Broken Rules: A Stand Alone Romance
Lily Baldwin
Published by Duncurra LLC, 2019.
This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.
BROKEN RULES: A STAND ALONE ROMANCE
First edition. October 4, 2019.
Copyright © 2019 Lily Baldwin.
Written by Lily Baldwin.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
To my nonni, my mom, my sister, and my restaurant families.
Chapter One
Savannah sat at the empty bar where she worked, counting the night’s money for a second time. Rain pounded the large windows of The Cove, a swanky yet rustic restaurant on the affluent coast of Rye, New Hampshire. She took another sip of her dirty martini and started over. She couldn’t concentrate. Her mind was elsewhere, stuck on her ex who was probably, at that moment, gambling away his so-called paycheck at the casino up north in Maine.
“I can’t believe I did it again,” she groaned.
Why did she always fall for the bad ones?
She blamed her name.
If her mother had named her Eleanor or Noreen, something strong and classic, her life would have turned out so differently.
Barbara and Mary didn’t date guys called Chase or Diesel or Axel.
But Savannah Honey did.
She had dated them all—the brooding, quiet loner; the smooth womanizer; the rich, confident playboy; the angry sex god; the anarchistic rebel. With a name like Savannah Honey, she was destined to be a magnet for silver-tongued bad boys, who promised nights of thrilling, dangerous passion, and her last boyfriend, Roman, had been the rotten cherry on the day-old cake.
“Seven months,” she muttered, shaking her head.
Seven months wasted on him and his lies.
Wincing, she slid her black, patent-leather work clogs off her feet and stretched her toes. Then, she leaned over the bar, resting her head in the crook of her folded arms.
Such a shitty day.
Right as the dinner rush had kicked off, she received a text from her now ex.
Heading up to the casino for a few nights. Just me and the guys. Back Wednesday AM.
Whatever.
She thought gambling was a waste of money, but then again, she worked hard for hers; whereas, Roman skelped concert tickets for a living. But it wasn’t his gambling or his ridiculous excuse for a job that ended their seven-month relationship—although both were ample reasons to have ditched him long ago. It was the next text she’d received from Amy that put Roman on the chopping block.
Hi Savannah. I got Heather to cover my shifts. Heading up to the Casino with the girls.
Bullshit!
Amy was nineteen, a college freshman, completely naïve when it came to men, and one of The Cove’s hostesses, and after receiving her text, Savannah could add liar to Amy’s list of accolades.
“I’m such an idiot!” She took another heart-numbing, mind-dulling sip.
Savannah had noticed Roman ogling Amy whenever he came into the restaurant. Recently, he’d even begun to linger by the hostess stand whenever he dropped by. After catching him whispering in the teenager’s ear, making her blush, Savannah confronted him about it. But of course, he had eased her fears with a few smooth words about how Amy was just a little girl, not a woman like Savannah.
Total bullshit!
Clearly, Roman had Amy wrapped around his silver tongue.
Not that Savannah had any right to criticize her...well, except for the lying, two-faced part, but Savannah couldn’t claim to be any better in her judgement of character.
“But you are!” she said out loud to herself. “You’re better than this.” She tossed back the rest of her martini. It burned her throat as it went down, searing a path to her mangled heart.
Damn them all!
Sitting straighter, she began counting the restaurant’s money with new resolve.
Enough was enough.
No longer would she be tricked into love.
From now on, she would date the nice guys—men with bank accounts instead of safes, and actual jobs instead of addictions.
After fumbling a few bills, her diminished motor-skills finally came through. “Thank God,” she whispered when, at last, the numbers on the cash-out receipt matched the restaurant’s earnings for the night. She pressed her palms determinedly on the bar and stood, only to be struck by a rush of dizziness an instant later. Sitting back down, her gaze settled on the blurry martini glass. How many of those had she drunk? As the glass came into focus, so, too, did her memory.
Three martinis.
Way too many to drive home.
She glanced out the window at the pounding rain and groaned. Tourist season was in full force. She’d have to fork over a hundred dollars to get a room for the night.
Roman had already broken her heart, she wasn’t going to let him break her wallet, too.
Grabbing her phone, she scrolled through her contacts, looking for the right friend to call.
“Shit.” She set the phone down, remembering that she had to open the restaurant in the morning. Anyone still awake, who wouldn’t mind picking her drunk ass up, wouldn’t be thrilled about bringing her back so early.
Standing up, she steadied herself, then carefully crossed the room to the small balcony, which gave second-floor diners a place to smoke, and slid open the door. The black sky unleashed sheets of pelting rain. Savannah expelled a long breath and stepped outside with her face upturned. The salty air imbued every breath she took. Arms outstretched, she invited the drenching rain to course down her whole body as if it might wash away all the assholes who had ever left her high and dry.
She was sick and tired of being dry. She thirsted for more.
For once in her life, she wanted a love she could count on, a faithful love who wouldn’t ditch her for something prettier or thinner or younger or just plain different.
Jagged lightning cut the sky, briefly illuminating the coastal town around her. Her gaze was drawn, in that fleeting moment, to the three-story, million-dollar home situated beyond the parking lot of the restaurant. It sat on tall posts entrenched deep within the sand, surrounded by long tufts of seagrass, bent low by the barreling winds.
Joe’s house.
Joe Wilder was her boss, her former lover, and a ruthless combination of smooth womanizer and rich, confident playboy— totally irresistible until you scrape away the thin veneer of gorgeous, successful business man to the shallow asshole beneath.
Exactly the kind of man she was swearing off for good.
Joe’s claim to fame was that he was descended from a minor German baron: Baron Von Wilder, which he touted as if he were crown prince of New England. Joe worked his wealth, bedroom eyes, chiseled jaw, and this miniscule connection to royalty to his fullest advantage.
Women fell at his feet.
And Savannah had been no exception.
He was the epitome of the bad boy and broke her heart worse than the rest—though he didn’t know it.
Three years ago, she had been the new pretty face behind the bar. At first, like most women, she had found Joe to be completely irresistible with his velvety smooth tones and carefully executed compliments. It took him all of three shifts to invite her up to his fabulous house on posts.
She remembered the very moment when he’d won and she’d lost...
They had been standing on that same balcony, enjoying an after-work cocktail. The moon shone high in the sky. The rhythmic crashing of the waves added a sensual soundtrack to the moment when he leaned close, his eyes warm and intense, and rasped, “You’re different, Savvy. Different than all the rest.” He reverently stroked the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “You make me feel alive.” He licked his bitable lips. “For the first time in my life, I can imagine being with only one woman.”
Done. Game over. Joe won.
And she thought she’d won, too, until he hired Brandi Bush (Her parents didn’t do her any favors in the name department either).
Joe couldn’t resist a shiny new toy or, in this case, a shiny new bush.
Brandi replaced Savannah; that is, until the next new hire. And as much as Brandi and Savannah regretted dating the boss, their mutual dislike of Joe became the basis of a wonderful friendship.
Savannah squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes on the New England palace when it flashed into view a moment later. Joe was old news. She was certainly not going to waste her time thinking about him.
With no family to call but for her ailing grandmother, she resigned herself to call an Uber, although she preferred not to ride alone at night. Turning back inside, she paused, suddenly struck by a sinfully fabulous idea. Excitement shot through her as she crossed, zigzagging slightly back to the bar and grabbed the stack of cash before heading upstairs to the office. Her three martinis and the newly fluttering butterflies in her stomach made her hands shake so that it took three attempts to get the safe open. When, at last, the small door swung wide, she added the night’s earnings to the stack of money in the back and began sifting through Joe’s numerous envelopes and loose papers.
For a moment, her conscience panged her. Joe would be furious if he knew what she was planning. Sure, he was a fair boss—paying his staff above industry-average wages and providing stellar benefits to ensure very little turnover, but that was business Joe. Business Joe was smart. Personal Joe was selfish and didn’t like to share.
“Yes,” she exclaimed when she found what she’d been hunting for—the envelope with Joe’s spare house key and the code to his alarm system...
And the boss was out of town!
A few days ago, Joe had flown to England to visit friends he’d met during his semester abroad. Before he’d left, he made Savannah the closing and opening manager for the duration of his impromptu vacation, which, by his own account, could be characterized as a ten-day stretch of British debauchery. Savannah imagined him stumbling around London’s top clubs with a group of English bad boys in Church’s leather brogues, messy hair, custom-made shirts from Jermyn Street with cufflinks, and accents that would curl her toes.
“No,” she said out loud.
Still, there was something so hot about an English guy.
She caught her reflection in the small mirror on the office wall. “No! No more assholes. Not even ones with accents!”
She turned to head downstairs and tripped on the chair. It took a moment to regain her balance, and when she did, she realized she had almost left the safe open.
Too many martinis! Damn Roman!
After securing the safe and carefully making her way down the stairs, hand firmly gripped on the rail, she pushed open the back exit. The heavy door slammed shut behind her. She loved that sound. It meant work was done.
Taking a deep breath, she invited the salt air into her lungs before setting out through the rain toward the house, which beckoned her with vivid brightness when lightning slashed the sky. Trudging through Joe’s yard, the wet sand dragged her down. She stumbled more than once, but soon, the towering posts and broad stairwell rose up in front of her. The house was more windows than walls with stunning panoramic views of the coast—this she knew as she had often stood gazing out at the setting sun, wrapped in Joe’s deceptively warm embrace.
Her stomach growled when she climbed the white, wooden steps to the wrap around porch, reminding her that she’d been too upset earlier to eat her shift meal. Inserting the key into the lock, she opened the oversized door and let it slam shut behind her. Darkness surrounded her. Rain pelted the house from all sides, making a symphony of pitter-patters on the glass. Inside, the air felt thick and warm after several days of the windows being shut tight.
Fumbling around in her purse for her phone, she pulled it out and used the flashlight to avoid turning any lights on. Then, without hesitation, she crossed to the stainless-steel fridge. Not surprised by the sparse contents, she considered her options—beer, old takeout, and a block of white cheese. Seizing the cheese, she brought it to her nose, inhaling the smoky scent before reading the label.
“Twenty-seven dollars a pound!” Gripping the cheese possessively, she kicked the fridge door shut.
Screw Joe and his high-end cheddar. She would eat it all if she could.
Digging around the cupboards, she found some crackers, a chopping block, and a cheese knife...but she wasn’t done.
Setting everything down on the end of the island that stretched the full-length of the kitchen, she went to Joe’s wine closet. Here she knew she had to tread more carefully. He was a huge wino—connoisseur, in his words. Some of the bottles could have cost hundreds, even thousands of dollars. She doubted that he would miss a block of cheese upon his return, but the absence of an expensive bottle of wine would certainly be noticed. Using her flashlight, she skimmed over the numerous labels and settled on a bottle of Tuscan red they often carried at The Cove. It was costly, but normal expensive, not—I’m descended from freaking royalty—expensive.
As she headed upstairs, she had no trouble finding her way in the dark...
Unfortunately, she was well acquainted with the location of Joe’s bedroom.
“Bad girl,” she muttered to herself, knowing she’d been an idiot to date the boss to begin with.
A part of her had known he was a player from the start, and still she’d clung to his promises, despite how her own intuition had thrown her a lifeline of reason. As always, she ignored her gut, believing, foolishly, that she could be the difference—the woman that could turn the bad boy into the good man.
If only she had learned from her mistakes with Joe, she never would have fallen for Roman’s silken promises.
Walking into the spacious room, she shined her flashlight on the king-sized, four-poster bed and sighed with pleasure at the comfortable sight. Then her gaze was drawn to a momentary glimpse of ocean outside the glass balcony doors, illuminated by a flash of bright lightning. She set the wine and her midnight snack on the nightstand and shivered despite the warmth of the room. From head to toe, she was clad in Cove blacks, which were soaked through to her skin. Turning the flashlight back on, she crossed to the closet and opened the double doors.
Her whole bedroom could fit inside.
She shut the door and turned the closet light on. Shaking her head, she considered his well-ordered world. Then a giggle burst from her lips as she lunged toward his extensive shoe rack. Carefully arranged by color and type, she mismatched the lot—sneakers next to dress shoes, flip flops beside winter boots, toes pointed out and in. Then she saw his lucky work shoes, which she seized, her mind spinning with ways of how to destroy them forever. But catching a glimpse of her greedy expression in the mirror caused her to hesitate. After all, the object of her fresh scorn was Roman, not Joe.
She started to return his favored work shoes to their rightful place, but then, she stuck her tongue out at herself before hiding them behind hi
s stack of cashmere sweaters.
“Take that, Joe Wilder!”
She shivered again and remembered why she had ventured into Joe’s closet in the first place. After shuffling among numerous drawers, she pulled out a navy-blue t-shirt that she recognized from one of their dates and groaned. Joe really was ridiculously hot.
Taking command of her thoughts before they conjured memories of Joe’s sinewy naked body, she quickly put the familiar shirt away, resisting the urge to bring the fabric to her nose. She already knew it smelled good.
Joe always smelled good.
Stripping off her work shirt and skirt and removing her bra, she pulled another t-shirt on, but as the shirt cascaded around her, she inhaled deeply, drinking in Joe’s scent.
“Damn it!” She always was a glutton for punishment.
Shutting the closet doors, she made her way toward the bed, her bare feet padding across the plush carpeting. She pulled back his butter-soft duvet and climbed beneath the covers and sighed, feeling as though she lay on a cloud, surrounded by more clouds. In short, it was heaven...well, almost.
She sliced several pieces of cheese and poured herself a glass of wine. Now, it was heaven.
Lying for some time in a delirious fog, she listened to the rain tap dance on the roof and sipped her somewhat expensive glass of wine while occasionally giggling at the idea of Joe’s pained expression when he saw his shoes.
After a while, the rain stopped. She climbed out of bed and opened the balcony slider to let in the fresh sea-breeze. The air rushed into the room, pungent and salty, and the sound of crashing waves reached her ears.
With a smile, she retreated back to the oversized-bed and plopped down, pulling up the soft duvet and closed her eyes, relishing the prospect of an amazing night’s sleep, surrounded by luxury beyond what she dared dream to one day possess. But just as she began to doze off, a soft noise forced her eyes open.
She jerked upright. Blood rushed to her head, pounding in her ears. She glanced at the wine, wishing she had made a lovely cup of chamomile tea instead. The room started to spin. Groaning, her hands gripped her head, but then a shadow on the balcony streaked past the billowing sheer curtains. She gripped the blankets and held her breath the instant before a tall, shadowy, masked figure stepped into the room.
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