Page 1 of The Broken Heart Playlist
CHAPTER ONE
I’m not a fan of tall, powerfully built men. I know what damage they can do. With their words. And their hands.
I hug my coffee to the center of my chest as I stare out my living room window. A large moving truck is parked in front of the house directly across from me. The unassuming Martinez family, who lived harmlessly in that house for years, moved out two days ago.
Now, giving instructions to the movers, is a broad-shouldered,bigman, who looks to be the new owner of the house.
A sick feeling settles in my stomach.
The man has dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. I’m not comfortable with beards either. I like to be able to study a face, see what a person’snottelling me, and a beard masks too many tells.
He’s wearing jeans and a thick jacket against a cold February wind. He moves in a way that tells me he’s at ease in his own skin, confident in his decision to label this new placehome.
My coffee cools as I watch him decide to pitch in and help the men unload his stuff from the truck. Clearly working up a sweat, he shrugs off his jacket and I notice the hint of a tattoo peeking out from under his shirt sleeve. My unease builds. If a person can handle a tattoo, they can handle pain. Either receiving it or inflicting it.
“Is that man moving in?” Lisset asks excitedly. “Is he our new neighbor?”
“Looks like it.”
“Can we go say hello?”
“Not right now.”
She falls silent. I suspect my daughter’s eight-year-old lawyerly brain is working the next angle. I stare at her heart-shaped face so like my own, the deep brown hair and dark eyes she inherited from me. My interest stirs as I wait to see what she’ll come up with.
“But it’s rude not to make him feel welcome,” she says after a moment.
I hide a smile. Lisset, in complete contrast to me, is all about hospitality and friendliness. Too much coaching from my mom, whose house has an open door to any resident in our medium-sized town of Brown Oaks who wants to pop in and say hi.
“Another time,” I tell her.
She gives me a look. Lisset knows all too well that in my vocabularyanother timeis synonymous withnever.
“Right now you have to get ready for school. Is your bag all packed?”
“Yup.”
Asking is a formality. Lisset is at that age where she still loves school and takes after me with her organizational skills. She thrives when she’s on top of things. Although she’s still in her pajamas, I have a hunch the clothes she’s planning to wear today are already laid out on the chair in her bedroom.
I’m in my work clothes of dress pants and a loose blouse. My hair barely touches my shoulders, but I’ve tied it back so strands don’t fall into the food. Concealer hides the shadows under my eyes and blush adds a little color to my skin. I’ll slick on pale pink lipstick before I leave to show everyone that Kate Miller is getting on with her life and that she still cares what she looks like. Even though she really, truly doesn’t. Not anymore.
“Did you have breakfast?” I ask Lisset.
She nods. “I had cereal.”
I tap her milk mustache. “Let me guess, you tipped the bowl into your mouth to drink the remains of the milk?”
She gives me a guilty nod. I sigh and wipe the mustache away with my thumb. No point rebuking her. I used to do the same as a child.
Abruptly, Lisset points out the living room window. “Look, Mom. Ms. Jenna is saying hello and making the man feel welcome.”
So she is. Clearly smelling fresh blood, the newly-divorced Jenna is sauntering up the street toward the man, offering him a friendly wave and, with her zipper jacket pulled low, an eyeful of impressive cleavage. She’s carrying a container of baked goods.
“I bet it’s her almond cookies,” Lisset says. “She’s famous for them.”
She’s famous for something else too, but that’s not for Lisset to know.
The man flashes Jenna a warm smile as he accepts the container from her. Her whole face lights up and she touches his arm, engaging him in conversation.
