Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone

by Jeana E. Mann

  “Done.”

  “And I want chocolate. Lots of it. Not the white stuff. Chocolate should be brown, and anything else is just wrong.”

  “Is that it?” I lifted an eyebrow, an unstoppable grin spreading over my face.

  “Yes. For now. I may have other demands later.”

  “Okay. How about dinner tonight? Someplace quiet? Like my apartment? I’ll cook for you.”

  She blinked and rolled her lips together. The action drew my attention to her mouth. It was full, the same color as a rosebud. After a lengthy exhale, she shook her head, and the sunshine in my world dimmed. “I can’t.” She started walking again.

  No, no, no. It wasn’t supposed to work this way. I went from buoyant happiness to abject disappointment in one shake of her red head. “But you said I’m forgiven.”

  “You are. I’m not sure if I trust you, though. How do I know you won’t decide you’ve made another mistake in the middle of dinner and dump me off at my doorstep?” She paused to push her hair off her forehead, features somber, eyes sincere.

  The gravity of what I’d done hit me with the impact of a blow. I cursed under my breath for hurting her, for letting her believe my douchebaggery was her fault. This wasn’t a girl for head games. She said what she meant and expected others to do the same. My selfish actions had upset her. I’d wanted to protect her from the Scrabble Guy when she really needed protection from asswipes like me. “I won’t hurt you like that again. And I’ll figure out a way to make you trust me, but you have to give me a chance to prove myself.” I pressed a palm to my heart in pledge. “I promise.”

  “Okay.” Her smile warmed my insides.

  We’d reached her office building by this time. She paused on the steps. A lock of her hair had escaped the clip on top of her head and drifted over one eye. I tucked it behind her ear, letting my fingers linger over the curve of her jaw. The warmth of her soft skin tingled through my fingertips. Without thinking, I cupped her face in my hands and laid my lips on hers. She tasted of sweet strawberry jam. A moan drifted between us. I didn’t know if it was hers or mine, but it didn’t matter. All I knew was that I liked it, and I wanted more.

  When she didn’t protest, I deepened the kiss, sliding my tongue between her lips. Her hands found my shoulders, fingers digging into my jacket. I slid my hand to the back of her head to tilt it. My thoughts whirled, overcome by the subtle jasmine scent of her skin and the taste of her tongue on mine. I forgot where we were, that it was the middle of a workday on the street of a bustling city, that we were supposed to be friends and not lovers.

  “Get a room,” a passerby said from behind us.

  Bronte pulled away but left her hands on my shoulders. Her lips quivered, swollen from my mouth. “You shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I want to do it again,” I said.

  “Trust,” she replied, lifting a warning finger between us. It was one word with a million-dollar meaning. What ass from her past had abused her trust? Probably some mixed-up fucker like me. I understood her reservations. Amy had shattered my faith in people. Until I met Bronte, I didn’t think I could ever trust a woman again.

  “I want yours.” I took her finger in my hand and kissed the tip. “And I’ll get it or die trying.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Bronte

  I floated back to my office, confused and excited by Rhett’s kiss. On the elevator ride to my floor, I pressed my fingertips to my lips, reliving the feel of his mouth on mine, the scrape of his beard over my chin, the gentle probing of his tongue against mine. My head was still spinning when I stepped into the white corridor leading to my lab.

  As much as I appreciated his apology, I wasn’t sure I could ever trust him. Years ago, I’d trusted Walt Hunter, and look what he’d done to me. He’d broken my heart and laughed about it with his friends. I shivered, reliving the humiliation. I could be friends with Rhett, but he’d have to earn it.

  Later that afternoon, Jo dropped by to check in. When I told her about the kiss, she was uncharacteristically silent.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked. “I know you’ve got something to say.”

  “I think you should stay away from this guy.”

  “Um, three weeks ago you were pushing me to him. Why the whiplash?”

  “I wanted you to get out, meet some new people. I thought you were ready, but after this?” She shook her head. “I was wrong, pickle, and I apologize. You’re better off sticking with me and Dad.” Her arm circled my shoulders and she gave me a squeeze just like she had when I was five and had scraped a knee. “He’s just going to hurt you again. You don’t want that, do you?”

  “No.” I bit my lower lip, contemplating. “But everyone deserves a second chance, don’t you think?”

  “Not everyone. Harold doesn’t deserve a second chance.” Harold had been her fiancé. “Walt Hunter doesn’t deserve a second chance, does he?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” If Walt Hunter walked into my life today, would I be able to forgive him? “I don’t think you can compare Rhett to Harold or Walt. Rhett’s different.”

  “He’s a guy, isn’t he?” Her tone dripped with animosity. “And you know they only want one thing. He’s just going to use you and dump you. That’s what they do.”

  My temper ignited. “You don’t believe Rhett could actually care for me, do you? This isn’t about Rhett, is it? It’s about me. You don’t think anyone can love me. I’m too weird and too crazy for any guy to like me.”

  “No, no. Pickle, no. It’s not that.”

  “Don’t call me, pickle. I’m twenty-eight.”

  “Bronte, calm down,” she replied. Her forehead crinkled. She took a step toward me. I backed up, keeping distance between us. “I’m not saying that at all. I just want you to be realistic.”

  “What you want is for me to be an old maid like you,” I said. “You treat me like a kid, but I’m more of an adult than you are. I have an apartment and a Ph.D. and a fantastic job, while you’re still working in the coffee shop and living with Dad.” I’d gone too far, but the words were already out there. It was too late to suck them back in.

  She inhaled a sharp breath. If my words hurt her, she didn’t show it. Another sign that she didn’t take me seriously. “One of us has to be the responsible one, and you’re not capable.”

  “I think you need to go.” I walked to the door of the lab and held it open.

  “Bronte, don’t be like this.”

  “Like what? Opinionated? Confident?” I snorted. “This conversation is over.”

  I slammed the door shut behind her. Two minutes later, the phone rang. It was Jo. I shut off the ringer and tossed the phone in the desk drawer, refusing to answer. She loved me but didn’t believe anyone else could. Her betrayal hurt. My immediate reaction was to fall into a cycle of counting and ritual behaviors. Instead, I took a few minutes to close my eyes and practiced the meditation I’d learned years ago from Dr. Mortensen. But I did it for eight minutes, because—well—I couldn’t give up everything at once.

  When I felt able, I focused my efforts on my latest project. I worked late into the evening, going home only to catch a few hours of sleep and a shower before returning in the early hours of the next morning.

  At 10:02 AM, I was deep into an experiment when Richard, Director of Research, entered my lab. The bright overhead lights reflecting off the top of his bald head distracted my attention from the package in his hands. He placed the package on my desk then beamed at me.

  “You’ve got a delivery, and I have exciting news.” Behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his eyes grew round. “You’ve been nominated for the Cabot-Hendricks Award.”

  “Me? Are you sure?” The strength disappeared from my knees. I dropped into the nearest chair. The Cabot-Hendricks Award honored the most respected and influential researchers in the United States.

  “Absolutely. I have the email right here.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from the breast pocket of his lab coat. “You
should be receiving a letter any day now.”

  I took the email and scanned over the contents. He wasn’t joking. “You nominated me?”

  “I did. You’re one of the most brilliant researchers I’ve ever met. And your work in the past year has been phenomenal.” He removed his glasses to rub the lenses with a corner of his coat before replacing them. “You deserve this award, Bronte. People need to know about your research.”

  The first person I wanted to call after he left was Jo, but I had no idea how to approach her after our argument. She might see my news as bragging. I felt bad about hurting her feelings, but she’d wounded my pride. Although I’d been harsh with her, I was tired of being treated like baby. And everything I’d said was true; she was closed off and judgmental when it came to men.

  I took a seat behind the desk. The package caught my eye. I turned it over, looking for the box seam, and slit the tape with the end of my scissors. Inside was a smaller box wrapped in gold-and-silver foil, dripping with curled ribbons. A small card was taped to the top. I opened the envelope and slid out the card. “None of these chocolates are as sweet as your kiss. Rhett.”

  Beneath the lid were a dozen chocolates from the premier chocolatier in Laurel Falls. I’d walked past the shop before but had never been able to afford more than a sample. The first bite melted on my tongue. The decadent sweetness blossomed in my mouth.

  “Mmmm. So good.”

  The office phone buzzed. I licked my lips before answering.

  “Dr. Hollander, you have a call on line four. It’s Mr. Easton from Ascension Corporation,” said the receptionist.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “Thank you. I’ll be right with him.” I carefully replaced the lid of the box and stowed it on a corner of the desk. I drew in a deep breath to calm my nerves and clicked over to Rhett.

  “Did you get it yet?” His deep voice reverberated across the line. It was the first time we’d spoken on the phone. I’d never noticed the smoothness of his tenor. It shimmered across the phone and straight into my panties.

  “Yes. Thank you. It’s delicious.” A silly smile bowed my lips.

  “I wasn’t sure what kind to get, so I thought I’d start with the best and work my way down from there.”

  “You chose well.”

  “I know you don’t like to talk on the phone, so I won’t keep you. I just wanted to make sure you got the delivery.”

  “I did. And it’s fine that you called.” His words soothed my ruffled feelings and eased the confusion I’d been struggling with over the past day. Now that we were speaking, I didn’t want the call to end. “I got some great news today and I wanted to tell someone. I’ve been nominated for a Cabot-Hendricks Award.”

  Silence.

  “Rhett?”

  “No shit?” Excitement vibrated through the phone line. “Bronte, that’s fantastic. Didn’t Einstein win one of those?”

  “Yes. Posthumously.” His genuine excitement fueled a quiver of nerves in my belly. “Can you believe it?”

  “Hell yeah, I believe it. Bronte, you’re amazing.” Heat warmed my face at his praise. “We have to celebrate. Are you free Saturday night?”

  “Yes. Saturday is good.” After the fight with Jo, I wanted to prove her wrong, but most of all I wanted to prove to myself that I was able to handle a relationship with a man. And Rhett deserved a second chance. If he was able to look past my meltdown at the Seaforths, I could look past his baggage over his deceased wife.

  “Excellent. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rhett

  The excitement in Bronte’s voice unleashed a new set of feelings inside me. Her approval thawed the ice around my frozen heart. The sensation triggered an immediate need for more. I’d forgotten how it felt to be appreciated by a woman, perhaps because Amy had never shown anything more than tolerance for me during the last year of our marriage. My lingering smile must’ve given away my thoughts, because Carter snorted. He’d dropped by to kill some time before a court appearance with one of his clients.

  “Oh, God.” He made a gagging noise as I hung up the phone.

  “Shut it,” I replied, refusing to let his jaded outlook spoil my good mood.

  “You really like this girl, don’t you?” His sharp gaze locked onto my face.

  “Yeah, I guess I do.” The realization made my guts shrivel. Was I ready for this? I scrubbed a hand over my face and tried to steady my breath.

  “Chocolates and hearts and flowers and shit.” Carter shook his head. “Fuck me, you’re turning into a sap.”

  “It’s not sappy. It’s being romantic.”

  “Pfft.” He sniffed and adjusted himself, like the very notion insulted his manhood. “I could be romantic if I wanted.”

  It was my turn to laugh at him. “You wouldn’t know romance if it slapped you in the face.”

  “Bullshit. I’ll have you know that I always give a girl cab fare home after we screw.”

  “That’s not romance. That’s being polite.” I rolled my eyes at his crassness. “You’re a lost cause.”

  “Rhett, there’s a woman here to see you.” Freya’s disapproving tone floated through the intercom. Carter made a jacking-off motion with his hand. I frowned at him.

  “I’m busy.” We still hadn’t gotten over the awkwardness of our last disagreement, and it showed in her tone.

  “I told her to make an appointment, but she’s insisting. Her name is Jo Hollander.”

  My eyes widened.

  Carter grinned. “You’ve got a thing for sisters, don’t you?”

  “It’s okay. Send her in,” I said to Freya before shooting a warning glare at Carter. “Not one fucking word.”

  “My lips are sealed.” He made a lock-and-key motion over his lips, but the broad smile on his face left me queasy.

  I swiveled my chair to face the door at the same instant Jo barreled over the threshold. The smile on my face dropped away upon the seeing the fire in her eyes. Beneath the desk, I dropped a protective hand over my balls, remembering her earlier threats. “Hi, Jo. By the look on your face, this isn’t a social call, I presume. Is Bronte okay?”

  “No. She’s not okay.” She quivered to a stop in front of my desk and crossed her arms over her chest. “And it’s your fault.”

  I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms in the deflective position I assumed for angry employees and Freya. “I just talked to her, and she seemed fine.”

  Jo closed her eyes and inhaled sharply through her nose, like she was trying to get control of her emotions. When she opened them, the anger in their depths took me by surprise. She was truly pissed. “She told me about the Seaforth party. About what you did. I told you not to fuck with her, but you went ahead and did it anyway. I don’t know why I thought you’d be different.” This last part was muttered under her breath.

  “I didn’t fuck with her. Not on purpose anyway. We had a misunderstanding. It happens.” I studied her, intrigued by the direction of our conversation. “Besides, we’ve talked. It’s all good.”

  “You men are all the same.” She cocked a hip, her voice lowering. “I want you to stay away from her.”

  “Since when is my relationship with Bronte any of your business?” I bristled at her condescending tone, the way she thought she could control her sister.

  “Bronte is my responsibility. Everything she does is my concern.”

  “I don’t think so.” My words surprised me as much as they did her. Her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. “I like Bronte. We’re having dinner this weekend. With or without your blessing.”

  Jo’s bosom heaved. She placed both palms on my desk and leaned forward, her eyes darkening. “Bronte can’t handle your head games. She’s too fragile.”

  “Bronte can handle herself just fine. She’s an amazing woman. You don’t give her enough credit.” My temper began to flare at the way Jo belittled her sister, and I was sick of interference from people who thought they knew my intentions be
tter than I did.

  “You don’t know anything about Bronte.” Her voice shook with passionate conviction.

  “I know enough of her to understand how sensitive and brilliant she is.” I lifted a hand in a show of peace. The last thing I needed was another angry woman in my life. “She’s exceptional.”

  “Please. I’m not naïve, like my sister. Your pretty face isn’t going to charm me. I know the way you hurt her.” Anger and irritation swirled through her dark eyes. “I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

  Good lord. I was so sick of people telling me what to do. “I think you’re projecting your personal bullshit onto Bronte. Otherwise, you’d be able to see that she’s perfectly capable of living a normal life—without you.” Jo paled and took a step back. I should’ve stopped there, but once the ball was rolling, I couldn’t stop it. “Maybe you need to worry more about yourself and less about us.”

  Her nostrils flared. I had to admire her caring, even though she’d overstepped the boundaries of my personal space and Bronte’s. “So, you’re not going to leave her alone?”

  I shook my head, my temper cooling. “Bronte’s lucky to have someone who cares so much for her, but she’s not a kid anymore.” Jo had every right to be concerned about her sister’s welfare, and I didn’t want to come between them. My tone gentled. Not only would I have to earn Bronte’s trust, I’d have to earn Jo’s as well. “I’ll take care of her. I promise you, Jo.”

  “If an Easton gives you his word, you can believe him,” Carter said, rising out of his chair. By Jo’s startled expression, she hadn’t noticed him before. Her mouth dropped open then closed with a snap. “I’ve known Rhett all my life. He’s a good guy.”

  “Jo, this is my friend, Carter Eckhouse.” My gaze bounced between them, eager to see her reaction.

  “Nice to meet you, Jo.” Carter wiped his palm over his cargo pants before extending it toward Jo. She glared at his big hand, the man bun on top of his head, his tattooed forearms, and recoiled.