Broken: Flirt New Adult Romance

by Lauren Layne

  “Six months,” he says. “You cooperate with this woman for six months. You do as she asks, when she asks it. She tells you to get to the gym, you get to the gym. She tells you to eat fucking broccoli, you eat fucking broccoli. She wants you to wear a tux for dinner, you’ll do that too. I’ll speak with this woman every Sunday, and if you’ve so much as looked at her funny, this all goes away.”

  “Break it down for me,” I say through my clenched jaw. “If I misbehave, I’m homeless?”

  His eyes close for a half second. “I’m saying that after this, you’re on your own. You want to give up on life, you do it on your own dime.”

  My chest tightens, and for a second I think it’s anger and feel like I might punch the man for not understanding. Did he ever have to watch a little boy’s stunned expression as his mother gets blown to kingdom come? Or see a skinny dog lose a leg to an IUD? Did he ever have a knife to his face, or seen bodies so mutilated mothers wouldn’t recognize their own son or daughter?

  I snarl and push the thoughts away. All of them.

  This isn’t about me. This isn’t about my dad. And it’s sure as fuck not about some stupid, useless caretaker who thinks my entire world will be fixed by eating chicken noodle soup.

  This is about a woman who lost her high school sweetheart. It’s about a little girl who has cancer instead of a daddy. Talk about getting the short end of the fucking stick.

  I don’t need my dad’s money.

  But Alex’s family does.

  “So if I make it through the six months acting like a good boy, the checks keep coming?”

  He meets my eyes, and for the first time today he doesn’t look angry or disgusted. He looks sad. “Yes. The checks will keep coming.”

  I inhale a long breath through my nose. The situation is beyond shitty, and for the thousandth time I rack my brain for ways to provide for the Skinners without my dad’s money. If it was just a matter of putting food on their table and Christmas presents under their tree, maybe whatever low-paying job an injured war vet could get would be enough.

  But Lily’s cancer treatments require big money. Money Harry Langdon has.

  “Three months,” I say. “I play this woman’s stupid games for three months, not six.”

  He holds my gaze for several seconds as we silently test each other’s resolve, and to my surprise I win this round, because he nods. “Three months.”

  And then, as though everything is settled and he didn’t take what pathetic life I have left and piss all over it, he moves toward the door. “Mick will drive me back to the airport. I’ll see you. . . .”

  His words trail off, and I brace both hands on the desk, staring out at the water now barely visible in the almost-darkness. “Yeah. I’ll see you.”

  My father hesitates in the doorway, and I turn around.

  “Hey,” I say, stopping him before he disappears for the next month, or three months, or however long he can make it until the guilt compels him to look at me again. “This woman coming tomorrow. What if I do my best to cooperate, but she’s like the rest and can’t handle . . . Maine?”

  We both know I don’t mean Maine. The problem is that it takes more than a hefty paycheck to expect a woman to spend every single day looking at my ravaged face and bad temper for three months. The problem isn’t Maine. The problem is me.

  “What if she leaves before the three months are up?” I press, thinking of Lily’s sad eyes and Amanda’s haunted ones.

  My father is silent for several seconds. “Well . . . see that she doesn’t.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Olivia

  The flight from New York to Portland, Maine, is shorter than I would have liked.

  I was hoping that by the time I stepped off the plane, I’d have my thoughts together. That I’d have pep-talked myself into a You can do this! mind-set.

  The reality is something more akin to acute nausea, but it’s too late to turn back.

  Harry Langdon’s last email told me to look for a sign with my name on it. Simple enough. I grew up in the land of personal drivers. In other words, I know how to find my name among a sea of waiting chauffeurs at baggage claim.

  As I move through the airport I mentally correct myself. This time it won’t be a chauffeur—it’ll be a flannel-wearing fisherman from small-town Maine.

  Except I’m wrong about that. There are only two people standing with signs in the baggage claim area, and as promised, one of the signs has my name on it. But the man holding it is no flannel-wearing, rough-around-the-edges concerned father who left society to care for his injured son. Instead, there’s a stately-looking man wearing a black uniform, complete with one of those little chauffeur hats.

  Maybe I’m not so far away from home after all.

  I’m surprised by the fancy treatment. But lucky for them, I speak Rich People.

  “Ms. Middleton,” he says with a nod as I approach. “Is there more luggage to attend to?”

  “Just this,” I say, gesturing at my small rolling suitcase and carry-on. “The rest is being shipped directly to the Langdons’.”

  “Very good.” He holds out a hand for the rolling bag. “Shall we?”

  I’m put at ease by the familiarity of this whole routine and follow him out of the tiny airport, not missing the way the women’s eyes linger on my Tory Burch flats and the men’s on my ass. I didn’t know what was the appropriate attire for a home care aide in New England, so I opted for formfitting black slacks and a pink cashmere sweater. Looking at the sleek Lincoln Town Car, I’m glad I changed out of the jeans I was wearing earlier. To think I was worried about my sweater picking up dirt smudges from a dingy pickup truck. The most I have to worry about in this car is whether to turn on the air-conditioning.

  He puts my bag in the trunk and opens the rear door for me before settling behind the wheel. I’m a little weirded out by the treatment, since I am, after all, a paid servant now, but I follow his lead.

  “What’s your name?” I ask.

  The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror. “Mick.”

  “I’m Olivia,” I say, giving what I hope is a you-can-relax-around-me smile. Maybe this guy will fill in some of the gaps as to who the Langdons are and what exactly is expected of me.

  “I know,” he says, his eyes smiling just a bit. At least he’s not a total stiff.

  “So are you . . . ?” The Langdons’ personal driver? A one-time hire in an effort to impress me?

  He continues to look at me in the mirror, raising his eyebrows when I don’t finish my question.

  “Are you from Maine?” I ask, chickening out.

  “Born and raised,” he says after a pause as he checks his mirror and pulls into traffic.

  “Portland?” I say. It’s the only city in Maine I know. Besides Bar Harbor, of which I know nothing about other than it’s where I’ll be spending the next three months. Longer if I pass the Langdons’ test and get offered an extension. Although by that point, I hope to have figured out what the hell to do with my life. I hope by then I’ll feel less damaged.

  “Skowhegan,” Mick replies.

  I nod as though I know where the heck that is. Mick seems to be a man of few words, but at least he’s answering my questions.

  “Always been a chauffeur?” I ask, mentally crossing my fingers that I don’t offend him.

  The corners of his mouth turn up in a kind way. “Is that what you call us in New York?”

  I smile sheepishly. “Well, I always call Richard Richard. But when referring to someone else’s driver, I guess we call them, well . . . a driver?”

  “That’s what I call me too,” he says with a wink.

  The knot I’ve had in my stomach since boarding the plane at JFK eases slightly. My first encounter with a Maine resident is going well, and if he suspects I’m a total sham at this whole caregiving thing, he’s hiding it well.

  “How long is it to Bar Harbor?” I ask, even though I already know. I did my homework. Well, some of it. The mor
e crucial details still elude me.

  “About three hours. Longer on a summer weekend, but on a Tuesday at the tail end of the season, we shouldn’t hit any traffic.”

  “Season?”

  “Summer season,” he says, glancing up. “Maine’s known for being a summer tourist destination.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from retorting that of course I know what the season is. It’s practically synonymous with the word Hamptons. What does surprise me is that Maine has one.

  Ease up on the snob routine, Olivia.

  “So, you make the airport trip often?” I ask, still fishing for information about the Langdons.

  For a second he says nothing and I think I’ve officially crossed the line to prying, but he finally responds. “Not so much. Mr. Langdon doesn’t come up as often as he used to, and Mr. Paul . . . he doesn’t leave the house much.”

  Paul.

  My charge. Or patient. Or whatever he is.

  I’m dying to ask more questions, but there’s something in Mick’s tone . . . Tension? Sadness? There’s something, but I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot by misidentifying it.

  Instead, I sit back against the cushy leather seats and try to get acquainted with the Maine scenery. I know from my online research that Bar Harbor is near the water, but right now I can’t see anything but trees. For someone who doesn’t often see a tree outside of Central Park, there’s something oddly calming about all of the green.

  Well, it’s calming until I allow myself to actually think about what awaits me. Because I have no freaking clue.

  It’s weird, but I haven’t put much thought into what I’ll be doing now that I’m here. It’s not like there was a job description. Hell, I didn’t even apply. And if I had, I’m pretty sure a college coed without so much as CPR certification (although I have that now) wouldn’t have been selected as an ideal caregiver for a wounded vet.

  Obviously, when Harry Langdon got my name through the friend of a friend of my parents, he wasn’t looking for any kind of trained professional.

  So why me?

  Of course, it’s a little late to be having these thoughts. I’ve known about this for three months, but in my mind I’ve pretty much been glossing over the reality, the same as I do whenever someone asks what it is I do as a home care specialist: an extra hand for those who need it.

  So basically it’s the dictionary definition of vague. But people totally eat it up, and it’s not exactly a lie. Harry Langdon’s email said there was no nursing experience required, just companionship, basic cooking skills, and willingness to relocate to Bar Harbor.

  I nailed the lack of nursing experience. I don’t think handing out ice cream bars at St. Jude’s counts. But, surprisingly, I do like to cook. I mean, I’m not destined for my own cooking show or anything, but Mom always insisted on giving our chef the weekends off if they weren’t hosting a party, which means she showed me the basics. Grilled cheese. Scrambled eggs. Chili. Spaghetti.

  As for that willingness to relocate? Please. I’d pay them to take me away. My only complaint is that the job isn’t in LA or Seattle or somewhere in a different time zone from everything I’m trying to leave behind. Although, judging from the number of “watch for deer” signs I’ve seen so far, I’m definitely a long way from home.

  Basically it all comes down to the fact that one rich dude told another rich dude to find some rich ditz who wouldn’t mind acting as a paid companion.

  Not exactly the stuff Nobel Peace Prizes are made of, but I can’t bring myself to care. Whether I got the job because of connections or because of sheer luck (it’s certainly not because of skill), it’s still a ticket out of New York. It’s still an escape.

  But all that being said, I don’t know much about my client. I mean, I know Harry Langdon is an elderly businessman with a shit-ton of money. But as for his son? No idea.

  Not because I wasn’t curious. Google would have told me what I needed to know in a heartbeat. And God knows, a little research would have been prudent. But honestly? I’ve been scared to death that all it’ll take is one gruesome picture or detailed account of his injuries to have me backing out of the whole thing.

  I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I’m not used to ugly. And from what Mr. Langdon has implied so far, whatever happened to his son was very ugly indeed.

  I barely managed to get myself on the plane this morning as it was. The last thing I needed was to know what I was getting into. But now I’m here with no chance of backing out, and keeping my head in the sand is no longer an option.

  I can’t stop thinking about how sad Mick’s voice was when he talked about Paul. No, Mr. Paul. Maybe it’s time to figure out exactly what I’m dealing with here.

  I pull my cell phone out of my purse, scrolling through the barrage of texts awaiting me.

  Mom: Call me as soon as you’re settled. Remember, nobody will think less of you if you decide you want to come home early.

  Dad: Olive. Call if you need anything. Proud of you.

  Bella: Miss you already. You’re the hottest Florence Nightingale I know.

  Andrea: U there yet? my aunt and uncle have a summer home in Vermont if u get creeped out taking care of an old dude and need an escape. xoxoxoxoxo.

  The rest, from my friends, are a mixture of support and skepticism that I’ll see this through. I freeze when I get to Michael’s, though: Call me when you quit running. I delete it.

  But it’s the last message that really eats at me. Ethan and I haven’t had any contact since I tried—and failed—to get him back a couple of months ago, yet he cares enough to reach out with a simple Good luck, Liv.

  I read those three simple words about five times, but I’m unable to find any hidden meaning. That’s the kind of guy Ethan is. He’s simply good.

  I didn’t deserve him.

  I respond to my parents, letting them know that I’ve arrived safely and that everything’s okay, but don’t reply to anyone else. I don’t even know what I’d say. Although the flight from New York to Maine was only a little over an hour, I already feel completely detached from my old life. The feeling is unsettling, but also freeing. As though maybe I really can start over.

  I start to go about my initial task of Googling Paul Langdon, but the coverage is spotty, and before my phone can load the search results, cell service has gone from spotty to nonexistent.

  Fantastic.

  I put the phone away and lean back in my seat, letting my mind wander. I alternate between worst-case-scenario visions of what lies ahead (just one more thing you can screw up) and Pollyanna pep talks (you’ve got this) for most of the drive, but I sit up a little straighter when I catch sight of water through the trees, and I strain to get a better look.

  Mick sees my movement. “That’s Frenchman Bay. It’s even prettier on a sunny day.”

  I nod, but I actually sort of like that it’s overcast. It seems to suit my mood. The glimpses of water become more and more frequent, and even with the gray skies, it looks like a postcard.

  “How much longer?” I ask. My palms are clammy.

  “Not long. The Langdon estates are right on the water outside of town.”

  Langdon estates? Interesting. There’s rich, and then there’s rich. Now I’m really wishing that my online research on the Langdons had been more thorough.

  And when Mick turns onto a tree-lined drive, and I’m wishing I’d hired a full-on private investigator because I’m pretty sure the building to my right is an honest-to-God stable.

  “How long have you worked for the Langdons?” I ask, now completely confident that Mick is a full-time employee for a wealthy family and not just an occasional luxury.

  He doesn’t meet my eyes in the mirror this time. “Long time,” he says finally, his tone terser than it was before.

  Got it. No chitchat about our employer.

  Then I see the house. Actually, house is a stretch. It’s more like a compound.

  There are at least three buildings within easy w
alking distance of the main house, which rivals the grandest of the Hamptons homes I’ve been to. I’m still gaping when Mick comes around and opens the door for me. The house is neither modern minimalism nor ornate ostentation. The only time I’ve seen anything like it was when my parents and I spent Christmas in the Swiss Alps at a resort chalet. It’s three stories of perfectly maintained wood, gray stone chimneys, and high peaks.

  I can’t help but picture it in the snow, maybe adorned with white lights at Christmas. Not that I’m trying to romanticize the whole thing, but I have to admit . . . it’s not a bad place to banish oneself.

  “Mr. Langdon would prefer you stay in the main house close to Mr. Paul,” Mick says, taking my suitcase out of the trunk. “But if that doesn’t work out, there’s plenty of room in the staff house—the ‘small house,’ as we call it.”

  I frown a little at what I think must be a hidden meaning in those words. Why wouldn’t it work out for me to stay in the main house?

  I follow Mick through the front door, doing my best not to gape. I’ve been in so many nice homes that I’m generally sort of immune to all the bells and whistles that money can buy, but this is gorgeous in an unfamiliar way. There’s none of the ostentatious snobbery of Park Avenue, nor the trying-too-hard casualness of Hamptons beach homes. Instead it’s sort of this rustic beauty. In place of a marble foyer with a crystal chandelier, there’s a spacious entryway opening to a wide wooden staircase. There’s almost nothing in the way of home decor save for a hunter-green area rug, but that actually kind of works. Too many frills would take away from the natural beauty of the exposed wood.

  It definitely feels like a man’s home, and I find myself wishing I’d bothered to look up what happened to Mrs. Langdon. Because while it’s gorgeous in an imposing sort of way, it’s clear that no woman has called this home in a long time. Maybe ever.

  I follow Mick into the biggest kitchen I’ve ever seen. The stove in the middle of the room has like eight burners, and the fridge is at least twice the size of our one at home.