Shattered Chords (The Encore Book 3)

by N. N. Britt

  I paused in front of one of the cages and studied a small Pomeranian pacing the length of its hopefully temporary home. Its fur was too short and too thin. “No. I’ve never had a pet before,” I said, locking my hands behind my back. “Never had the time.”

  “I see.” The woman nodded. “Well, it may make sense to start with a low-maintenance breed then,” she suggested with a smile.

  “Time isn’t an issue anymore.” I smiled back.

  I had all the time in the world now. And I had a five-bedroom monstrosity that had started to feel awfully empty these past few days.

  We moved on and she motioned at the cage with a French bulldog, who bared his teeth and growled. Whoever said dogs were our friends hadn’t seen this fella.

  I continued my stroll until we reached the last cage that at first appeared to be empty. I was about to turn around and head back to the reception area to write another check and go home when a small ball of white popped out from under the blanket in the far-left corner.

  I waited.

  Sherri stood by my side, still and patient.

  The pup lowered his head toward the floor and matched my stare. He was tiny and all white except for a few brown spots that dotted his body. His eyes were too big and too sad for his face.

  “Hey, buddy.” I stepped toward the bars.

  The pup tilted his head, studying me.

  “This little guy is ten weeks old,” Sherri said. “Just a warning, Beagles are typically very energetic.”

  “Oh, I have a very big back yard.” I didn’t know why I shared that tidbit. I wasn’t sure how fit I was to handle anything, but the pup continued to stare at me as if he were trying to hypnotize me into freeing him from this cage. Finally, he dragged the rest of his body from underneath the folds of the blanket and started an awkward crawl in the direction of the bars.

  “What’s wrong with him?” I glanced at Sherri over my shoulder.

  “One of his rear legs is underdeveloped.”

  “What happened?”

  “He was born like that. He was the runt of the litter, and sometimes, those puppies have problems. The owner brought him to us a few weeks ago, right after he was weaned.”

  I looked back at the pup, who’d limped all the way to the front of the cage and was now poking his nose at me through the opening between the bars.

  I sunk into a crouch and offered him my hand. He sniffed it carefully, then barked. It was a tinny sound, a child’s cry that reminded me of my own early years, the years before my mother started hating me.

  Something made my gut tighten. It was a hard feeling, nothing I’d experienced before. It flowed through me, hot and solid and positively destructive.

  “Does he have a name?” I asked Sherri and reached for the pup’s head to rub between his ears. Surprisingly, he let me.

  “No. When they come to us without a name, we prefer to let the new family name them. We’re just calling him Puppy until he finds a permanent home.”

  “Can you take him out of the cage?”

  “We have a meet and greet area if you’d like to spend some time with him there.”

  At that, I laughed. “Sure.”

  Several minutes later, we were ushered into a small room. The pup was the size of my palm and even Sherri seemed stunned when he allowed me to settle him in my lap.

  “Most shelter dogs take time to warm up to a newcomer,” she explained as I rubbed the pup’s belly.

  He was warm and alive and he felt awfully cozy, and I suddenly had the urge to take him home with me. So that’s exactly what I did.

  I went back to the reception area, whipped out my wallet and my ID, paid the adoption fee, and left the building with my new housemate and some supplies.

  In the car, the pup became anxious. He barked thinly and whirled on the seat next to mine, so out of fear of terrifying him even more, I put him in my lap and decided to wait for him to calm down.

  We sat like that in the parking lot for nearly twenty minutes. I sucked on my candy and the dog fidgeted. I’d been given a leash and a bag of treats, but putting a collar on him seemed wrong.

  “What am I going to call you, huh?” I asked, scratching between his ears. He, of course, didn’t say anything, so I went on, “You know, buddy, me and you are the same. My family didn’t want me either. My mother thought I was defective too. And guess what? Fuck her.”

  The pup stared up at me with his huge sad eyes and then nuzzled my palm.

  “You’re all right,” I said, then added, “How about we call you Snowflake. Sound good?”

  He didn’t protest.

  “Okay. Looks like you’re not opposed to it, buddy. Snowflake it is.”

  To that, he barked and licked my knuckles.

  Apparently, we were getting along just fine.

  8 Camille

  My nerves had gotten the best of me.

  I was on my second glass of wine and my final trash container. Although they were emptied this morning while I was at the boutique, I brought them home, hauled them to the back yard, and scrubbed them inside and out as if the life of the entire human race depended on their cleanliness.

  I’d left work after lunch, with Harper in charge of customer service and Renn in charge of the interviews. We were nearing a busy month again and desperately needed help, so at the end of last week, I’d posted an online ad that Dream Bride was hiring, and by Monday, we’d been slammed with the applications. Renn volunteered to sort through them and do the first round of interviews to narrow it down for me.

  I’d liked that idea. My head hadn’t seemed to be in the right place these past few days because of Dante Martinez, who had his first lesson with my daughter today at six. Surely, he didn’t care how clean my trash containers were, but I didn’t know what else to occupy my hands with while he taught my kid how to play a guitar like a real rock star.

  “Just don’t hover, okay?” Ally said from the patio, her tone snappy.

  I was hosing down the recycle bin and my T-shirt was drenched and stuck to my chest and back like a second skin. Any chance I’d had of making an impression on Dante Martinez was now ruined by the smell of cleaning supplies and sweat.

  Good thing impressing a self-centered rock god wasn’t on my list of priorities.

  “I’ll try,” I told Ally.

  The sun was crawling across the cloudless sky toward the western horizon, about to disappear behind the branches of an oak tree, but the heat was still unbearable. My lungs struggled to breathe and if not for my horrible anxiety, I’d be hiding inside by the AC.

  “Well, it was your idea to do it in the living room.” My daughter crossed her arms on her chest. “Some privacy would be nice.”

  “I’ll keep out of the way,” I promised, reminding myself to check the French door in the den and ensure it was open. It wasn’t that I didn’t fully trust my daughter, but I definitely didn’t trust Dante Martinez.

  “You better.”

  “I will. Just not too loud, okay?” I reminded. Ally’s room was the only one we’d soundproofed, and while our neighbors, the Johnsons, could hardly hear her practice when she played there, the living room was an entirely different story. It faced the Finleys’ patio and they were notorious for complaining about each and every noise.

  “Sure.” Ally uncrossed her arms and marched back inside.

  I shut off the water and dropped the hose into the grass, then walked to the terrace to check the time on my phone, which I’d left on the table next to a bottle of wine. It was quarter to six.

  Dante Martinez would be here very, very soon.

  The thought curled in my stomach and around my spine, somewhat disturbing and somewhat exciting. I realized my emotions were too complex to give them a proper name.

  A strong gust of hot air rushed past me, pushing the swing and the tree branches forward. In turn, the oak met the onslaught of the wind with a groan.

  In the driveway, a car hummed. Moments later, I heard the doorbell.

  Not on
ly wasn’t the asshole late. He was early.

  Sure, I’d promised Ally that I wouldn’t interrupt the lesson, but she wasn’t the one paying the mortgage, which meant I had every right to assess the man first to grant my approval.

  With that idea in mind, I took off my wet flip-flops and strode down the hallway and toward the front of the house, where my daughter had already opened the door and Dante Martinez stood on the threshold, his silhouette tall and sunlit and utterly ethereal against the backdrop of the trees, the sky, and the neat houses that lined my street.

  He wore a pair of dark blue jeans, and a white shirt underneath his long-sleeved one, and something told me that he’d done it on purpose, despite the heat. His tattoos were hidden, and I hoped it was because he’d remembered that Ally wanted to get one.

  Relief rushed through my chest. The man at least looked decent enough to be one-on-one with my fifteen-year-old daughter. Except for his tousled hair. But I decided to blame that on the wind.

  “Hello.” He raised his hand by way of a greeting, his dark gaze locking on my mind for a fraction of a second, then moving to Ally. “Hey, Hendrix.”

  She offered her fist and he bumped it. “Mi casa es su casa.”

  This made Dante smile even wider. My daughter got an A in Spanish but never bothered to speak it outside of school assignments, and her effort to impress Dante didn’t go unnoticed. Finally, she stepped to the side to let our guest into the house.

  His eyes found mine again as if asking my permission. To my surprise, his face didn’t give away his thoughts about my outfit. He looked at me the way he’d looked at me the day we met and every single time after that—with subtle reverence.

  I nodded.

  “You have a really nice house,” Dante said, surveying the living room.

  “Oh, I’m sure yours is better,” I joked.

  “Mom?” Ally shot me a furious stare that spoke volumes.

  “Why don’t I show you the rest before you begin?” It seemed like the polite thing to do, and I motioned toward the dining area first. After that, I led Dante to the kitchen and pointed out the restroom. He regarded everything with genuine curiosity, stating that a painting I had in my hallway was stunning and my china set that my mother gave me on my thirtieth birthday was lovely. I didn’t think he had such words in his vocabulary, but evidently, I’d underestimated him.

  Ally trailed after us, trying to hide the unease on her face.

  Once the tour was over and we returned to the living room, where my daughter had already prepared both guitars and an amp, I said, “Well, I’ll leave you two to it. If you need anything...water...or some lemonade, I’ll be outside.”

  “Thank you,” Dante moved toward the couch, holding my gaze.

  “Thanks, Mom,” Ally repeated, a frown creasing the portion of her forehead not hidden behind a layer of hair.

  And that was my cue to go.

  I spent the next hour cleaning the terrace and spying on them. The door to the den was cracked and I could make out guitar sounds alternating with hushed voices, sometimes laughter. It was bizarre hearing Ally so happy in the company of a complete stranger, because she hadn’t been happy in my company for a long time and I often wondered if there was enough joy in her life.

  Apparently, yes, and apparently, it now came from an ex-addict.

  I sighed and settled into one of the chairs with a glass of wine in my hand.

  The wind grew stronger and my string lights bounced against the angry current.

  In the living room, a muffled riff gave way to Dante talking. Some of the words were unfamiliar, but from the little I understood, it was clear he was explaining something to Ally about chord progression.

  He had a nice voice, it suddenly occurred to me. Low and deep and a bit raspy at times, and I, too, found twisted joy in listening to him talk.

  The hour was almost up and the sun had slid below the horizon, its leftovers casting a soft orange glow across the roofs in my line of sight. My terrace was blissfully clean and smelled like pine, and I was pouring myself another glass of wine—my last one for today—when a rough gust knocked two of my string lights together. A few days ago, I’d rearranged them to hang across the back yard by tying the ends to a lamppost in the middle of the barbeque area, and now they were a tangle of wires and bulbs, helplessly jerking above my head, which defeated the whole purpose of my redecorating efforts.

  In the living room, Ally played a tune I’d never heard before. It was slow and sad and absolutely breathtaking. For a moment, I even forgot what I was going to do, then another twister of hot air danced across my back yard and ravaged my poor flower beds, and I remembered I was about to try to separate the string lights.

  Ally was still messing around on the guitar when I dragged my ladder from the laundry room to the middle of the lawn. Harper’s OCD must have gotten to me, because things out of place just weren’t right. Especially in my own home.

  I was too preoccupied to pay attention to my surroundings and didn’t hear when the lesson ended or when Dante stepped out onto the terrace.

  It was his voice that snapped me back to reality. I was caught in a compromising and very inelegant position with one knee on the tip-top step of the ladder and one hand clutching a broom in a desperate attempt to reach the string lights rattling several feet above my head.

  “I don’t mean to be nosy,” Dante said, leaning his shoulder against the post. “But aren’t you not supposed to stand above the third highest step to avoid breaking your neck?”

  “And how would you know such things?” I bit back. My muscles were burning from fighting the wind as it slapped against my face and ripped at my hair, and I dropped the broom, which landed on the ground with a clunk and a bounce.

  “I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.” Dante smirked and moved in my direction. “Reading all sorts of useless facts online proves to be a great pastime.”

  I flashed him a scowl and rolled my shoulders to release some tension.

  “Would it be better to get a different ladder?”

  “This is the only one I have. I borrowed a taller one from my neighbors when I was rearranging these,” I explained, motioning at the lights. Then I climbed a couple of steps down but stopped when our eyes were level. “How did the lesson go?”

  “It went great. Thank you for letting me do this.”

  “I didn’t. You tricked me into it.”

  Dante laughed softly, small lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His skin was radiant in the evening light and I caught myself thinking that for a man his age, he looked intensely youthful. But not necessarily in a physical sense—there was something about him that screamed fun and adventure and all the things I hadn’t done, and I wanted to reach out and grab him so I could get a glimpse at even a tiny portion of what carefree would feel like.

  Obviously, I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Are you sure you won’t accept payment? I paid the previous tutor.”

  Dante shook his head and took another step forward, his body suddenly mere inches from mine. “No. You can’t afford me and I don’t really need the money.”

  I nodded.

  “What happened to the previous guitar teacher if you don’t mind my asking?”

  “I’m surprised Renn didn’t tell you all the juicy details.”

  “She mentioned he was...inappropriate.”

  “He made a comment about Ally’s body.” I paused and waited for his reaction, but his face remained unmoving. “She’s a teenage girl who’s curious about everything, and while I do my best to explain certain things to her, she’s easily swayed. All teenagers are. Especially teenagers without fathers. So you understand why I’m wary about an older man with a spotty history being her tutor, right?”

  “I understand perfectly. I was fifteen once too.”

  “So was I.”

  “You have nothing to worry about. Ally can take care of herself. She’s a very smart girl. And I don’t mind making the drive. It’s not far.”
/>   I lowered my gaze for a moment because I hated what his dark, cunning eyes did to me. “As long as it’s not interfering with her school.”

  “When do classes begin?”

  I looked up at him through my lashes. “Less than two weeks.”

  He nodded and plucked something from his pocket. Some candy. Paper rustled as he unwrapped it. “Is Ally’s father not in the picture?”

  The question caused a small whirlpool of emotions to swirl inside me. “No. He’s not,” I responded, my voice trembling for a second. He didn’t even want her.

  “Sorry.” Dante tilted his head to the side slightly and studied my face.

  “Do they help?” I asked, motioning at the lollipop he’d stuck in the corner of his mouth. I didn’t want to talk about one drive-by with another.

  “Not sure.” Sensing my unease, Dante grinned and gladly steered the conversation in a different direction. “But it occupies my taste buds and I don’t think about wanting a cigarette so much.”

  “That’s admirable.”

  “What is? My addiction to sweets or my addiction to nicotine?”

  “Your desire to beat the addiction to nicotine.”

  “Ah.” He gestured at the lights dangling in the wind above our heads. “You know, I’m a bit taller.”

  “Be my guest.” I had no fight left in me, so I allowed him to get up on the ladder and untangle the strings with his expert fingers. Then we talked about Ally’s upcoming trip to Jesse Catchum’s studio in Burbank.

  “Have you met him?” I asked, squinting up at his lean form lingering several feet in the air. The wind messed with his hair and shirt and when I saw a sliver of his tanned abdomen from my vantage point, my cheeks grew hot and I averted my gaze.

  “What are you two doing?” Ally called out from the terrace, then padded toward the ladder to hold it. God forbid Dante fell off.

  “Helping your mom with this...” He swallowed the word and pulled on a small bulb, a frown creasing his forehead. “Decoration.”