Page 8 of Lessons in Heartbreak

My uptight, type-A, militantly disciplined brother came out smelling like fucking roses, and I was the single playboy asshole who couldn’t keep his mouth shut.

Now I was commiserating with my damn self about my agent-induced exile while the entire fan base currently obsessed with my brother was calling—quite loudly and quite insistently—for my head on a metaphorical platter.

Reminiscing about the interview wasn’t going to help. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sat up on the sprawling couch, eyes focused on the distant line of the mountains. In my hand, my phone dinged again with another message from my agent.

Steven:Go for a walk on the property, it’ll clear your mind. Head into Welling Springs and get something to eat, there’s some great little restaurants.

Me:So the good people of this town can tar and feather me because they’re probably obsessed with my brother too?

Steven:Please. If anyone approaches you, I’ll pay you a thousand dollars. They don’t care around there, that’s what makes it a nice placeto visit. I bring clients out to that house all the time and no one has ever bothered us.

Me:You’ve never broughtMehere before.

Steven:Because you’ve always said no.

My brow furrowed. I had a vague memory of Steven asking more than once if I wanted to spend a weekend with him and his family after they’d bought this place.

Instead of answering—because I still felt an uncomfortable wash of embarrassment over the fact that I was already bored—I set my phone aside and wandered over to the large folding sliders that opened up onto the massive back patio in front of the pool.

He told me people would filter in and out, tending to the landscaping and the pool. An assistant had already dropped off enough preprepared food to last me the next week, but the thought of heating up a large dish just for myself sounded like fucking torture.

The surface of the pool glittered underneath the bright sun, and I decided I would swim laps later, try to expel some of this pent-up energy making me feel like I was stuck in a cage.

But first—food.

Exiting my car with sunglasses covering my face, I gave a quick look around to see if anyone was watching. The small stretch of a downtown was fairly quiet, with only a few people meandering down the sidewalks.

Less than five thousand people, he’d told me. Enough that there were some good food options, a handful of shops, a library, and schools. Standing at the curb where I’d parked, I glanced down the street in both directions and decided to head into the closest restaurant.

The sign hanging over the door was a sleek brown-and-white logo featuring a coffee bean and a steaming cup, and the smell of baked goods wafted from the open door as I approached.

There were bowls of water for passing dogs, and tied up next to the propped-open door was a beast of a dog, with a sleek bluish-gray coat and the perked ears and bright eyes of a pit bull–type mix. His tongue hung out the side of his massive mouth, and he glanced up at me with a slight tilt of his head.

Bruiser, his ID tag read. Attached to the light-green collar was a handwritten note:I’m friendly and love head-scratches. Please don’t feed me, though, even if I beg.

“No muffins for you, huh, buddy?” I said, bending down to scratch the top of his head.

With a groan, he leaned into my touch, that panting tongue still unrolled. He looked like he was smiling.

Giving Bruiser a final pat, I slid my sunglasses onto the top of my head and entered the coffee shop with a glance around the inside. It was filled with overstuffed furniture, grouped together in a way that you could easily sit and spend hours there comfortably.

An elderly couple sat in two chairs, splitting a blueberry muffin, steaming cups of tea sitting in front of them. A young guy sitting at a high-top table had headphones on, typing away on his sticker-covered laptop, oblivious to my entrance. In the back corner, a petite woman sat by herself, her messy blond hair hiding her features as she bent to read something in her hands.

At the back of the shop were two teenage girls, and they both eyed me as I strolled in, hands tucked into my pockets. When I gave them a friendly smile, they giggled, and I approached the long gleaming counter and studied the neat rows of confections underneath the domed glass.

“Morning. Can I start a drink for you?” a woman behind the counter asked. She had two tiny gold hoops through one nostril, heavy winged eyeliner, and bright-blue hair tied up in a knot on the top of her head. Her arms were wrapped in intricate black tattoos. She was probably midtwenties, with the kind of sharp, striking features that made her very interesting to look at. Long legs too.

God, I hadn’t had sex in months.

The end of the last season had been particularly brutal, my body too tired for me to even think about finding someone who was okay with casual. But I wasn’t tired now. I was verynottired. And I was very, very bored. Maybe a tattooed, blue-haired local would want to help me break in the pool.

Leaning a hip against the counter, I gave her a slow once-over. “Everything looks delicious. What do you recommend?”

She arched an eyebrow. “Personally, I always get a dark roast over ice. One sugar and a splash of cream so it’s not too bitter.”

Crossing my arms over my chest was a strategic choice, and she noted the change in my stance with a slight narrowing of her eyes.

“I don’t like it when things are too sweet either,” I said in a low voice, keeping my eyes on hers. “I could go for ... whatever you like.”

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