Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone

by Jeana E. Mann

  “No. Yes.” I wiped a hand over my eyes. My guts churned. I swallowed against the bile in my throat, resisting the urge to hurl. Sweat trickled down my back. “I just need a minute.”

  Life was so unpredictable. One moment, everything seemed perfect, and in one short heartbeat, it could all be over. There were no promises, no guarantees. The urgency of living steamrolled over me. Until Bronte, I’d been slogging through life, treading water. I had no intention of wasting one more second without her.

  Her gaze softened. She patted a hand on my cheek. “Take all the time you need.” With my hand in hers, she led me to a nearby bench. I sat down, drawing her onto my lap.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” I said. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “What? Cross the street?” Her lips twitched. When I didn’t smile, she dropped a light kiss on my mouth. “I was teasing. Get it? See, I’m doing better.”

  “You are, angel.” I shifted her weight on my legs. A passing gray-haired gentleman gave us the stink eye. I smirked at him, not giving a shit who saw us. “For just a second, I had a flashback to Amy.” Hurt clouded her eyes then passed. I scrambled to explain myself. “All I could think was that I can’t lose you, too. You mean too much to me.”

  “Oh.” A tiny frown bent her mouth. She bit her lower lip, processing my words. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  I brushed her hair away from her face, letting the strands slip through my fingers. The warmth of her body mingled with mine. I could sit this way all day—her ass on my lap, her trusting face upturned to watch me, like I’d hung the moon and stars. That was when I knew. It hit me with the impact of a bullet. I’d never felt more alive, and I owed it to this crazy, mixed-up, beautiful girl.

  “I love you.” I took both her hands in mine and gazed into her blue eyes. They sparkled with tears. “I love the way you lock and unlock the door twenty times before bed. I love the way you check the refrigerator after you close it to make sure the light went off inside. I love all the whacky things you do, although the thing with even numbers makes me a little insane.”

  She put one hand on each side of my face and smiled. “I’m happy but a little insulted. And for the record, I only lock the door eight times, not twenty. Twenty is just crazy.”

  I kissed her while my heart bounced around behind my ribs. “You can do all those things and a hundred more as long as you promise to stay with me.”

  “Okay.” The smile on her face widened. “It’s a deal.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Bronte

  At the steps to my high school, Rhett turned to face me, eyebrows raised. Peeling paint covered the wide double doors, but they seemed smaller than I remembered. Everything did, from the size of the parking lot down to the building itself. I stared up at the banner strung between the windows on the second floor. Welcome back, Alumni.

  “Nervous?” Rhett asked, as if he couldn’t tell by the dampness of my palm in his.

  “Yes.” My voice cracked on the single syllable.

  “Don’t be. You look amazing. And I guarantee you’re more successful than any of the people inside. Besides, you’re with me, and we both know how awesome I am.”

  “You are.”

  “That was a joke. You’re supposed to laugh,” Rhett said.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Twenty-three bricks above the door. Fifteen steps to the threshold. Nine windows on the front facing wall. “This is bad. Everything is odd.”

  “What do you mean?” He tilted his head and took a step closer.

  “The numbers. They’re all wrong.” The only things on my body shaking worse than my hands were my knees.

  Understanding lit his eyes. He nodded. “I see.” His focus turned to the building. “I think you’re missing a few things.”

  “No. I’m sure.” I shook my head and tried to back away.

  The grip of his fingers tightened around my hand. “Two lampposts. Two doors. Eight chimneys. Eight is good, right?” I nodded, relaxing the smallest bit. He glanced over his shoulder at the parking lot. “Off the top of my head, I see eight blue cars in the front row. And there are eight birds sitting on the fence around the track. If that’s not a good sign, you can slap me and call me Nancy.”

  Laughter burst out of me. Pervasive warmth spread through my body. He got me, in a way no one ever had, not even Dr. Mortensen. As long as he stood beside me, I had nothing to fear from Walt or any of the others. He took my chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up to meet his eyes.

  “You’ve got this, angel. You’re Dr. Bronte Hollander, award-winning researcher and kick-ass mathematician.” He winked, sending a heated shiver down my back, and pulled me closer to whisper in my ear. “And a devil in the bedroom.”

  “Rhett.” Embarrassment rushed into my cheeks. I pushed on his chest playfully. He grunted then drew me into his embrace and placed a kiss on my forehead. In his arms, I felt safe and loved.

  “Someone’s coming. We’d better get inside,” he said, releasing me and moving toward the door.

  We were one of the last couples to arrive. A woman handed me a name badge. I cringed at the picture next to my name. Fat. Frizzy-haired. Thick glasses. Special.

  “I’m sorry.” Her mouth twisted. She glanced from me to the picture and back again. “That can’t be right. What was your name again?”

  “Bronte. Bronte Hollander,” I said for the third time.

  “They must have gotten the wrong photo on here.” She tried to retrieve the badge from my hand.

  “Nope. No mistake,” I replied. “That’s me.”

  The woman tilted her head and looked me over. “Well, you sure have changed.”

  “She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?” Rhett took the badge and dropped it into his pocket. He leaned down to whisper in my ear. “It’ll be more fun this way. Let them guess.”

  “And who are you?” The woman leaned forward, revealing her ample cleavage, a simpering smile on her face.

  “I’m with her,” he said. He took my hand. “Come on, angel. Let’s hit the dance floor.”

  As we walked down the hall toward the gymnasium, music vibrated through the walls. Rhett paused long enough to gaze into my eyes before swinging open the door. “Ready?”

  I nodded and placed a hand on my belly to curb the sudden lurch of my stomach. I drew in a deep breath. Rhett placed a steadying hand on the small of my back. At his touch, the rational side of my brain kicked into dominance. Like Rhett had said, I had nothing to fear. My career was on the upside, my acne had long ago subsided, and I had the best-looking man in existence on my arm.

  Streamers and balloons draped across the room. We found a table near the dance floor. A quick glance around revealed nothing but unfamiliar faces. The tension in my neck began to ease. When Rhett rested an arm along the back of my chair, my heart skipped a beat and I forgot to worry about my classmates. He was here with me—me—the most unpopular girl in the graduating class. I’d wasted too much time worrying about everyone else when I needed to be enjoying his company.

  “Want to dance?” he asked, as if reading my mind.

  “You bet.”

  The music slowed. I followed him to the dance floor and rested my hands on his shoulders. He placed his hands on my waist, low enough on my behind to bring a rush of heat to my face. Sometimes I forgot how tall and athletic he was. We moved from side to side. He guided me easily around the floor, pulling me closer with each step. I could feel his heartbeat, the rise and fall of his chest. The scent of his cologne tickled my nose. Although I’d never had a sense of rhythm, I melted into the tempo of the song. Rhett hummed the melody in my ear. The sound of his rich tenor sent a pulse of desire coursing through my body and straight into my panties.

  “How long do we have to stay?” I asked, eager to get him home, out of his suit, and into bed.

  He pulled back to look at me with narrowed eyes. “Why?”

  “I’d like to have sex,” I said. “A lot of it. Preferably with me on to
p.”

  “You’re something else.” The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way I’d begun to adore. “What am I going to do with you?”

  “Sex,” I repeated. “Didn’t you hear me the first time?”

  “I heard you.” Laughter shook his chest. “Well, I’m not going to turn that down. You need to stay an hour. Then we can go, if you want.”

  “Why an hour?” I let my hands slide down his chest, enjoying the hard muscle between the sleek fabric of his charcoal suit jacket.

  “Because fifty-nine minutes are too short and sixty-one seem like too many.” One side of his mouth curled upward. On impulse, I pressed a kiss to the corner of his lips.

  “Are you teasing me? You know I don’t get that sort of thing.”

  “Seems to me you understood my meaning just fine.”

  The song had ended, and we’d stopped dancing. We stood there, my hands on his chest, his gripping my ass. I couldn’t look away from his eyes, their dark intensity, or the chiseled angles of his face. He exhaled through his nose before giving my bottom a final squeeze, sending tingles down my legs.

  “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink. Do you think the punch is spiked?” he asked.

  “Probably.” Feeling bubbly inside, I floated at his side. “I’m going to visit the ladies.”

  “I’ll meet you at the refreshment table.” He bent and dropped a kiss on the tip of my nose before tapping it with his finger. “Hurry back.”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Rhett

  As Bronte walked away, I watched the swing of her hips and felt my dick stir. I’d been on high alert all night, ever since she’d come out of her apartment in a short, cobalt blue dress and a pair of sexy, strappy sandals. Damn. I scratched my jaw before turning to contemplate the punch bowl. Every day with her was new and exciting. And the nights—well, they were filled with her husky voice moaning my name, her hands clutching my hair, and hours spent between her thighs.

  “Excuse me.” Someone tapped my shoulder from behind. A blond man stepped into my view. I knew who he was, even before I saw his name tag. Walt the Wanker. A prematurely receding hairline and thickened waist didn’t disguise the look of self-importance in his eyes, the same look he’d worn in his yearbook pictures. I knew guys like him from my own high school—privileged, arrogant, insensitive.

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Something I can help you with?”

  “That girl you’re with. Is that Bronte Hollander?”

  Hearing her name on his lips caused my fingers to curl into fists. “Yes.” I turned back to the punch bowl and began filling two glasses, hoping he left before I punched him.

  “Damn. I can’t believe it. She looks totally different.” He shook his head then extended a hand. “I’m Walt. Walt Hunter? I don’t suppose she mentioned me?”

  I nodded, picking up the punch glasses, and his hand fell to his side. “Nope. Don’t think so.”

  “Huh.” My answer seemed to wound his ego, giving me great internal satisfaction. Bastard. “We used to date, you know. Almost two years.”

  “Funny she didn’t mention that.” Another jab at his ego. I smirked to myself. Served him right. I tried to push past him. He stepped in front of me, blocking my path.

  He puffed out his chest. “I’m in insurance. Let me give you my card. Maybe we can get together sometime and I can help you reassess your needs.” He began to dig for his wallet.

  I stopped him with an upheld palm. “I’m not interested. Is your wife here?”

  His shoulders slumped a little. “She left me for my best friend. Six years together. Two kids. Alimony. Child support. Divorce is a bitch, you know?” For a wanker, he had no hesitation in airing his dirty laundry.

  “I wouldn’t know. I’m widowed.” It was the first time I’d said the word without cringing inside. Over the past few weeks, the guilt and regret had eased. Amy would always be an important part of my past, but I was ready to let her go. I attributed the change to Bronte, her infectious smile, and her childlike joy in the little things of life.

  “Sorry, man.” With a plate in hand, he snagged handfuls of appetizers, occasionally popping one in his mouth as he moved along the table. “So, Bronte fucking Hollander. Wow.”

  “Actually, it’s Dr. Bronte Hollander,” I said, feeling pride swell in my chest. “She’s a biological engineer, about to receive an international award for her research.”

  “No shit?” Walt scratched the top of his head, brow wrinkling. “What is it you do again?”

  “I’m Rhett Easton, CFO at Ascension Corporation.”

  The color drained from Walt’s face. If he didn’t recognize my name, he definitely recognized the name of my employer. “So, you’re with Bronte. Damn. She was always seemed kind of simple but gave the best damn blow jobs I ever had.” His words sent a shard of white-hot anger into my chest. He chuckled. “Back then we called her Hoover Hollander. She’d suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, if you know what I mean.”

  I drew in a deep breath and counted to ten before setting the punch glasses on the table. I flexed my fingers, aching to give him a jab in the nose, but not wanting to cause a scene for Bronte. Instead, I straightened. I was a good four inches taller than him and twice as fit.

  Over his shoulder, I caught a glimpse of Bronte’s face. She’d returned from the ladies room in time to catch his insult. Tears swam in her eyes. She bit her lower lip, drawing my gaze there. All I could see in my head was her pink pout wrapped around the wanker’s cock. I blinked and looked away, feeling sick to my stomach, angry, and confused.

  I took a step forward, crowding Walt, until the tips of my shoes threatened to touch his. The grin slipped off his face. He cleared his throat. I tilted my head to catch his guilty gaze.

  “You don’t talk about her that way. Not now. Not ever. Understand?” The lump of his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. I nudged closer until our noses were a scant inch apart. “In fact, you don’t talk about any woman that way. Don’t be a douche, Walt.”

  “Hey, hey. I don’t want any trouble.” He lifted his hands into the air, showing his palms, and began to inch backward, nearly treading on Bronte. Comprehension washed over his expression. “Bronte, you heard that.” She didn’t say anything, but her lips pressed into a hard line. “I apologize. I was out of line.”

  “I see you’re still a dick,” she said. I would have laughed, but sourness lingered in my gut over Walt’s comment.

  “Yeah, maybe, but as I recall you liked that about me.” A half smirk twisted his mouth. I shifted my weight to my toes, ready to throttle him if he so much as twitched a finger in her direction. Although my instinct was to protect her, I hung back, understanding this was her battle and not mine.

  “You took advantage of my weaknesses and manipulated me.” Her shoulders straightened. The determination in her blue eyes took my breath away. Confidence looked good on her. “You were the most popular guy in school. I thought your approval would make me fit in with everyone else, but now I realize, I don’t want to fit in. A real man doesn’t undermine a girl’s confidence in order to lift himself up.”

  A circle of people had gathered around us. While the men hung back, the women nodded in agreement.

  Walt, catching sight of their expressions, lifted his chin, eyes narrowing. “You asked for it, Hollander. You know you did.”

  “All I wanted was to belong. I didn’t ask to be humiliated or bullied.” Bronte’s eyes found mine. A connection stretched between us, the pull so powerful I felt my body shift in her direction.

  “He did the same thing to me,” said a woman to my left. She broke out of the circle, her sleek blond bob bouncing with each step toward Bronte. “I’m Christie Marcus. We didn’t know each other, but I dated Walt, too.”

  A red tide swept up Walt’s neck and into his face. He exhaled, his shoulders slumping, his gut protruding over his belt.

  “I remember you,” Bronte said. “You and Walt were the prom king and queen.”
/>   Christie nodded. “Yes, and it was the most miserable night of my life.”

  “As I recall, you were more than satisfied,” Walt interjected.

  “Oh, grow up, Walt,” Christie snapped. “The only thing smaller than your mind is your—” Her glance fell to his crotch. “Well, you know.” She hooked an arm through Bronte’s elbow. “I heard you’re in research at Vale Chemical. My father-in-law works there. Why don’t you come and meet my husband?”

  “That’s not true,” said Walt. As if to prove the matter, he adjusted himself. The onlookers, losing interest, wandered away. “Come on, guys. You know me. I’m Walt.” Within a few seconds, he was alone. He sighed and turned his attention back to the food table, scratching his belly and mumbling to himself.

  Christie led Bronte toward her table. I watched her go, a bubble of pride swelling inside my chest, so great I thought my ribs would burst. After a dozen steps, she stopped, turned to face me, and extended her hand. If I’d doubted my feelings before, that one simple gesture erased the last of my misgivings. This was my girl, and I’d go anywhere she cared to lead me.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Bronte

  Christie had been a cheerleader, one of the most popular girls in my high school. Her husband greeted me with a warm smile and a handshake for Rhett. They talked about their disabled son, the astronomical cost of health insurance, and the rising price of a decent home. The other women and their husbands joined the conversation. One couple had lost their jobs due to a failing economy. Halfway into our conversation, it dawned on me that I was sitting at the popular table. All my life I’d wanted to be a part of this group, but the topics of discussion here were the same as the ones at the nerd tables or any other table across the city. In the grand scheme of things, high school didn’t mean squat.

  “You two make a great couple. Have you been together long?” Christie asked, glancing at Rhett.