Broken Hart: The Hart Duet Book One

by Bo Reid

  “How did you get started? A loan?” he asks, and I cringe a little again.

  “Not exactly. More like an inheritance.”

  “From your dad?” he guesses, and I nod. “Okay, but that doesn’t explain why they would call you influential. I mean, no offense, because owning a successful business like that is beyond amazing. I can't imagine being that successful, especially for something I loved doing so much. But that doesn’t automatically make you influential.”

  I let out a deep breath and decide to just lay it all out.

  “Sol and I come from money, a lot of money -- generations worth of accumulated capital. When our dad passed away, Sol and I became multi--millionaires overnight. We have the type of money that you couldn’t spend in ten lifetimes, even if spending it was your whole life's goal,” I explain matter-of-factly to him, and he sucks in a deep breath. Yeah dude, trust me, I get it.

  “So, we took a pretty small sum of our capital, five hundred thousand dollars, two fifty each, and started the business. We were smart about it, though. We didn’t jump into the deep end without being able to swim. We made smart choices and researched everything ‘til we were blue in the face.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I mean it’s none of my business. I can see why you wouldn’t want a felon to have that knowledge,” he backtracks, and I look at him. I reach my right hand over and grab his left, squeezing it gently.

  “Kasen, I didn’t tell you not because of you, but because of me. Sol and I, we’re not spoiled trust fund kids. We don’t go around flaunting our money or our name. We have worked hard our whole lives. Yes, we had it much easier than you did, than most people, but we didn’t live in mansions with live-in maids or cooks. The most we had was a cleaning lady that came in once a week to deep clean the modest house we lived in. Our father taught us how to cook for ourselves. It was a fun thing we did together, trying new recipes. When people hear the name Montgomery where we live, they know it means big money. We’re suddenly everyone’s best friend when, really, they don’t know us at all. I didn’t want that with you. I wanted you to get to know me, because I knew if you got to know Hart, without the money, then I’d know you liked being my friend for me. I’ve just… I’ve never really had that before. You’re one of my only friends, Kasen.”

  Once I’m done explaining my reasons, he seems to understand, and he squeezes my hand back.

  “I get that, Hart, I really do. I guess now that I’m out, I won’t be sharing with everyone I meet first off that I’m a felon. I wouldn’t want to lead with that and have them come to conclusions before getting to know me. So, I understand. Thank you for sharing with me, though. It means a lot to know all of you.”

  Chapter 10: Chrysanthemum

  Kasen

  Hart is a millionaire, no a multi--millionaire, and now I have officially been reminded that we are just friends and can never be more. I knew she was out of my league before, but now? We’re not even playing the same sport.

  But she is still my kind, sweet, funny Hart. Even if we’re only ever friends, she’s a damn good friend to have.

  We pull into the parking lot of a mall. We’ve been driving for an hour or so, and, according to Hart, we have another hour to go. She’s been driving two hours, each way, once a week for three months to come visit me. Me, of all people. It’s amazing how good of a person she is.

  “Come on.” She tugs open her door. “The guest room is yours for however long you want it. I don’t have a timeline for you. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’re comfortable. I want the room to be yours. I noticed you didn’t really bring any personal belongings with you,” she says.

  I shrug, “I didn’t have anything worth taking, except what you sent. I guess I just wanted a clean break, and bringing anything else with me seemed like it would contaminate my new life,” I explain.

  “I get it. That’s why I figured we’d pick you up some stuff. You can paint the room if you want. I don’t care. There’s a dresser, a closet, and a king bed. There’s bedding and extra sheets, but feel free to get new stuff for it if you want.” I stop and gently grab her hand to halt her movements. She looks at me in confusion, and I feel my ears get warm with embarrassment.

  “Hart, I don’t actually have any money yet.”

  She smiles, “I know that, silly. Wild Hart is giving you an advance to get the things you need. Then, we’ll deduct a specified amount from each check until the advance is paid back. Consider it a loan from work, one that is automatically paid back and doesn’t actually affect your credit,” she says, and tugs on my hand to keep walking. “I would be happy to just pay for whatever you need, but I didn’t think you would like that. You seem like you have too much pride to just let me pay. So, rather than insult you by offering, we’ll do it this way instead.”

  I laugh because she’s totally right. I would have just found a way to make this single set of clothes work somehow.

  “There are also towels, new toothbrushes and toothpaste, all that stuff, already in your bathroom. But I didn’t get you any soap, shampoo, or conditioner. I wasn’t sure what you would like. So, don’t forget to get that stuff before we leave. What clothes do you like? Any particular stores?”

  “Jeans and T-shirts mostly. Maybe some sweatpants and workout stuff. And I probably need a new pair of shoes, these were trashed before I went inside. What’s the dress code at work?” I need to know because I’ll need to make sure I get that stuff too. “And what exactly will I be doing at work?” I ask.

  “We’ll have plenty of time on Monday for all that. Basically I’m going to start you at the bottom, like everyone else, since you don’t have experience. You’ll mostly be helping with the restocking and things like that; I’ll also have you helping with the charity packs. If you want to, you’ll be able to work your way up. Again, you’re welcome to stay on as long as you do a good job. This isn’t a year-long thing to get on your feet, then I’m going to kick you out. If you work hard, and like the job, then Wild Hart is happy to have you as an employee. And a uniform shirt is provided, but we do like employees in black pants. They can be any type of pants, they just have to be black. Those aren’t provided,” she says smiling.

  “Oh, and remind me we need to hit the grocery store. I have some things to stock up on, and that’ll give you a chance to pick out certain things you would like me to keep in the house for you,” she says.

  I chuckle at how thorough she is. I thought I was going to get out, have no money, no job, no family, nowhere to go... And yet here I am, not even two hours after becoming a free man, and I have a job, a place to live. I have a friend who wants to know if I have any special dinner requests. And what an adorable friend she is.

  “Hart, Darlin', I don’t know if you realize that prison food is so bad, not even the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches taste right. I’m sure whatever you eat will be just fine with me,” I tell her.

  She stops and puts her hands on her hips. “That’s not the point, Kasen. I don’t want you to just survive out here; to just go with the flow, saying ‘whatever you think will be fine, Hart.’ I know you haven’t had freedom in three years, but that’s over now. Now you have it, as well as choices and input. You get to tell me ‘Hart, your burgers suck’ if that’s how you feel. I’m not your warden or your guard. I don’t control you, Kasen. You get to have opinions here, and I want you to share them with me.”

  I put my hands on her shoulders before she can have a damn heart attack from getting herself agitated. “Hart, take a breath.” She does. “Now, slowly let it out. Feel better?” I ask, and she nods.

  “I’m sorry, Kasen. I got all worked up. It was just like, suddenly I was thinking I did all this behind your back. I went to the board and offered the job and a place to stay. While that’s great, and my intentions were good, maybe you think of this as just another prison, and I don’t want that. That’s not what this is,” she says it in such a small voice that the caveman inside me comes to the surface.

  I pull
her in for a hug, and I’m pretty sure she sniffles a little. So help me, if I just made her cry, I’m never going to forgive myself.

  “Hart, listen to me. I do not think of this as another prison. I appreciate everything you have done and everything you are offering. But, just like you don’t want me to think this is a prison, I don’t want to take advantage of my friend’s kindness. Which you have shown me more of in the last three months than I’ve felt in the last three years. Hell, longer than three years. Hart, what you've done, it means everything to me. Everything. And I promise to tell you if your burgers suck, okay?” I joke. She giggles against my chest.

  Best sound ever.

  “Okay, deal. But they don’t, just saying.” She pulls away with tears shining in her eyes, but with a smile on her face. I reach up and wipe a tear away, then do the same to the other side.

  “I swear I didn’t use to be such a mess. My hormones are all fucked up since having Brooks, so I apologize in advance for any random crying that occurs from this point forward. Fair warning, it’ll probably be a lot. Don’t take it personally.”

  She points at my face.

  “Because I know that’s what you’re doing right now. You did not cause this, Kasen. I’m a hot mess right now. Last week I cried because my coffee maker didn’t automatically turn on. My coffee maker didn’t take it personally, so you can’t either, unless you actually do something that warrants feeling guilty. But I kind of doubt you will.”

  We spend the next hour shopping through the mall, which I’ve decided is just a form of torture the U.S. government isn’t aware of yet. Every time I try to pick out a cheaper item, Hartley tells me there is a fine line between quality and price. She says that I don’t have to buy the most expensive thing, because often the quality is shit and I’d just paying for the label.

  Even though she's a multimillionaire, Hartley Montgomery doesn't have the ego that requires her to spend extra for trendy brand names or logos.

  She also says that the cheapest things are often poor quality as well. I'd end up spending more in the long run, because the cheap shit wears out faster, and I would have to replace it sooner.

  She finally gave up trying to explain this to me, and instead just asked me what I liked and what my sizes were. I had to try on a handful of things to get my sizing. Since prison is boring as fuck, I spent a lot of time working out. I’ve grown a few sizes.

  Then she sits me down on a bench, tosses her phone at me, and tells me to "play a game or something." It takes her ten minutes to come back. When she does, it’s with so many clothing options I’m not sure she left anything on the racks. She tells me to look through them and keep what I like, ordering me not to look at the price tags. I peek at a few, but know I won’t be winning this fight.

  After buying more clothes than I think I’ve owned over the course of my entire life, we go to a home goods type store. She asks if I want new bedding, and I tell her I’d rather wait to see the room before buying anything for it. She agrees that’s a good idea.

  Next, we go to the grocery store.

  “I have to grab something for dinner tonight. I spaced on taking anything out because I was so excited to come get you. Pick out whatever looks good to you. If there is anything you’ve been wanting grab it and we can make it. We’re going to the farmers’ market in the morning though, so we’ll get fresh fruits and vegetables there,” she says.

  She asks if I have anything special I want for dinner. I don’t. When I tell her to surprise me, she’s all too happy to do so, asking if I have any allergies or if I don’t like this or that. I’m really not a picky eater; you learn not to be in prison.

  Hart talks to the butcher at length, but not just about the food. She asks him about his family, specifically his daughters -- how their recitals went and how his son is doing in little league. In the end, she gets a premade chicken fajita mix from the butcher that looks damn good.

  It’s a little under an hour from the grocery store when we pull off the road and down a paved driveway. It’s about a mile from the main road, and there are fields on either side.

  “Do others live down here, or just you?” I ask.

  “Just me. Wait till you see the house. I can’t wait to show you everything!”

  We pull up to the house, and, honestly, it fits Hart. Not Hartley Montgomery multimillionaire, no this fits my Hart to a T. It’s a modest, single-story white farmhouse with navy trim and a wraparound porch. I can see a barn just behind it, but no garage.

  When we go inside, the house has an open concept. I can see most of the living room and kitchen, as well as a hallway to the right. There’s an L-shaped gray couch and a matching recliner, along with a small crib, or maybe it’s called a cradle, in the living room. A box of baby toys rests in the corner. Hartley takes the few groceries she bought into the kitchen and puts them away.

  She grabs her phone and sends off some texts before setting it on the counter.

  “I was just telling Sol we’re back, so he can bring Brooks home whenever. He’ll probably be at least a few more hours, but they should be here in time for dinner. Sol usually has dinner here a few times a week,” she explains, and I nod. She heads down the hall and waves for me to follow.

  “This is Brooks’s room here.” She pushes open the first door on the right. It’s a decent size room, but not too large. There is a small closet, changing table, and a crib. Hanging above the crib are intricate letters painted to look like trees that spell out BROOKS. Under the letters, there’s a script; mens regnum bona possidet.

  “What language is that?” I ask, gesturing to the letters.

  “Latin. It means an honest heart is a kingdom in itself,” she says.

  I continue to look around the room. It’s fairly gender-neutral. It’s painted a light gray on three walls and a darker gray on the ceiling. The ceiling also has constellations painted across it. The fourth wall is painted with a mural of a forest that is so realistic it looks like I could step through the wall and be among the trees.

  There’s a window on the mural wall that looks out to the backyard with an expansive view of an actual forest. When I step back, I realize that the mural is an extension of the view from the window. It all blends as one.

  “Wow, that’s amazing,” I say.

  “Thank you. Took me most of my pregnancy to finish the whole wall,” she says. I snap my gaze over to her.

  “You painted this?” I ask, and she blushes a little.

  “Yes. Come on.” I look at the mural and shake my head.

  She is a fucking damn good artist on top of everything else.

  “This is the main bathroom.” She pushes open the door on the left.

  I glance inside, but it’s nothing too special. Faint blue that is almost white is on three walls. It’s almost like the color of fresh snow on a sunny day by a body of water, when the blue of the water and the sky reflect back on the snow.The other wall is a darker blue. The bathroom is fairly simple; there are no outlandish fixtures. It’s very Hart, with a touch of Brooks -- there are colorful towels hanging on hooks and a basket of toys in the tub.

  I think I’m coming to realize she really is the Hart I’ve gotten to know over the last few months. Her money changes nothing more than her bank account.

  There are framed pictures lining the whole hallway. It’s a mashup of different frames in different sizes. A few canvas paintings of various sizes are mixed into the assortment, all of them are nature paintings. In the corner of each, I spot a small HM with a heart around the initials.

  I see mostly photographs of Hartley, Sol, and Brooks. A few show a young Hart and Sol with an older man, probably their father. There are photos of Hartley on top of the mountains she’s climbed, victory posing.

  Adorable.

  Another Latin phrase in elaborate script is painted onto the wall, si vis pacem, para bellum.

  “You do realize you will have plenty of time to look at all the pictures, right?” she asks, laughing a little.

&nbs
p; I guess she’s right. After all, I’m still holding my bags from our shopping trip.

  “What does this one mean?” I ask, nodding to the script. She smiles.

  “If you want peace, prepare for war.”

  We walk further down the hall.

  “This is my room. Yours is across from mine.” Her door is already open, and I can’t resist looking inside.

  She has an exceptionally large bed, I’d say a California King, in the center of the back wall. The distressed white bed frame is rather simple. There is a quilt on top of the bed. It’s a scene; the squares are sewn together to create a forest at sunset. Something that intricate must have cost a fortune.

  The nightstands on either side of the bed match the frame, as does the rest of the bedroom furniture. There's a large dresser against one wall, between a closet door and one that leads to the master bathroom..

  I head into my room. There's a king size bed on a dark cherry wood frame, matching nightstands on either side, and a matching dresser. The bed has a dark gray comforter on it with pillows to match. I’ve never had anything this nice -- never anything that wasn’t a hand-me-downs, and certainly nothing that matched, unless I count the plain white prison sheets.

  “Here’s the closet,” Hartley says, opening a door to the left of the dresser. “There are hangers and shelves for pants and shoes. This is your bathroom,” she says, opening the other door.

  “I have a bathroom?” I ask, thinking maybe it leads to the main bathroom.

  “Yeah, it’s not as big as the master, and there’s no tub, just a stand-up shower... But it’s nice. There are fresh towels in here already. There’s a hamper in here. Just bring it to the laundry room off the kitchen when you need things washed. I’ll toss your stuff in with mine and Brooks's, we'll save water that way,” she says.