The Broken One (The One Series Book 1)

by Selene Maxley

  I turn back toward him, and he walks past me and tests the door. He looks pleased when the handle doesn’t budge. Pushing past him, I unlock the door and push it open.

  “Jesus,” Booker hisses.

  It’s clear the AC is broken before we even step inside. Usually when I open the front door, there is a refreshing woosh of cold air that rushes out to greet me; tonight, there is no woosh. The leasing office is closed for the evening, and I know there isn’t any hope of getting someone out here tonight. I will melt and die before morning. Maybe I’ll lay in the shower all night with the cold water running. Maybe I’ll drown.

  “You can’t stay here tonight,” Booker says. “I’ll call your after-hours maintenance crew while you pack a bag.”

  Booker’s right. I can’t sleep if it’s above 72 degrees, so there isn’t a chance I’ll be able to sleep here tonight. I step into my closet and grab my black duffel, tossing an outfit, my robe, my toiletry bag, and my pillow inside. Hotel beds are okay, but their pillows blow. I look around one more time and grab my cell phone charger before realizing I won’t need it and setting it back down.

  When I re-emerge from my bedroom, Booker is waiting by the front door. “Your after-hours maintenance guy is unavailable tonight and can come look at it tomorrow afternoon,” he tells me, grabbing the bag and holding the door open for me. I wait in the BMW as he locks my front door and puts my bag in the back seat. When he settles into the driver’s seat, I ask him to take me to a nearby hotel, telling him, “I stayed there the night I arrived in Tucson.”

  “You don’t need to stay in a hotel, I have a spare room,” he tells me. My insides stir as he says this in a way that tells me quite decisively that it’s not a great idea, but after a week of self-imposed isolation, the thought of a night alone in a hotel room is not appealing. I think of using his phone to call Ceil, but then I remember she has a date with Todd from the bar. This is the second date this week, and she seems to really like him, so I don’t want to interrupt them.

  Chapter 17

  “Can I use your phone to call and order a new one?” I ask him, and he hands it to me.

  I google the 800 number I’m looking for and hit the call button. Bluetooth picks up the call through the speakers of the car, and I tell them my situation. The person on the other end of the phone deactivates and remotely wipes my current phone, and I request that they replace it with their newest, most top-of-the-line model. Maybe Booker is right. Maybe I just need to drink the Kool-Aid.

  They always use overnight delivery, and the salesperson tells me it’s early enough in the evening for them to still get it to me by tomorrow. Booker gives them his address, and everything is finalized with them billing my card on file.

  “I thought you weren’t going to get another cell phone.”

  “Obviously I’m full of shit. I don’t have a house phone, and like you said, I need something for emergencies.”

  “I see,” he says, and he doesn’t even have the decency to gloat.

  “It is possible to hate something and need it at the same time. If you’re skeptical, please reference any 90’s Rom-Com. Hell, read any good romance novel.”

  “I didn’t peg you as the type to enjoy either of those things.”

  “Everyone loves that stupid crap. There is no ‘type’ for romance. Humanity. Humanity loves all that stuff.”

  “I’m not sure I agree. Most of those stories aren’t realistic. Sometimes the good guy doesn’t get the girl,” Booker says wistfully.

  A true romantic, I should have seen this coming.

  “True,” I grant him, “and rarely is substance valued over style in real life. But the vast majority of people want to escape their reality, not see it replicated on a big screen or read it in a book.”

  Booker makes a gradual turn off the road onto a long, winding drive that is lined with cacti–saguaros, Booker tells me. The drive wraps around a bend at the top of the gradual incline, and Booker’s house emerges in front of us. It’s larger than I would have expected, and covered in light-colored stucco that appears to be in need of some work.

  “It takes courage to write about the ugly side of life,” I point out. “It takes talent to present it in a way that makes people want to read it or watch it play out. Writers like that don’t come along often, which is why Shakespeare, and Emily Brontë, and Gillian Flynn are so valuable.”

  “Gillian Flynn? I’m not sure she belongs in that group.”

  “Have you read Gone Girl?” I ask. “That story is dark, and dirty, and gritty. It’s beautifully written.”

  We’ve come to a stop in an immaculate two-bay garage that is completely at odds with the exterior of his house. There’s a standard issue body-man’s toolbox against one wall, tall and deep blue. The light isn’t on, but in the far corner, I see what looks like a door leaning up against the other wall. There is a peg board near it with random household items outlined and hanging. A broom, a shovel, a rake, an extension cord, etc. Nothing out of its designated spot.

  When I turn back to face him, he’s looking at me expectantly, which reminds me that I was still talking about the book. Gone Girl—right.

  “And the ending? It makes me sick, and I love it. I couldn’t put it down. I called out of work and read it all the way through. I thought about that book for weeks after I read it.”

  “So, you loved and hated the book?” he asks as we get out of the car.

  “Absolutely,” I reply. “I often wonder how many people’s realities mirror aspects of that novel.”

  He unlocks a door leading into the house, and we step into an adorable mudroom. One wall is lined with one of those built-in, locker-style shelves that families with school-aged children have, and the thought hits me for the first time that he is old enough to have school-aged children.

  “Do you have kids?” I blurt out.

  “A daughter, Nat,” he says simply. I am instantly filled with questions that are temporarily silenced when I follow him through a short hallway that opens up into a large kitchen and great room. The garage isn’t the only thing at odds with the exterior. The interior of his home is beautiful. It’s painted in earthy greens, tans, and browns. The floors are dark, wide-planked, hardwoods that sound solid beneath my feet.

  The rooms are decorated with a masculinity that is sophisticated but not overpowering, and the air smells like clean linen. There’s a leather appointed sofa set in the great room with beautiful wood finishings. I don’t know how to reconcile this impeccably designed interior with the mangled-looking house we pulled up to.

  My face must not be as unreadable as I hope, because Booker begins to explain, “I bought it out of foreclosure when I first got here. I got it for a great price because it needed so much work. Unfortunately, I haven’t made it to the outside yet.”

  “Don’t most people fix up the outside first?”

  “In the Midwest, where it rains half the year and snows the other half, yes. Out here it only matters if you have leaks during monsoon season. My priority was to make it livable so my mother could move in. Fixing up the outside wouldn’t have increased our level of comfort or helped get her in the door, so it had to wait.”

  “That makes sense,” I observe, making my way to an oversized kitchen island and running my hand over its creamy granite surface. “Does Nat live with you?” I ask him, returning to our previous conversation, while scanning for signs of her presence.

  “No, she lives with her mother, but I get her on her school breaks throughout the year. Usually, the longest is in the summer. When I move back to Chicago, I’ll start getting her on the weekends again.”

  “It’s a big house for someone to live alone,” I observe aloud. Chicago? When are you planning to move to Chicago?

  “The vaulted ceilings make it look larger than it is. It’s about 1,800 square feet. I’m not sure when I plan to leave yet,” he says, answering the question I didn’t realize I’d asked aloud. “I hate being away from Nat, but I have a few things to tie up he
re before I go.”

  “What do you need a house this big for if you’re not planning to stick around and raise a family here?” I ask.

  “I like having room to move around, and it was a good investment when I bought it. I had to gut the kitchen and bathrooms, and I put new flooring in. All that will pay off when I sell. Make yourself at home,” he says.

  “How did you have time to do that and take care of your mother?”

  “We spent a lot of the last six months here, and I didn’t want her to be alone in the evenings. I already had to work during the day. I used the hours productively.”

  Unfortunately, I can’t stop myself from continuing the trial, “And when did you have time for the bar?”

  “She said I needed a new project towards the end. She encouraged me to buy it as an investment. She was right, too, I’ll give her that. I’ve got an effective manager in place now, and it’s becoming a good source of passive income.”

  Booker is a man with a plan. I feel a little guilty about wondering what kind of bullshit he was involved in. Why do I always assume the worst about people?

  His phone starts ringing. He looks down and silences it, setting it on the island.

  “You can take that,” I tell him. “Just show me where I’m staying, and I’ll get out of your hair for the night.”

  “No, it’s fine,” he says. “You haven’t eaten, have you?”

  “I haven’t,” I admit, then change the subject. “How old is your daughter?”

  “She’s 16.”

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “I’m 38,” he tells me, and I’m not sure why he sounds uneasy.

  “Are you close?”

  “Yes and no. Teenagers are ... complex.” This time his reply is normal again.

  “Were you married to her mother?” I implore myself to stop asking questions.

  “I was. How does spaghetti sound?” he asks, grabbing cans from the cabinet.

  “That’s fine. How long were you married?” For the love of god, please stop talking!

  “Three years,” he tells me patiently. He’s filling a pot with water and setting it on the stove.

  The more I learn about Booker, the more attractive he becomes. It’s a strange phenomenon. Normally there’s a point in any given conversation where the sound of a person’s voice will make me increasingly homicidal. But with Booker ...

  “What should I be doing to help?” I ask, hoping an activity will help me get a grip on my curiosity. If I don’t get a grip soon, I’m afraid I’ll be rolling out Alexis before the food hits the table.

  “Nothing, spaghetti is more of a one-man show.” He begins chopping some herbs as he resumes his story. “It was the usual story. We got married because she was pregnant. I wanted to do the right thing, but it felt like a mistake from the beginning. We were young, and I knew I didn’t love her the way I should. We were married for three years. She was a really nice girl, I wanted to give it time. I figured my feelings would grow, that they’d mature as I matured, but it just didn’t happen. I felt terrible about it, but I thought it would be better to be honest and let her find something real.”

  I can’t understand why he would promise to love someone forever if he knew he couldn’t. I can tell he’s truly ashamed that he couldn’t make it work, but I don’t like the small nagging in the back of my brain. I can’t quite make it out, so I squash it by moving on.

  “You seem pretty comfortable talking about it,” I say, hoisting myself up to sit on the island.

  “No reason not to be. I’m a private person, but I’m not secretive.” Though he doesn’t look away from the sausage he’s browning, I can’t help but feel like that comment was directed squarely at me.

  “And you think I am.” I already know the answer.

  “I’d say you’re evasive at the very least.”

  “Semantics.”

  His phone rings again from its position next to me on the island. I wonder if he had a date tonight. It is Friday, after all. The name Stephanie flashes on the screen, and inside me, an invisible switch just flips. Without another thought, I click the little green button on the front to answer the call.

  When Booker looks down at his phone and sees the live line, I’m not sure whose eyes are wider: his or mine.

  “Caspian,” he mouths in warning as I sit frozen, holding Booker’s phone up in the air in front of me.

  What the hell are you doing?! I need to get myself out of this. He cannot know that my impulse was to answer the phone and deliberately chase away whatever relationship he may or may not have with this “Stephanie.” Ugh.

  Grabbing the quickest mask I can find, I slip into Veronica mode (The goth? Really?) and hand the phone to him with a devilish smile as my other hand pretends to lock my lips with an invisible key.

  “Booker?” Stephanie’s voice is sweet and gravely, barely audible through the phone that is now at Booker’s ear.

  “Hey, Stephanie. I’m sorry, it’s not a good time.” He stares darkly into my eyes as he speaks, and I try not to squirm.

  “I thought we had plans tonight,” she says, sounding confused. My eyebrows shoot up in a question and challenge. I hope I look amused, and not as I feel: curious and disappointed.

  “I’m sorry, I worked late, then Caspian needed my help, so I forgot.”

  “Oh,” she sounds disappointed and a little irritated. I don’t really want to hear any more, so I decide to go to the great room and wait for the call to end. When I try to slide off the counter, however, Booker steps forward and plants his hand on the island next to me. His face is close enough for me to smell his minty breath. I lick my lips, and his eyes follow my tongue. Stephanie asks, “Is that the girl from the bar the other night?”

  “Yes. Actually, I’m sorry to do this over the phone, but I don’t think we should see each other again. You’re great, but I have a lot on my plate at the moment. I’m sorry Stephanie, I have to go,” he says, ending the call and placing his hand next to me on the other side of the island.

  “Why did you do that?” he asks me. The look on his face tells me he’s curious rather than angry, which should make me feel relieved. Instead, it puts me on edge.

  “I just know how much you hate when people ignore their phones, so I thought I’d help you out,” I say. Please don’t let that sound as lame to him as it does to me.

  “I hate when you don’t answer your phone,” he corrects.

  “Is Steph the brunette? It’s been a couple of weeks, right? Would this be date number three or four?”

  “It would be three. Should I call her back and invite her to join us for dinner?” Now he’s playing the game. Excellent.

  “Absolutely,” I say, reaching for his phone, but he stops my hand and pulls it back to my lap.

  “I don’t want her here. I want to be here with you. That’s why I told her I didn’t want to see her anymore.” OK, so much for playing a game. I shift my eyes away from him, looking at the room. “I only invited her out because I thought it would help distract me. You made it clear you held our first meeting against me, like running into you at the bar was some evil plot of mine. Has that changed?”

  He has a vase next to the couch that he’s turned into a table by adding a glass topper. It has an African safari scene hand painted on it. The vase looks hand crafted, and I wonder if he knows the artist.

  “You have great taste,” I say, ignoring his question and pointing my first two fingers toward the vase. I’m not sure it looks the same when I do it.

  “Thank you, but don’t do that. Please, just this once, can we talk about what’s going on here?” he says as he drags his hands over his face. Another signature move. Maybe I should try that one, too. Why is everything he does so goddamn appealing?

  “I’m not capable of what you’re looking for. You should call the brunette back. Just point me in the direction of the guestroom, and I’ll leave you to it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “She’s pretty
, she’s interested, and you look cute together. Although I’m not sure she’ll answer after you just hung up on her.” I push myself off of the counter and walk to my bag, trying not to gag on my words. With everything I’ve learned tonight, I know I can’t be what he’s looking for, despite how drawn to him I feel.

  “You know that isn’t what I’m asking. What aren’t you capable of?”

  “I think the sausage is done cooking,” I say, peeking around him. It hasn’t burned yet, but it is fully browned.

  “Evasive,” he mutters, pouring a can of crushed tomatoes, some spices, and the herbs he chopped earlier into the pan without measuring.

  “I don’t date, Booker. It’s just not something I do.”

  “Check out the ego on this one,” he says, throwing my words from the other day back at me. Now it’s my turn to be confused.

  “I—” I start, but I have no idea where to go from here. So I go backward. “Fine, you want to talk, let’s talk. You want to know if something has changed between us. I don’t know what you mean. Has what changed?”

  “I just want to get past whatever upset you when we met the first time. When we properly met, I mean, at the office” he says.

  “That’s not ... I mean ... I guess ...” I’m fumbling my words and just need to stop. I see it now. I’ve been misinterpreting his signals this whole time. He’s not asking for anything I can’t give after all! I wonder how I could have been so thick. It makes perfect sense now that I stop to think about it. He didn’t pay any attention to me when he first walked up to the bar because he wasn’t interested. Then I practically throw myself at him—well, literally, I guess, after that drunk guy knocked me over ... What a fucking asshole. Me, not the drunk.

  I take a steadying breath and try again, “I’m sorry for the way I handled meeting you for the first time, professionally. I meant what I told Tyler about spectacular fails in workplace romances,” I pause, debating whether or not to continue.

  “They don’t often end well, which is why I’ve always avoided them,” he chips in.