Page 3 of The Breaking Point

Was he surprised? Or worse, annoyed? I couldn’t tell. “Uh, I just started.”

Brady looked like he was going to say something but then thought better of it. He just asked instead, “So you’re back in LA for good?”

“At least for the time being.”

Silence fell. I could tell Brady felt awkward around me.

And why shouldn’t he? I’d been the girl who’d thrown herself at him back in high school, and he’d rejected me. After that, he’d kept his distance. I hadn’t seen him since I’d moved away for college.

Brady cleared his throat. “You look different.”

I cocked my head to the side. “Says the man running around without shoes or a shirt on.”

“Sorry, I mean, you look—” Brady hesitated. “Older.”

“I mean, I am older than when you last saw me. So that tracks.”

He grinned, and that stupid grin went straight to my heart like an arrow. “You always were a little spicy.”

“I thought you just said I was boring?”

“Boring? You? No.” Something crossed his expression, but I didn’t know what it was. “No, you’ve never bored me.”

I wanted him to explain that comment, but unfortunately for us both, my dad interrupted.

“Carmichael! Go put on a goddamn shirt!” Dad barked as he approached us.

Brady grimaced. “Yessir,” he said, saluting ironically. He winked at me and returned to the locker room.

My dad had always been a big, gruff man, but inside was a gooey marshmallow center. He’d only ever shown that side with his family, though, and with me especially. I’d known since I was a kid that I had my dad wrapped around my little finger.

“What the hell was that about?” Dad barked.

I forced myself to stop gazing at where Brady had disappeared to. “What? Brady? We were just saying hi.”

“Why was he shirtless?”

I wasn’t about to explain that one, so I just shrugged. “Maybe a dog ate his shirt and shoes.”

Dad narrowed his eyes at me and then sighed. “Come on. Your mother texted me to say we better be home in time for dinner tonight.”

Dad and I both knew how much Mom hated when anyone was late for dinner. Although Dad had assured Mom that she didn’t need to cook every night, she’d done it since before I could remember.

When Brady had joined our family as a foster kid, he’d been confused that we’d always eaten together in the dining room.

“You guys don’t watch TV?” he’d asked.

My older brother, Ben, had just laughed. “Don’t say that out loud, or our mom will tell you off.”

Brady, though, had asked our mom point-blank why we never ate in front of the TV. Our mom, who wasn’t the type to get ruffled by a fourteen-year-old boy, had simply informed Brady that those were the house rules, and he could either follow them or see what happened if he didn’t.

“Cat got your tongue?” Dad asked me, forcing me back to the present.

I hadn’t even remembered walking out of the stadium with him. We were almost to my car, which I’d parked next to Dad’s.

“Uh, sorry,” I hedged, feeling a blush crawl up my cheeks. “Just a lot on my mind.”

Dad narrowed his eyes at me, his bushy eyebrows almost coming together into one judgmental line.

---