a booth tucked into the corner, partially hidden behind a velvet divider.
The table’s set with white linen, tall candles, and glassware that looks like it’s been hand-polished three times over.
I sit stiffly across from him in a fitted black dress I haven’t worn in months. It clings a little too tightly around the waist and rides up when I move. He didn’t give me a dress code. And now I hate it.
The waiter appears and rattles off the specials with impressive memorisation. I order sparkling water. Michael gets a beer and flashes that lazy, charming smile that seems to melt waiters and bouncers alike.
As the man walks away, I glance around the room. Casual families. Parents with noisy kids and tired eyes. Two older couples in jeans and boots, laughing over shared desserts. No one here is dressed like me. And suddenly, I feel out of place. Too polished. Too tight. Too much.
“Relax,” Michael says, leaning back into the booth. “You’re drawing attention.”
“I am not.”
He raises a brow, grinning. “You’re fidgeting like you’ve got ants in your dress.”
“Well, maybe I do,” I mutter, tugging at the hem beneath the table.
Michael laughs. “You want me to check?”
I shoot him a look, but I’m smiling now, even if it’s just a little. The waiter returns, notepad in hand and a polite smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
Michael doesn’t hesitate. “We’ll get the steak sandwich with chips, and the pumpkin and feta salad for her,” he says, nodding at me.
I raise a brow. “Didn’t realise you were ordering for me now.”
“You’re predictable,” he smirks. “And I saw you eyeing it before.”
I hum, unconvinced, but let it slide. “Fine. And a ginger beer, please.”
Michael adds, “Just a Coke for me,” before handing back the menus.
We chat for a while, easy with our usual teasing.
He tells me about work, about Harrison being in a mood, about Joseph putting peanut butter on his little sister, which did not end well.
I laugh. He grins. Yet, something still pulls at the edge of me.
I shift, glancing around again, just for a second.
But it’s long enough for Michael to notice.
“You hate this,” Michael says suddenly.
I frown, confused. “Hate what?”
“This,” he says, motioning around. “The place. The whole vibe.”
“I don’t hate it,” I say honestly, even though I smooth my dress over my thighs again.
“You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that. I just… don’t really feel like me here.”
He cocks his head, watching me. “What do you mean?”
“I mean… there was a time when I loved places like this,” I say, voice low. “Dressing up. Ordering overpriced wine. Feeling like I belonged.”
“And now?” he asks, leaning forward, resting his elbows on the table.
“Now…” I hesitate, then shrug. “I just want peace. Quiet. A life that’s slow and messy and mine. A house with a back verandah. A job that doesn’t chew me up. I want to drink wine out of a chipped mug and grow my own tomatoes. That’s it.”
His smirk curves slowly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Michael goes still for a beat, and his eyes flick up to mine. Darker now. Slower. Like something I said struck a nerve. But not in a bad way. In a dangerous way. The kind that makes my stomach flutter.
“You okay?” I ask, trying to keep my voice casual.
He leans back in the booth, arms stretched across the top like he owns the place.
“That was a very specific fantasy, Freckles.”
I arch a brow. “It’s not a fantasy. It’s just… the life I want.”
His grin curves. “Right. So should we get married now, or wait till spring?”
My face burns instantly. “Michael.”
He shrugs, like he’s only half-joking. “You basically just listed everything I’ve ever wanted. Back verandah, slow mornings, wine in a chipped mug? Fuck, Zoe. Careful what you offer. I might just take it literally.”
My heart thuds harder than I want to admit. “Marriage is overrated,” I mutter, aiming for flippancy. But his expression shifts. The grin fades—not gone, just softened. The heat in his gaze doesn’t dim, but something deeper pools behind it now. Something a little raw.
“Fuck marriage,” he says, quiet but firm. “I don’t know much about that part, but I do know you don’t need a ring or a certificate to prove you love someone. You don’t need a piece of paper to build a life together. To grow with someone. Bleed with them. Wake up every day and still choose them.”
I’m silent as I watch him. Because… goddamn. For a man so young, he’s so fucking wise . So painfully observant. And it shakes something loose in me, something I didn’t even realise I’d been gripping tight.
“Where the hell did you learn to say things like that?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Michael’s lips twitch, like he knows he’s caught me off guard. “I’ve done a lot of listening in my life. Maybe too much.” He picks up his drink, takes a slow sip, then adds, “When you’ve seen what love shouldn’t look like, you start to pay attention to what it could.”
I swallow. Hard. Because I’m not thinking about chipped mugs and tomato plants anymore. I’m thinking about him. And wondering just how deep those roots go. What he’s seen to be thinking of all of this.
I pause, chewing on the thought, needing to steer the topic away from marriage. “I’ve been thinking of selling everything,” I say after a moment. “The clothes, the bags, all the stuff I used to hide behind. Starting fresh. Proper fresh.”
Michael presses a hand to his chest like I’ve just delivered a fatal blow. “No. Not the gazillion handbags and heels.”
I roll my eyes. “How will I ever cope?”
“You won’t. You’ll be barefoot, lost in the wilderness, crying over a broken nail.”
We laugh quietly, and for the first time all night, I feel like I can breathe. Like maybe this is what I was chasing when I left everything behind. Not a clean break. Not silence.
Something real.
He grins at me. “You should give some of your stuff to the girls. I reckon they’d lose their minds.”
My head tilts as I consider it, and surprisingly, the idea sits well. I nod, smiling to myself. “Yeah. That’s a great idea.”
He nods, gaze never leaving mine. “You didn’t have to dress up for me, you know.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say, smoothing my dress over my thighs. Then I smile. “Okay… maybe a little.”
Michael leans forward, voice low. “You could’ve worn nothing and I’d still be obsessed.”
“You’re such a flirt.” I roll my eyes, but my pulse jumps. My stomach tightens. There’s a pause before I feel movement. His hand finds my leg under the table with infuriating slowness until his palm lands on my thigh like it belongs there. Which, apparently, my body agrees with.
Loudly. My breath catches as I snap my gaze to his. “Michael—”
He doesn’t answer. Just smirks, that cocky glint in his eyes, and lets his fingers drift higher, the rough pads of them brushing the inside of my leg. I shift instinctively, legs parting the slightest bit under the tablecloth. “This tablecloth’s long,” he murmurs. “No one’s gonna see.”
“You’re a menace,” I whisper, even as my legs open further on their own.
“And you’re wet already.” He finds my clit without hesitation, rubbing slow circles, just the right pressure. I bite my lip to stifle my moan, and he leans in to kiss my throat.