“What about dinner? Tomorrow night?”
“I can’t. Tomorrow is Thursday.” She bit her lower lip. The furrow between her brows deepened.
“Friday then?”
“Friday is Scrabble night.” Her anxiety was palpable. She shook her head and backed into the neighboring chair with a crash. “I have to go.”
Before I formed my next words, she fled through the swinging doors and into the kitchen.
Not wanting to miss the morning meeting at work, I tossed a ten onto the table and headed out the door. The mystery of Bronte Hollander would have to wait.
“What about that one?” Carter tipped the mouth of his beer toward a young lady at the end of the bar.
“No,” I replied.
“Okay.” He blew out an exasperated breath before scanning the room for another victim. We played this game often. He pointed out girls for me to sleep with, and I shot down his efforts. “That girl’s nice.”
“No.” The blonde was pretty, but nothing about her piqued my interest. I couldn’t help thinking about Bronte, who outshone every girl in the club.
“Come on.” Carter groaned and rolled his eyes. “It’s been two years. You’ve got to get back on the horse. All that celibacy can’t be good for your pipes.”
“My pipes are fine, thank you.” The beer was ice cold, the best artisanal brew in the state. I avoided Carter’s scrutiny and took a long swig, enjoying the smoothness of the hops, the hint of vanilla. “For the record, I asked out the girl at the coffee shop this morning. She said no.”
“Of course she did. That’s because you picked a girl who’s not available.”
“Maybe I like a challenge.”
“Maybe you’re chicken shit.”
I remained silent because his words rang true. I never expected Bronte to agree to a date, but something about her kept drawing me back to the coffee shop.
Carter picked up the conversation again. “I’m not leaving here until you hook up with somebody.”
“Then you’re going to be here a long time.”
We’d had this argument a dozen times since I’d moved to Laurel Falls. Although his preoccupation with my sex life—or lack thereof—was annoying, I appreciated his concern. He’d been my best friend since first grade. When my life had turned upside down, he’d suggested a change of venue for a fresh start. He already had an office in the city and had offered to help me begin again.
“Did you ever happen to think that maybe these women aren’t imperfect? They just aren’t Amy. And all this denial is because you don’t want to risk getting hurt again?”
At the mention of my wife’s name, a sharp pain cut through my chest. He had a valid point. None of these women were Amy. She’d been far from perfect, but I’d loved her to the ends of the earth and back. “Well, aren’t you the fucking psychological genius,” I said, chugging down half the beer.
“I’m just pointing out the obvious. And in case you’ve forgotten, Amy wasn’t all that awesome.”
“Drop it, Carter,” I growled.
“Her legs were short and her eyes were too close together and then there’s the matter of—”
I cut him off with a glare, lowering my voice. “Don’t go there, Carter. I’m warning you.”
“Alright.” He shrugged and renewed his search of the females in the bar. The guy had the tenacity of a mule. “Her?” He nodded at the brunette waitress balancing a tray of test tube shots on her hand as she weaved through the crowd.
“Not bad, but no.”
“What? Are you nuts? She’s gorgeous.”
The girl caught my gaze as I checked her out. Her red lips widened into a smile. Smooth, tanned skin. Dark, wavy hair. High cheekbones. A round ass. She wore the requisite uniform for the female club staff—black shorts and a snug white tank top. “Hi, guys. Would either of you like a shot?” She extended the tray in my direction. I shook my head.
“What’ve you got?” Carter asked, pretending to peer down at the test tubes, but he was really sneaking a peek down her shirt.
“Mind eraser, kamikaze, lemon drop, fireball.”
“I’ll have a fireball, and my friend would like a mind eraser.” Carter smirked in my direction.
“No, thanks. I’ve got an early day tomorrow.” I rolled my eyes at his not-so-subtle word play.
“Doing what? Jerking off?” Carter asked. I narrowed my eyes and kicked him beneath the table. “Ow. Fucker.” He hunched over to rub his shin.
The girl pretended to pout. “Are you sure?” She lifted one of the test tubes into the air and dangled it from two fingers. “I’ll do one with you.”
“You’ll have to excuse my friend.” Carter snagged the shot from her and handed it to me with a stern glare. “You see, his wife passed away, and he’s having a little trouble getting back into the game.”
“Oh, you poor thing.” The girl’s eyes softened with a mixture of sympathy and pity. I hated that look, but I’d seen it so many times on the faces of friends and family. She curled her fingers around my bicep and squeezed. “Come on. No charge.”
I reluctantly took the test tube from her and swirled the contents. Aside from the occasional beer after work, I rarely drank. The girl next to me rubbed her hand along my arm. It felt nice. How long since a woman had touched me—besides my mom or grandma? And she smelled so good, like cotton candy. “Okay. Fine, but just one.”
In unison, the three of us tossed back the shots. Vodka singed the back of my throat. A sensation of mild euphoria followed swiftly.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” The waitress pressed closer to let someone pass through the narrow aisle. Her breasts flattened against my shoulder. “Look, my name’s Hayden. I get off at one, if you’d like some company.”
Chapter Three
Bronte
After work, I walked the one thousand four hundred eighty-two steps to my dad’s house. Thoughts of Rhett Easton swirled in my head. He’d asked me out on a date. I’d wanted to say yes. Instead, I’d fled to the backroom, because he had to be joking. Guys like him didn’t ask out girls like me.
Every time I got near him, he sent me into a tailspin. It was his thick eyelashes, the soft hue of his eyes, the deep dimples on either side of his sensuous lips. Whenever he spoke in his smooth tenor, the space between my legs grew damp.
At the back door, I kicked off my shoes and dropped my backpack onto the kitchen table. I checked the fridge, found a Pepsi and made my way toward the front of the house. Voices and canned laughter filled the silence. My father sat in his recliner, feet propped up, remote control in his hand, wearing a pair of baggy boxers and a T-shirt. He didn’t look up when I entered the room.
“Hey, Pop.” I dropped into the chair next to him, Mom’s chair, the one with the worn armrests and broken springs. It had passed its prime long ago, but none of us could bear to part with it.
“Hi, pickle. How was your day?” As he spoke, he flipped through the channels, landing on each station for a few seconds before passing to the next. Since Mom passed away last year, he’d fallen into a depression, spending the bulk of his days asleep, drunk, or watching reality shows.
“Fine.” While he surfed, I thumbed through the mail. Bills, bills, bills. I sorted them into neat piles according to category, name, and envelope size. “What did you do today?”
“Nothing.” He never broke his stare on the TV. For Christmas, I’d bought him a new flat-screen with all the bells and whistles, but he insisted on watching his ancient tube set. “Yolanda came over. Brought a casserole. It’s in the fridge if you want some.”
His voice faded away as my gaze landed on the last envelope in the pile, addressed to me. The return address read Storer High School Alumni Association. I traced the gold embossed letters with a fingertip. The name of my high school brought back a flood of memories, all of them unpleasant. I dropped the letter into my lap, unopened, intending to toss it in the garbage.
“It’s raining like a fucking mother outside.” Jo came
through the front door, shaking water from her hair. Dark circles splotched the shoulders of her jacket. “You just missed the storm, pickle.” As if to bolster her statement, thunder cracked, rattling the dishes in the hall china cabinet, vibrating the windows of the old house.
“Language,” Dad growled. “What kind of shit is that? I don’t know where the hell you girls learned that kind of talk.”
“From you,” Jo and I said in unison.
“Jinx,” Jo shouted and tapped the back of my head. I waved her hand away. The envelope slid to the floor. “What’s this?” She bent to retrieve the letter, scanning both sides before ripping open the flap.
“It’s a federal offense to open someone else’s mail.” I made an ineffective swipe for the letter, but she yanked it out of my reach.
“Dear Alumnus,” she read. Her brown eyes scanned the print. “It’s an invitation to your class reunion. Are you going to go?”
“No.” The thought of facing those people again made my stomach churn. My teenage years had been painful at best. No way was I going to relive one minute of that hell.
“You should. You can show those fuckers—sorry, Dad—how much you’ve changed, how well you’re doing.”
“I’ll go when monkeys fly out of my ass—sorry, Dad.” He shook his head at my apology. “I don’t care what those people think of me.”
“Well, I vote that you should go.” Jo handed the card back to me.
“I couldn’t go by myself. I’d need a date.” Getting a root canal without anesthetic seemed preferable to attending my class reunion without a date. And getting a date was out of the question.
“What about Rhett from the coffee shop? Didn’t he ask you out?”
At this tidbit of information, my father tore his gaze from the television, alert for the first time in months. “Who’s Rhett?”
“No one. He’s just a customer.” What the fuck? I mouthed to Jo.
“He’s this really cute guy who comes in every day to see Bronte.” She smirked impishly and danced out of reach, putting Dad’s chair between us. It was a good thing, because I was ready to do her bodily harm.
“You have a boyfriend?” Dad sat up straighter in his chair. “Why haven’t I met him? A good guy will come around, meet your dad.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. And this isn’t 1957.” I tossed a pillow at Jo. She ducked and stuck out her tongue. She might be thirty years old, but sometimes she acted like she was ten. I loved that about her. No matter how serious or how stressed out she was, she never lost her playfulness. “I didn’t even know his name until today.”
“He asked her to dinner, and she said no.” She tossed the pillow back to me. I was going to kill her later.
“He didn’t mean it,” I replied.
“What does he drink?” Dad asked. His brown eyes drilled into mine. “You can tell a lot about a man by what he drinks.”
“Large coffee, Colombian, with a shot of espresso,” Jo said.
Dad nodded and scrubbed a hand over the stubble of his jaw. “Nice, sensible, no nonsense. That’s a man’s coffee.”
“I’m not going out with him. I said no, Daddy.”
“Good.” He patted my hand and relaxed back into the chair, his attention returning to the TV. “You don’t need to get mixed up with men, pickle. No guy is good enough for my baby girls.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not babies anymore.” Jo’s smile faltered. She’d given up a lot to take over the family business, including her fiancé. Although she never complained, I knew she was still reeling from the split, the long hours at the shop, and the loss of her personal life. For those reasons, I’d taken a leave of absence from my real job at Vale Chemical to pitch in.
Dad didn’t answer. He was entrenched in a fight between two B-list celebrities marooned on a desert island. Jo sighed before dropping a kiss on his bald head. Outside the house, daylight waned. The days continued to grow shorter as winter approached. We went to bed early so we could open the coffee shop by six every morning. Our crazy work hours didn’t allow for much more than a few hours of sleep before we had to get up and do it all over again.
“Don’t stay up too late.” I squeezed Dad’s shoulder.
“I still think you should go,” Jo said as we climbed the stairs together. The wood steps creaked and groaned under our ascent. “It might do you some good. I know high school was tough for you, but seeing those assholes now might give you a new perspective.” She stopped outside her bedroom door. “Just promise me you’ll consider it.”
Four o’clock in the morning came quickly. Darkness blanketed the neighborhood as Jo and I walked to the shop. Our breath floated in frosty clouds in front of us. I had an apartment on the opposite side of town, but it was easier to stay at Dad’s through the week than make an hour commute one way at this godforsaken hour. I shoved my hands into my pockets and hunched my shoulders against the chilly wind.
The inside of the coffee shop was cozy. The buzzer at the back door rang before we removed our coats. While Jo received the delivery of baked goods, I filled the coffee machines. I loved the scent of freshly ground coffee beans mingling with the aroma of cinnamon and sugar from the doughnuts. It reminded me of our childhood, when Mom and Dad ran the shop together, and Jo and I played at their feet.
We did most of the prep work the night before to lessen the stress of the morning startup, but we still had to hurry to have the doors open by six. I liked the routine, the sensation of knowing exactly what to do and how to do it. When I placed the open sign in the window and unlocked the front door, there were already people waiting outside. They entered on a whirlwind of cold air and kept me busy for most of the morning. Although my customer service skills weren’t the best, I made up for my shortcomings in loyalty and efficiency.
A little past nine, I felt a pleasant prickling sensation along the back of my neck. When I turned around, I came face to face with Rhett. Instead of a suit, he wore faded jeans and a Henley shirt with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. My hands began to shake as panic replaced my confidence. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “It’s Saturday. You never come in on the weekends.”
“I know, but I was craving some good coffee. Is this okay?” His raised eyebrows indicated that I’d crossed an invisible line, but his lips quivered like he was holding back a laugh. “Do you want me to leave? Because I can go and come back on Monday.”
Shit, Bronte. Simmer down. Try to be normal. I wiped a hand across my forehead to brush away a floating curl. Not everyone was obsessed with routines and numbers the way I was. After a lot of therapy and practice, I rolled with most changes, but something about this guy awakened all my neuroses. “No. It’s fine.” Never mind that his appearance totally threw off my Saturday mojo. I was just regaining my sensibilities when a trim brunette stepped out from behind him. “Who’s this? What’s she doing here?” My lips spoke before my brain could stop it. I placed a hand over my mouth, horrified at the outburst.
Rhett laughed. “This is Hayden. Hayden, this is Bronte.”
“Hi,” she said and immediately turned her attention back to Rhett. I couldn’t fault her there. With his hair rumpled and a day’s growth of stubble on his cheeks, he looked scrumptious. She made a perfect companion to his handsome looks. She reminded me of the cheerleaders in high school, the ones who’d called me names and made fun of my red hair.
“Hello.” It was the best I could do under the circumstances. An uncomfortable pressure built inside my chest. He always came in alone. Always. And never on the weekends. My brain snagged on the anomalies, misfiring, circling in a defective loop. I recognized the warning signs and drew in a deep breath. With effort, I could redirect my thought processes.
“This is a cute place,” she said to Rhett. “It’s very rustic.”
“It’s one of my favorite places,” Rhett replied.
I frowned at her but smiled at him, and our eyes met.
“I’m surprised Starbuck’s hasn’t run it out
of business,” Hayden said.
I took an immediate dislike to her, for no reason other than the placement of Rhett’s hand on the small of her back. By the way she batted her eyelashes at him, they were more than friends. Instead of sitting at his usual table, they slid into a booth. Hayden pressed up against him, hooking her arm through his as she studied the menu. I had the uncomfortable feeling they’d spent the night together.
“What can I get you?” I asked, fighting the urge to flee into the safety of the back room.
“Do you have anything besides coffee?” Hayden asked.
“Um, we’re a coffee shop, so—no.”
“We have tea and hot chocolate,” Jo said as she passed behind me with an order for the next table. Her hip bumped mine in warning.
“I’ll have the usual,” Rhett said.
I gave him a second smile, grateful for his respect of our tradition.
“I’ll have a glass of water,” Hayden said. “Do you have any fresh fruit or granola?”
“No, we don’t.” At my words, Rhett ducked his head, but not before I caught the twitching of his lips. I drew in a breath and summoned my self-control. “But we do have cookies baked by elves inside a magical elm tree.”
Rhett burst into laughter. Hayden scowled and dug her elbow into his sides. From the corner of my eye, I caught Jo’s disapproving glare. Shit. I didn’t care about Hayden’s disapproval, but I never wanted to disappoint Jo.
“Why don’t you try the herbal green tea?” I suggested. “And I can bring you a slice of our organic banana-almond bread.”
“Is it sugar-free and gluten-free?” Hayden asked.
“I have no freaking idea,” I muttered.
“That sounds great,” Rhett interjected. “Thanks, Bronte.”
“You’re welcome.” I fled to the kitchen with Jo hot on my heels. The swinging doors had barely closed behind us when she started in on me.
“What the fuck?” Jo’s eyes sparked with temper.
“I know. I know.” I groaned and clasped my head between my hands. “I’m so sorry. Something about this guy brings out my craziness.”
Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone Page 2
