Unbreak My Heart
Lauren Blakely
Contents
Copyright
Also By Lauren Blakely
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
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Lauren Blakely
Contact
Copyright
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Blakely
LaurenBlakely.com
Cover Design by © Helen Williams
Photo: Rafa Catala
First Edition Book
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.
Also By Lauren Blakely
Big Rock Series
Big Rock
Mister O
Well Hung
Full Package
Joy Ride
Hard Wood
One Love Series dual-POV Standalones
The Sexy One
The Only One
The Hot One
Standalones
The Knocked Up Plan
Most Valuable Playboy
Stud Finder
The V Card
Most Likely to Score
Wanderlust
Come As You Are
Part-Time Lover
The Real Deal
Unbreak My Heart
Once Upon a Real Good Time
Once Upon a Sure Thing
Once Upon a Wild Fling
Unzipped (Fall 2018)
Far Too Tempting
21 Stolen Kisses
Playing With Her Heart
Out of Bounds
The Caught Up in Love Series
Caught Up In Us
Pretending He’s Mine
Trophy Husband
Stars in Their Eyes
The No Regrets Series
The Thrill of It
The Start of Us
Every Second With You
The Seductive Nights Series
First Night (Julia and Clay, prequel novella)
Night After Night (Julia and Clay, book one)
After This Night (Julia and Clay, book two)
One More Night (Julia and Clay, book three)
A Wildly Seductive Night (Julia and Clay novella, book 3.5)
The Joy Delivered Duet
Nights With Him (A standalone novel about Michelle and Jack)
Forbidden Nights (A standalone novel about Nate and Casey)
The Sinful Nights Series
Sweet Sinful Nights
Sinful Desire
Sinful Longing
Sinful Love
The Fighting Fire Series
Burn For Me (Smith and Jamie)
Melt for Him (Megan and Becker)
Consumed By You (Travis and Cara)
The Jewel Series
A two-book sexy contemporary romance series
The Sapphire Affair
The Sapphire Heist
This book is dedicated to Michelle Wolfson, who made all things possible.
1
Andrew
When someone you love dies, there is a grace period during which you can get away with murder. Not literal murder, but pretty much anything else.
Forgot to turn something in? No problem. You have a hall pass.
Lawn unruly? Who cares? The neighbor will trim it, and with a smile.
Haven’t returned a call, text, or email in weeks? It’s all good.
Driving home while blasting music at window-rattling decibel levels and deciding to run into the silver Nissan that’s overhanging your driveway by just one or two inches?
That calls for evaluation. No one’s in it, the car is just parked on the side of the road. I have nothing against this car or against the car’s owner.
What I am is tired—tired of everyone being gone, and tired of everything being mine, and tired of life wringing every emotion from me for the last few years.
Besides, when making decisions, my brother always said, “At the end of my life, when I’m looking back, will I regret not doing this?” Fine, he was usually talking about traveling to Italy or going to the beach to surf, but I’m pretty sure I’m not going to regret hitting this car for no reason whatsoever.
Wait. I don’t have no reason. I have every reason.
I bang into it one, two, three, four, five times, each hit rocking my head back and jump-starting me with paddles that shock my system.
Yes.
That’s better.
For a few seconds, I feel a spark inside me, like a match lit in a darkened cave. I try to capture it, to let that flicker ignite into a want or a desire.
But then the flame gutters out, and I’m back to the way I was before.
I shift into reverse, and something makes an annoying scratching sound against the road. I pull into my driveway, get out, then walk around to the front. The fender is dragging on the ground. Looks like the engine might be smoking.
“Whatever.”
I don’t feel like dealing, because dealing requires too much energy, and energy is what I lack. I grab the mail, head inside, and flop onto the couch.
My dog, Sandy, joins me, curling up with her head on my knee. As I rub Sandy’s ears, I wonder briefly if they will send me to anger-management class or something, but there’s no they to send me away. There’s no wife, since there’s no woman on the scene. Hell, there’s not even anyone to order me around at the law firm I’ve just inherited. Sure, there’s my cousin Kate, and while she’s not afraid to kick my butt from time to time, she has her own life. Besides, I’m twenty-five, and I need to take care of my own shit, especially since all the other theys are all gone. My brother, Ian, died four weeks ago, my parents passed away seven years ago, and my older sister, Laini, lives thirteen time
zones away, which is too many miles to matter.
I put my arms behind my head. What else can I get away with? Is there an expiration date on the pity free pass?
I glance at the empty Three Martians pizza box on the coffee table and pull it toward me with my foot to see if there might still be a slice in it. Sandy watches my foot then the box.
“Sandy, did you finish the pizza?”
She says nothing, just tilts her sleek black head to the side.
“Well, can you call and order another one?”
She puts one of her white paws on my chest.
The phone rings.
“Maybe Three Martians can read our minds.” The guy who owns our favorite pizza place includes dog biscuits when I order.
I stretch out my arm to the coffee table, grab the phone, and answer. “I’ll take one cheese pie for delivery please, extra mushrooms, and a side of peanut butter dog biscuits.”
But it’s not Omar. It’s Mrs. Callahan from next door.
“Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Everything is fine.”
Fine is the ultimate non-committal adjective. If “fine” were a dude, he’d be a bachelor forever.
“Are you sure? Do you need anything?”
I flip through the mail: a hospital bill. Awesome. Those never stop coming. Ooh, another sympathy card. The envelope is light blue, because all sympathy cards must be delivered in the color of the sky. No need to open that. A postcard reminder about the luncheon that follows the dean’s reception later this week—a reception Ian had wanted to attend after my law school graduation ceremony that same day.
I toss that postcard away. It crash-lands on white tiles on the other side of the coffee table, where I can’t see it anymore.
“Andrew?”
I’d forgotten she asked a question. “I’m all good.”
Mrs. Callahan asks more questions about the car accident she just witnessed. Not once does she say it was my fault. Not once does she ask if I rammed my car into another car. She tells me she’s watered the flowers in the front yard and asks if I need anything else.
Too many things to name.
“Nah,” I tell her, and the call ends.
I stare at the phone, and a twinge of guilt threatens to ruin the numbness, but that, too, dissipates quickly, and I decide this get-out-of-jail-free card is nice for getting away with whatever I want.
Thirty minutes later, someone bangs on the door. The persistence of the knocking means it’s my cousin, Kate. She’s seventeen years older than I am—one of those bossy, know-it-all cousins.
I open the door for her, and her eyes are narrowed, her jaw set hard. I guess my grace period has run out with her. Oops.
“I know you hit that car on purpose,” she yells.
Who says the cell phone is changing how we communicate? We don’t need phones or social media. We have a town crier right here in Santa Monica, and her name is Mrs. Callahan—she must have told Kate.
I shrug. “So?”
“Why did you hit a car on purpose, Andrew?” She parks her hands on her hips, which is amusing, considering Kate’s maybe five feet tall, and I’m over six feet. But the muscles in her arms are sick, thanks to a vigorous workout regime at Animal House, a broken-down, un-air-conditioned gym serving a clientele of mostly Arnold Wannabes, guys just out of jail, and badass women you don’t want to cross in a dark alley.
I drag a hand through my hair. “It was there, okay?” I walk to the sliding glass door and open it.
Kate follows me, shouting the refrain, “It was there?”
Sandy follows too, then noses a purple “Fight Cancer” Frisbee on the grass. I throw it far into the yard, around the edge of the pool. Sandy is like a rocket—she chases it, catches up to it, leaps, and grabs.
This might be the perfect dog.
“So you did hit it on purpose?” she asks, trying again.
“Define on purpose.”
“Premeditated,” she says crisply.
“Yes, then. I did.”
“Why? Why would you hit it because it was there?”
“Because . . .” In the silence, every reason I have for hitting the car rings loud and clear. I hit it because I can’t hit the universe. I can’t hit cancer. I can’t hit God or fate or Karma or whoever dealt me this shitty hand.
“Andrew, you’re an intelligent man. You’re dealing with a lot right now, more than anyone should have to, but let’s not go down this road of reckless behavior. Talk to me, talk to my husband, talk to a therapist about how you’re feeling. I’m not going to spout off clichés, but talking can be a good thing.”
I scoff. “What good is talking going to do?”
“I know it won’t bring him back. But it might help you through. Don’t take it out on cars.”
I snap around. “The car will survive, okay? It’s just a car.”
She stares at me, firmness in her eyes. “Come down to the gym. Hit a bag. You’re always welcome at Animal House. You don’t have to work out in the garage.”
“I like the garage,” I say, and she should know why.
I relent. I really shouldn’t be a total asshole. Partial is enough for Kate, given all she’s done. “Thanks for the invite, Kate. I’ll think about it.”
I turn to the dog my brother found at a rescue online. He showed me her picture one day after treatment and said, “Wouldn’t she be a great companion?”
I throw the purple disk to her again. Sandy leaps, easily clearing three feet on the vertical. “Sweet! Did you see that, Kate? That is one fine dog.”
Kate holds out her hands. “What am I supposed to do with you?”
I don’t answer. There is no answer. I’m not her responsibility. I’m no one’s.
Her voice softens. “Just give me your insurance info. I’ll make sure everything is taken care of with the car.”
Kate is kind of like a wizard. Give her a shirt with a grease stain from last year, and she’ll get it out. Give her a pair of broken eyeglasses, and she’ll come back with a new pair, free of charge because she’s convinced the store it was owed to her. If I give her my insurance info, I know in a day or two this will all be taken care of. She’s the fixer, and she likes it like that. I’m her newest project—her toughest one ever, I’m sure. Especially since she’s hurting too. But she never mentions that it’s hard for her as well. That she’s lost a cousin she loves.
I throw the Frisbee again to Sandy, and then again, and then one more time, and at some point, Kate leaves. She may even hug me, she may even tell me she loves me, she may even say she’s sorry that life sucks, but I’m lost in the throwing.
And then I realize I’ve been out here for hours. Because suddenly Sandy is exhausted. She jumps in the pool and lies down on the first step in the shallow end. I look up at the sun. When did it get so low in the sky? How did it become six in the evening when it was three a few minutes ago? How could my brother be taken away from me?
I walk straight into the pool, cargo shorts, gray T-shirt, flip-flops, and all.
Water sloshes around me. I dunk my head, sinking under, then I come up and tell Sandy all the things I wish were different right now. She knows why I hit the car. She knows why I’m going to call in a favor later. She knows everything.
She listens to every last word.
After all, she’s the perfect dog.
* * *
When I go inside, I find a new message on my phone from Holland. Her name makes my skin heat up. She’s been out of town for a few days, interviewing for jobs in Seattle and San Francisco. Jobs I selfishly hope she doesn’t get, so she won’t have to leave yet again.
Holland: How are you? I’m flying back to LA tomorrow night! Are you ready for the reception later this week? Do you want me to bring you a slice of pie? If you need a haircut, I’m good with scissors. ☺
Just like that, I feel so much more than I felt when I hit the car—a flicker in my chest, a rushing of my blood, like there’s something I want.
<
br /> Or really, someone.
My thumb hovers over a folder on my phone, then I open it, clicking to a picture from three years ago. A shot of Holland, her blonde hair whipping against her face as we walked along the ocean one morning. She looked so gorgeous I had to take it and keep it.
I can’t throw out a picture like this.
Trouble is, I can’t seem to stop looking at it either.
2
Andrew
The next night, Jeremy is shooting aliens on the TV screen, Ethan is trying to convince Piper that an earthquake of 9.0 magnitude will hit Los Angeles in the next 365 days, and some of the women from my law school are destroying some of the guys in pool volleyball. The dudes are in the deep end on the other side of the net, getting clobbered by the bikini-clad athletes.
I’m waiting for a delivery.
I check my phone.
Trina’s text says she’ll be here soon.
Even her text message looks reluctant, but that’s okay. She said yes when I called in the favor last night.
I tap a reply: You’re a good woman for doing this.
As I wait, I turn up the volume on the sound system because Retractable Eyes is up next on the playlist, and this band is awesome. But before the opening chords sound, I hear the beginning of “New York, New York.”
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