Page 6 of What We Break
The heroine is a travel writer who's afraid of commitment. The hero is a small-town guy who's never left home. I know how it ends. I always know how it ends. I actually checked — flipped to the last chapter before I started reading, because I refuse to invest two hundred pages of emotional energy into a couple that doesn't make it. Life has enough uncertainty. I have to have a happily ever after.
That probably says something about me. I'm choosing not to examine it.
Right now, the hero just showed up at the airport with ahandwritten letter and I aminvested. Like, embarrassingly invested. Talking-to-the-book invested.
"Just read it," I say to the page. "Stop being dramatic and read the letter."
She reads the letter.
"Oh.Oh, that's good. That's really good. You don't deserve him but I'm rooting for you anyway."
This is what my Friday night looks like. Alone on a couch, talking to fictional people, eating two-day-old pasta in my underwear.
And honestly?
I'm tickled frickin' pink about it.
2
REID
"Morning, sunshine," Blake rumbles from his spot at the island.
I squint at the window. The sun is definitely on its way down, casting long, golden shadows across the kitchen floor. It’s 5:00 PM, which means my body is screaming that it’s time for dinner, but my schedule says it’s time for breakfast.
"It's not morning," I groan, sliding into the kitchen in my boxers. I flop my upper body onto the granite of the island, cheek pressed against it. So cold. So good. "The sun is setting. The birds are going to sleep. Normal people are drinking beer on patios. I hate everything." Why is work a thing? Why did I agree to this stupid shift?
"Coffee's in the pot. It’s strong."
I push myself upright—too fast, the room does a little tilt—and grab a mug from the rack. "Did you put the jet fuel in it?"
"Hazelnut and hate. Just how you like it."
I pour the sludge. It’s thick, dark, and smells like death. But if I survive it, it’ll sure as fuck wake me up. I grab the sugar bowl and dump three heaping spoonfuls in, stirring aggressive circles until the spoon clinks a rhythm against the ceramic. "You're a good man, Blake Moore. A dark, twisted, sawdust-covered saint."
I hop up onto the counter—chairs are so last year—and swing my legs, kicking my heels against the cabinet. Blake is sketching, his hand moving in precise, scratching strokes. He always looks calmest when he's got a pencil in his hand. It's probably all a lie and inside he's a seething ball of angst.
A seething ball of angst covered in sawdust. And actual chunks of wood.
"You look like a fire hazard."
For the last five years, anywhere Blake is smells like a lumberyard. Actually, even longer than that. When we were growing up, he'd smell like this after working with his Grandpa on one project or another. Woodworking's in the man's blood. But seriously, would it kill him to shake it off a little?
"What time is your shift?" he asks, not looking up.
"Seven to seven. The vampire shift." I take a sip of coffee and suck back a cough. It's stronger than normal, hitting me like a kick to the chest. Yep. That's going to do the job. "Why did I agree to this? I am not a night person. I need sunlight. I’m basically a houseplant with anxiety."
The bastard still doesn't look up. Can't he see I'm over here having a breakdown? "You took the shift because you need the overtime money for the new water heater."
Right. The water heater. That fucker's had it out for me, and it finally quit in a spectacular flood.
"I still think I could have fixed it with the Gorilla Tape." I so don't. The last time I tried to use that stuff I stuck my thumb to my palm and had to get Tony to cut me free. But am I going to wind Blake up by telling him I had it handled? Damn right I am. "I had the leak contained. It was a structural patch."
"You cannot tape a pressurized tank, Reid. You created a bomb. A wet, rusty bomb."
"Not with that attitude, you can't." I slide off the counter and walk over to him, leaning my entire body weight against his shoulder to peer at the sketch. "What are we building? A throne? A trebuchet?"
"Mantelpiece," he corrects, finally looking up. He looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes deep, but his eyes are peaceful.
