Pretty Broken Hearts: A Pretty Broken Standalone
Page 1
Pretty Broken Hearts
A Pretty Broken Standalone
Jeana E. Mann
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Epilogue
Before You Go
Also by Jeana E. Mann
About the Author
Links
FREE OFFER
A Note from the Author
Chapter One
Bronte
Every week day, Monday through Friday, the hottest guy I’d ever seen came into my sister’s coffee shop. Seven-thirty to be precise. The only thing more attractive than his punctuality was his square jaw and the dimple in his chin. He ordered the same thing without fail. One chocolate muffin with peanut butter chunks, and a large black coffee with a shot of espresso. I waited by the cash register, watching the hands of the clock over the display of fresh bakery items, counting down the seconds until he arrived. My sister, Jo, smiled indulgently from her place behind the counter.
“Don’t worry, sis. He’ll be here. He’s always here.” Her words offered little comfort.
“You don’t know that,” I replied. In my experience, life threw curve balls, often and unannounced.
The bell over the door dinged, and he walked in. I exhaled the breath I’d been holding and tried to calm my racing heart. He eased into a seat by the window, the same location he always claimed. He was so tall that his long legs barely fit beneath the small bistro table. Sparks of red, mahogany and auburn threaded through his rich brown hair. A navy suit of the finest Italian wool stretched across his broad shoulders.
“Bronte.” Jo lifted an eyebrow and jerked her head in the direction of Suit Guy.
I forced my feet to move. He was too beautiful for words, which was a good thing because I’d gone mute. My fingers twitched with the urge to sketch his profile and capture the straight nose, the high cheekbones, his deep-set eyes. Smoothing my apron over my thighs, I stood in front of him and waited while he studied the menu. Like he hadn’t seen it thirty-two times already. I knew, because I counted each of his visits.
“Can I take your order?” I asked.
Gray-blue eyes brimmed with kindness, crinkling at the corners. Full lips curved into a smile. “I’ll have the usual. Thanks, Bronte.”
“You’re welcome.” I turned and walked to the counter, where Jo watched me with raised eyebrows. “He’ll have the usual.”
“Did you say good morning?” she asked.
“No.”
She sighed. “What have I told you about being nice to the customers? It wouldn’t hurt to make a little conversation now and then. Especially with the hot ones.”
“We had a conversation.” Her statement perplexed me in a couple of different ways.
“Oh, Bronte.” She rolled her large brown eyes. “That’s not a conversation. It wouldn’t kill you to ask how he’s doing or if he’d like to try the special today.”
“Of course not. Words never killed anyone.” I tilted my head and watched her pour his cappuccino, trying to decipher the subtext behind her suggestion. My IQ qualified me as a genius, but simple things like sarcasm and innuendo defied my logic.
While she placed the steaming cup on a tray, I retrieved the muffin from the glass case. Around us, customers bustled in from the street. Conversation hummed through the small room. The other employees chatted with the people, making small talk, laughing and smiling. I envied their carefree spontaneity. Unlike me, their words flowed easily instead of sticking in their throat.
Suit Guy stared out the window, his expression pensive. He sighed. His gaze flitted to the empty chair across the table then returned to the busy street outside. What made him so melancholy? No one ever came to the shop with him. His phone never rang with incoming calls or texts. I shrugged and went back to business. Maybe he silenced his phone before breakfast. Or maybe, like me, he didn’t enjoy talking on the phone.
When Jo had topped off the coffee, I carried the tray to Suit Guy and placed his order on the table. He glanced up, his brow furrowing like he’d been deep in thought. The walls of my throat constricted, but I managed to choke out, “How are you doing today?”
His eyebrows lifted. They were glorious eyebrows, thick and perfectly arched, the same rich color as his hair. “I’m fine. How are you?”
Now, don’t get me wrong. I wanted to answer. More than anything in the world. But I just couldn’t get my lips and tongue to cooperate. For the last six weeks and two days, I’d dreamed of chatting with Suit Guy. In my head, we conversed about fun things like Game of Thrones and Schrodinger’s cat, and the words flowed from my mouth like water from a pitcher. Some dreams, however, weren’t meant to come true.
“Um,” I said. Heat rushed up my neck and into my cheeks. He cocked his head, his eyebrows arching higher. I turned and fled to the backroom. On the way, I tripped over the chalkboard easel next to the register and sent it crashing to the floor.
Thirty seconds later, Jo appeared in the broom closet where I’d taken refuge. She looked like our mom, chestnut hair, heart-shaped face, standing in the door with her hands on her hips. Pain flashed through my chest at the thought of Mom. At times like these I missed her quiet voice and soothing touch.
Jo shook her head. “What are you doing?”
“He asked me a question.” I buried my face in my hands.
“Oh, that’s horrible.” Her gentle laughter echoed off the mops and buckets. “And what did you say?”
“Nothing. I couldn’t say a word.” I groaned into my palms. “This is your fault.”
“My fault? Don’t blame this on me.” The latex of her gloves snapped as she removed them.
“You said to make conversation.” I peeked at her through my fingers. “You didn’t say anything about answering questions.”
She settled on a stepladder to my left and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Questions are a part of conversation. It’s perfectly normal. You know that. What’s with you lately?”
My breathing slowed at her comforting touch. Jo always knew what to say. I wished I could be more like her. “He probably thinks I’m an idiot.”
She peeled my fingers away from my face. “No one thinks you’re an idiot. Don’t talk like that. Ever.” The tone of her voice turned steely. “Did he say something?”
Her protectiveness warmed me from the inside out. It reminded me of all the times in school that she’d defended me from bullies—which was a lot. I put a hand on her arm to keep her from charging into the dining area and giving Suit Guy a piece of her mind. “No, no, of course not.”
“Then what’s the deal? You don’t usually have problems talking to people.”
Anymore, I added silently. Through the years, I’d learned to overcome the crippling shyness, the irrational fear of strangers, and most of the obsessive-compulsive behaviors, but now and then the old phobias crept back. Especially around guys who looked like him. “He’s so hot. Like, center-of-the-sun, incinerati
ng, hot.” As if she didn’t already know. Everyone knew. How could they not? “Whenever I try to say something besides, ‘Can I take your order?’ nothing comes out but ‘Um.’”
“So? He’s just a guy.” Jo got to her feet and extended a hand to help me up from my overturned bucket. She tucked a strand of my hair back behind my ear. “Now, get back out there and pretend he’s ugly.”
We both laughed. Jo always knew how to make me feel better. I pushed through the swinging doors to find Suit Guy’s table empty. My shoulders drooped in disappointment. On the bright side, he’d left a five-dollar tip. I folded the money and stuffed it into the pocket of my jeans to share with Jo later. I sprayed the tabletop with disinfectant and wiped away the crumbs. I didn’t know why I let this man get me so worked up. At the end of the day, he was just another hot guy, and I was still the ugly, weird girl.
Chapter Two
Rhett
After my morning run, I hustled into the shower. If I didn’t hurry, I’d miss breakfast at Joe’s Java Junction. Man, did I enjoy my coffee. Okay, maybe it wasn’t the coffee that took me all the way across town to the quaint bistro. It was the curvy, redheaded babe who took my order. Every morning, I watched her—make that drooled over her—as she moved around the shop taking orders, cleaning, and bending over tables. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t a perv, but this girl intrigued me. I’d been trying to talk to her for the past month. Yesterday, I’d managed to coax a sentence out of her, although she’d disappeared into the back room like a cat with its tail on fire.
Today, I hoped to get more than one word out of her. That was how pathetic my life had become. I’d gotten up an hour early and crossed to the opposite side of town to watch a girl in silence.
I pushed through the bistro door ahead of the morning rush and took my usual seat by the window. I loved the homey atmosphere of the cramped little shop. Rustic wallpaper warmed the room. The furnishings were simple but cozy. Framed photographs of historic Laurel Falls hung on each wall. It reminded me of my grandmother’s kitchen back home. Coming here eased a little of the homesickness I felt after moving to the city.
Within minutes, she was at my side, staring at me with enormous, round, blue eyes. I tried not to stare, but Jesus. Over-washed jean shorts showed off long legs and toned thighs. The sleeves of a large, cable knit sweater were pushed up to her elbows. Freckles covered every inch of exposed skin. And that hair. Ringlets of strawberry and gold spilled over her shoulders. Last night, I dreamed of wrapping one of those silky strands around my—
“You’re late,” she said, interrupting my train of thought. Thank goodness, she couldn’t read my mind. Heat flooded my face.
“What?” Confused, I glanced at my watch.
“It’s seven thirty-one. You’re always here by seven-thirty.”
“I didn’t realize I was on the clock.” It wasn’t the conversation I’d envisioned, but at least she was speaking to me. Thinking she was joking, I said, “Did you miss me?”
“Yes.” I waited for a smile or a nod. She tapped her order pad with a pencil. “The usual?”
“Stop giving the guy a hard time. Hi, I’m Jo Hollander.” A petite girl emerged from behind the counter, the one who always seemed in charge, and extended a hand. “And you’ve met my sister. We see you every day, but we don’t know your name.”
“I’m Rhett. Rhett Easton. Nice to meet you.” I shook hands with Jo.
“You’ve been a loyal customer. Business has been tough. We appreciate your patronage.” Unlike her reticent sister, Jo bubbled with quiet enthusiasm. Bronte continued to stare at me. Jo bumped her shoulder into Bronte’s back. “Don’t we, sis?”
“Yes.” The corners of Bronte’s wide mouth curled up the slightest bit, like she wanted to smile but couldn’t quite make the leap. “Excuse me.”
If I hadn’t showered less than an hour earlier, I would’ve been tempted to smell my armpits. What was with this girl? Most women found my boyish charm and good looks irresistible. Bronte seemed to feel the exact opposite. Her coolness might have discouraged another man, but it only fueled my competitive streak. I was going to make her like me or die trying.
“Your sister’s a hard nut to crack,” I said to Jo. “I can’t get two words out of her.”
“She’s super shy,” Jo said. “It takes her a while to warm up to people, but once you get to know her, she’ll talk your leg off.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
At the sound of the bell over the door, Bronte turned to greet a dozen new customers. I watched her take their orders, never cracking a smile. Even though she carried a pen and paper, she rarely wrote anything down.
“Are you Jo, as in Joe’s Java Junction?” I pointed to the sign above my head and tried not to follow Bronte’s round ass with my eyes.
“No. Joe’s our dad. I took over a few months ago.” Jo studied me, her gaze narrowing as she followed mine. At first I’d guessed her to be in her early twenties, but she was probably more like thirty. “Well, I need to get back to work before the second rush, but your breakfast is on us this morning. And thanks for being so nice to Bronte.”
“I’m happy to pay. It’s my pleasure.” The sadness in her gaze piqued my curiosity. Were people mean to Bronte? Sometimes shy people came off as snobbish. Maybe they misunderstood her quietness.
While I sipped my coffee, I watched Bronte interact with a couple of fraternity boys. Whatever they said made her laugh. The tinkling sound floated across the crowded room. I glared at the two preppies, begrudging every smile she cast in their direction. When she stopped at my table, the somber expression had returned to her face.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asked.
“Well, yes.” I summoned my considerable persuasive abilities, preparing to hit her with a vortex of charm. “I’d like to buy you a coffee.”
Bronte glanced from me to her sister. A silent conversation passed between them. Jo raised her eyebrows. Bronte rolled her eyes. Jo jerked her head in my direction. Bronte answered with a sigh of resignation. She sank into the chair across from me. I wasn’t sure if I should be amused or offended. “I guess I’ve got a few minutes.” She laid the order pad on the table and the pen next to it, straightening them to parallel.
“I’ll bring your drink over,” Jo called from the counter.
“Have you worked here long?” I asked, searching for a topic of conversation.
“Oh, I don’t work here,” she said. “I’m just helping Jo out until she gets on her feet.” A flush of red crept from her collarbone up the smooth column of her neck and settled in the apples of her cheeks.
“She doesn’t pay you? That hardly seems fair.”
Bronte shrugged and stared at the tabletop between us. Boy, she really was shy.
Jo arrived with a cup of hot chocolate, mounded with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles. “Here you go. Enjoy.” I reached for my wallet, but Jo lifted a hand and shook her head. “No, no. Not today. Like I said, it’s on the house.” She dropped a hand on Bronte’s shoulder and squeezed. “Take your time, pickle. We’ve got this.”
“Pickle?” I arched an eyebrow.
“It’s a nickname. Jo and my dad call me that.”
“You don’t look like a pickle.”
“That’s a relief.” For the first time, the corners of her mouth curled upward, and tiny dimples popped in her cheeks. My heart skipped a beat. She exuded innocence, but her eyes carried a bright intelligence that drew me in. “What do I look like?”
I cocked my head to the side and studied her. Morning sunlight streamed through the storefront window behind her, backlighting her hair, turning it into a fiery halo. “I don’t know. An angel, maybe.”
Her laughter was genuine, unexpected, and welcome. “Anyone who knows me would disagree with you. Just ask my sister.”
“I don’t have to. I can tell by looking at you.” Which wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. I could usually sum up a person’s character in minutes. My best friend, Carter, calle
d me judgmental, but what did he know? “It’s nice to talk to someone. I’m new to the area. Have you always lived here?”
“Yes.” She pursed her lips to blow on the surface of the hot chocolate then took a delicate sip. A drop of whipped cream hovered on her upper lip. The tip of her pink tongue darted out to catch the frothy whiteness. I suppressed a groan. “Where are you from?”
“Ohio. I moved here for a job.” No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her mouth. Her lips were fuller than most, the bottom one almost swollen, the upper one peaked by a dramatic Cupid’s bow. I bet she could give one hell of a blow job. I swallowed a drink of coffee. My cock was beginning to stir. I readjusted my position in the chair to relieve the pressure behind my fly. Wishing to avoid my reasons for relocation, I steered the topic in a new direction. “I’m still pretty unfamiliar with the area. Maybe you could show me around sometime?”
“I need to get back to work.” The legs of her chair scraped across the beaten hardwood floor as she stood. “The second rush is about to start.”
“Sure.” I followed her eyes to the clock on the wall. It was after eight. I should’ve left ten minutes ago. Damn. Not a good way to start a new job. “Thanks for the chat.” The air had definitely chilled between us. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Would you like to catch a movie sometime?”
“I don’t know.” She glanced in her sister’s direction, but Jo was busy filling the bakery display case with new muffins.