But if Declan—my favorite brother and closest friend in the world—lives his whole life hating my secret boyfriend, that is going to be hard to swallow. One day, I will have to tell Declan. We don’t keep secrets from each other. Not like this one.
My mouth goes dry as a horrible thought occurs to me.
I very much care if Rome is telling my father that we are dating.
He wouldn’t do that. It’s suicide.
My palms are sweating. My fingers start to twitch, so as soon as I finish the cut I am working on, I quickly excuse myself to my office once more, digging through my purse for my pills.
I swallow one without the need for water to choke it down. I can’t take chances today, or I’ll have a flareup at work. Stress is a major contributor to setting off the condition I swore to my doctor up and down I had mastered.
I count to sixty, knowing the fast-acting stuff is well on its way to helping me regain control before I lose myself completely.
Cutting hair with trembling hands is a bad idea. My condition leaves no room for my pride or trying to muscle through.
I place the flat of my hands atop my desk, breathing in and out slowly to make sure no part of me is shaking.
This is my business. My salon. I don’t need to feel anxious here.
When I walk back into the bustle of my business, I notice the two bulldogs outside at the table have traded up from glares to a full-on argument. My father is talking wildly with his hands while Rome is sitting back in his seat, adding a word here and there with a curled upper lip.
The people sitting on my white leather couches in the waiting area aren’t reading their magazines or looking at their phones. They are staring out the picture window at the burgeoning feud framed perfectly before them in front of my business.
My stylists are more intent on their work than ever before, only they’re all silent, pretending they don’t see the storm brewing outside.
This is not the atmosphere I set out to create. I have lavender walls, for crying out loud. That color bespeaks civility, not angry men gunning for each other.
I am wearing a short, teal high-waisted pencil skirt with a fitted baby blue blouse tucked into it. My hair has been woven into two French braids that twist into a chocolate-brown bun at the base of my neck.
I clearly dressed for a fun, peaceful environment.
I did not get out of bed today to referee their fighting.
I am an adult. I don’t have to tolerate my father’s tantrums anymore. I can stand up to him. I can make my voice matter.
“Be right back,” I sing to Rachel and Victor, who stiffen and cast me warning looks to be careful.
Nah. Careful gets you nowhere.
I roll my shoulders back, draw myself up and stalk outside. I pull strength from the click of my heels. The formidable sound lets people know that a reckoning is coming.
“You think I have the resources to deal with your mess?” my father booms.
“Good afternoon, Miss Kennedy,” Rome greets me, ignoring my father’s temper.
How it’s not clear that I am infatuated with this man, I’m not sure.
Rome meets my gaze and I wet my lower lip on instinct.
Not now, dummy.
I pull over a third chair to join the two heads at the table—something not even Orlando has the gall to do. I cross my left leg over my right and drum my fingertips on the lavender-painted table. “Good afternoon, Rome. Sheriff. Seems we have a bit of a problem, here. I’ve got it in my silly little head that I’m running a business, but you two seem to think that this salon exists solely for you to yell at each other. Care to share with the teacher what it is we’re shouting about?”
My father doesn’t like my condescending sing-song tone, which is exactly why I’m using it. He combs his fingers through his thinning light brown curls. Then he sniffs and swipes at his bulbous nose. “None of your business.”
I force a throaty laugh. “Actually, it’s none of their business.” I point to my customers inside the building. “But this whole place is my business. All my business. So you’re going to tell me what’s going on, and you’re going to do it with a smile. The peace treaty is only as solid as the smiles on your faces, so sell it better than this.” My grin has a maniacal gleam to it as I lock eyes on my father. “Come on, now. Smile for the cameras. Everyone is watching us.”
My father flinches because those are the exact words he used to say to me every time we went out in public when I was a little girl.
No, I am not about to make this easy for him.
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Read The Broken City today!
About the Author
USA Today bestselling author Mary E. Twomey lives in Michigan with her three adorable children. She enjoys reading, writing, vegetarian cooking, and telling her children fantastic stories about wombats.
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While she loves writing fantasy, dystopian, and paranormal tales for her readers, Mary also writes romance under the name Tuesday Embers, and cozy mysteries under the name Molly Maple.
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Visit her online at www.maryetwomey.com, and sign up for her newsletter, so you never miss a new release.
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