Best Kind of Broken Read online

  Best Kind of Broken

  Chelsea Fine

  To Suzie, for believing in me from the beginning.

  Here’s to all the endings that have yet to come.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, thank you to my beautiful readers, for believing in my stories and giving me the very best job in the whole world! I couldn’t do this without you—and I wouldn’t want to. Thank you for being a part of my storytelling journey.

  Thank you to Lynsey Newton, for reading this story before anyone else and telling me it was worth finishing. You are more valuable than you know.

  Thank you to my girls in Room 718, Heather Hildenbrand, Angeline Kace, Kate Copsey, and Heather Self, for sharing laughter and tears with me every year at UtopYA. You make this thing we call “work” ridiculously fun.

  Thank you to Janet Wallace, for creating UtopYA and giving me a place to become great—and cry, of course. You always make me cry, woman! You are amazing, and I hope to someday change the world like you. One cup at a time…

  Thank you to my amazing agent, Suzie Townsend (to whom this book is dedicated), for… well, everything. You make my dreams come true, and then you make them come true again. You’re kind of like a genie. A really rad New York genie.

  Thank you to my editor, Megha Parekh, for making this book what it is. You are brilliant, and I’d be lost without you.

  Thank you to my good pal Kristen, for the many years of friendship. I would be a crazy person without you. I mean, sure. I’m a crazy person with you, but that’s beside the point. PRIME RIB!

  Thank you to my siblings, Kiele, Heath, and Jorden, for constantly showing me what unconditional love is capable of. We are winners.

  Thank you to Cameron, my very first friend. You keep me together, which isn’t easy, and you do it with honesty and humor. I love you, I love you, I love your guts.

  Thank you to my wonderful mom, for being the best mother in the universe. You have always been there for me, no matter what, and because of you my life has been beyond blessed. Oh! And thanks for reading this book and crying in all the right places. You get me, Mama. You totally get me.

  Thank you to my grandparents Johnny and Milly, for a lifetime of love and encouragement. Thank you for letting me run through the sheets on your clothesline and dream out loud on your porch swing. Your home is where my heart learned how to fly, and I love you both more than words could ever say.

  Thank you to my incredible children, Kiana and Caleb, who inspire me to believe in everything—including myself. Dream big, my littles. The stars are yours.

  And finally, thank you to the man who is the other half of my soul. Brett, you never cease to amaze me with your patience and wisdom, and I could not do any of this without you. Thanks for sharing the human experience with me and for encouraging me to find more than what I see. Here’s to all the adventures ahead!

  1

  Pixie

  If my bastard neighbor uses all the hot water again, I will suffocate him in his sleep.

  I listen as the shower finally goes off and huff my way around my room, gathering my shower supplies. I don’t politely wait for him to leave the bathroom, oh no. I stand outside the bathroom door—which has steam escaping from the crack at the bottom—with a carefully applied scowl and wait.

  Still waiting.

  The door swings open to a perfect male body emerging from a billow of hot fog. His dark hair is loose and wet and frames his face in a haphazard way that manages to look sexy despite the fact that he probably shook it out like a dog before opening the door, and of course he’s wearing nothing but a towel.

  Kill me now.

  I peek into the bathroom, totally pissed, and block his exit with my body. “A thirty-minute shower, Levi? What the hell?”

  A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “I was dirty.”

  Oh, I bet.

  “I swear to God,” I say, “if I have to take another cold shower—”

  “You shouldn’t swear to God, Pix.” He brings his face close to mine and the steam from his skin dampens my nose and cheeks. “It’s not nice.”

  This close up, I can see the tiny silver flecks in his otherwise bright blue eyes and almost feel the three-day scruff that shadows his jaw. Not that I want to feel his scruff. Ever.

  I curl my lip. “I want a hot shower.”

  “Then shower at night.”

  “I’m not kidding, Levi.”

  “Neither am I.” His eyes slide to my mouth for a moment—a split second—and there it is. The electricity. The humming vibration that never used to exist between us.

  He snaps his eyes away and pulls back. The damp heat from his body pulls away as well, and some stupid, primal part of me whines in protest.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He waits for me to move out of his way. I don’t.

  I jab my finger at his chest. “I haven’t had a hot shower for three days—”

  Cupping my upper arms, he lifts me off the floor and moves me out of his way like I’m light as a feather. Then he walks the ten paces down the hall to his room and disappears inside without a look back.

  Jackass.

  With a muttered curse, I stomp into the small bathroom and try not to enjoy the smell of spearmint wafting into my nose and settling on my skin. Damn Levi and his hot-smelling soap.

  My freshman year of college ended two weeks ago, and since Arizona State dorms don’t allow students to stay during the summer, I had to find a new place to live and, consequently, a job. So I started working for my aunt Ellen at Willow Inn because one of the job perks—and I use that term loosely—is free room and board.

  And my free room shares a hallway and a bathroom with the only person I was hoping to avoid for the rest of my life.

  Levi Andrews.

  Hot guy. Handyman. My long-lost… something.

  Ellen conveniently forgot to tell me that Levi lived at the inn, so the day I moved in was chock-full of surprises.

  Surprise! Levi lives here too.

  Surprise! You’ll be sleeping next door to him.

  Surprise! You’ll be sharing a sink, a shower, and a daily dose of weird sexual tension with him.

  Ellen is lucky I love her.

  Had I known that Levi lived and worked here, I never would have taken the job, let alone moved in. But Aunt Ellen is one conniving innkeeper and, honestly, my only other option was far less appealing. So here I am, living and working right alongside a walking piece of my past.

  Since we’re the only two resident employees, Levi and I are the only people who sleep in the east wing—a setup that might be ideal were it not for the giant elephant we keep sidestepping during these epic encounters of ours.

  Memories start creeping up the back of my neck, and a hot prickle forms behind my eyes. I quickly blink it back and turn on the shower, scanning the bathroom for safer things to focus on.

  Little blue dots on the wallpaper.

  Purple flowers on my bottle of shampoo.

  Dots. Flowers. Shampoo.

  With the threat of tears now under control, I thrust my hand into the shower and relax a tinge when hot water hits my fingers. Stripping off my pajamas, I step into the spray with high hopes¸ but water has just hit the right side of my neck when it goes from warm to ice-cold.

  Sonofabitch.

  There will be suffocation tonight. There will be misery and pain and a big fat pillow over Levi’s big fat scruffy face.

  Biting back a howl of frustration, I turn off the water and wrap a towel around my half-wet body. No way am I taking another cold shower. I’ll just have to be unclean today. I hastily grab my stuff and yank the bathroom door open just as Levi leans into the hallway.

  He’s traded in his towel for a pair of low
-slung jeans but hasn’t gotten around to throwing on a shirt, so I have to watch his chest muscles flex as he grips his bedroom doorframe.

  He looks me over with a smirk. “Done so soon?”

  I flip him off and enter my room, slamming the door behind me like a fourth grader.

  I throw on some clothes, pull my hair into a messy ponytail, and step into my paint-stained sneakers before looking myself over in the mirror. Ugh.

  I tug at the V-neck collar of my shirt for a good twenty seconds before giving up and changing into a crew-cut shirt instead. Much better.

  My phone chirps on the dresser, and I knock over a jar of paintbrushes as I reach for it. As I pick up my phone, paintbrushes go rolling off the dresser and onto the floor, where they join piles of discarded clothing and crumpled college applications. I glance at the text message and frown.

  Miss you.

  It’s from Matt.

  Miss you too, I text back. I do miss him. Sort of.

  Call me. I have news.

  I start to call Matt but pause when I hear Levi’s footsteps in the hallway, making their way back to the bathroom. I hear him plug something in, and the sound of his electric razor meets my ears. I set my phone back on the dresser as a wicked smile spreads across my face.

  Levi should know better by now. He really should.

  Casually moving around my room, I plug in every electric item I own and wait until he’s halfway through shaving. Then I turn everything on at once. The electricity immediately goes out and I hear the buzz of his razor die.

  “Dammit, Pixie!”

  Ah, the sweet sound of male irritation.

  Plastering on an innocent look, I open my door and peer across the hall to the bathroom. Levi looks ridiculous standing in the doorway in just his jeans—still no shirt—glowering at me with half of his face shaved.

  He stiffens his jaw. “Seriously?”

  I mock a look of sympathy. “You really should charge your razor every once in a while.” I exit my room and move down the hall, singing out, “Have fun rocking a half-beard all day.”

  As I head down the stairs, the wet side of my ponytail slaps against my neck with each step. Another smile pulls at my lips.

  If Levi wants to play, it’s on.

  2

  Levi

  Twelve days.

  Pixie’s been living here for only twelve days and I already want to stab myself with a spoon. Not because she keeps blowing the fuse, though that reoccurring shenanigan of hers is certainly stab-worthy, but because I can’t do normal around Pixie.

  But fighting? That I can do.

  After pulling a shirt on, I march downstairs and out the back door. The large lavender field behind the inn sways in the morning breeze, and thousands of purple flowers throw their scent into the wind, reminding me of things better left forgotten. Things I used to have locked down. So much for all that.

  I blame Ellen. Maybe if she’d given me a heads-up about Pixie moving in, I could have prepared better.

  Another breeze blows by and shoves more lavender up my nose.

  Or maybe not.

  The sky hangs above me, bright blue and free of clouds, and the early sun slants across the earth, casting a long shadow behind me as I walk the length of the building. I squint up at the white siding and notice one of the panels is cracked, which is nothing new.

  Willow Inn is nearly one hundred years old, and parts of it are just as broken as they are picturesque. It’s a quaint place, with white cladding and a wraparound porch beneath a blue-shingled roof, and it sits on ten acres of lavender fields and swaying willow trees. It has two wings of upstairs rooms and a main floor with the usual lobby, kitchen, and dining space.

  The newly remodeled west wing has seven bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. That’s where all the guests stay.

  The east wing has yet to be remodeled, which is why Ellen allows Pixie and me to stay there and why I’m a live-in employee. Along with my other handyman duties, I’m also helping Ellen gut the old east wing so she can have the area remodeled to accommodate private bathrooms in every room.

  I reach the fuse box at the edge of the inn and, flipping a breaker I’m far too familiar with, restore electricity to the east wing.

  Fortunately, all the gutting and redesigning requires the east wing to run on its own electricity and water supply, so guests are never affected by my hot water usage or Pixie’s electricity tantrums, but damn. We really need to find a less immature way to be around each other.

  I turn and follow my shadow back to the door, holding my breath as I pass the purple field. The wooden floors of the lobby are extra shiny as I walk inside, which means Eva, the girl who cleans the main house, probably came in early and left before anyone saw her. She’s tends to work stealthily like that, finishing her work before anyone wakes. Sometimes I envy Eva that. The solitude. The invisibility.

  Back inside, I see a figure up ahead, and a string of curse words line themselves up on my tongue.

  Daren Ackwood.

  I hate this douche bag and he’s headed right for me.

  “What’s happening, Andrews?” He gives me the chin nod like we go way back. We went to the same high school and I think we had a class together senior year, but we’re not pals. He looks over my partially shaved face. “What the hell happened to you?”

  “Pixie,” I say.

  He nods and looks around. “Is Sarah here?”

  Sarah is Pixie’s real name. The only people who’ve ever called her Pixie are me and Ellen and…

  “Why?” I cross my arms and eye the case of water he’s carrying. “Did she order water?”

  Daren is the inn gofer, delivering groceries and linens and anything else the place needs, so unfortunately he’s here twice a week with his preppy-boy jeans and nine coats of cologne. And he’s always looking for Pixie.

  “No, but you never know.” He lifts a cocky brow. “She might be thirsty.”

  “She’s not thirsty.”

  He looks over my facial hair again. “Oh, I think she’s thirsty.”

  And I think Daren’s throat needs to be stepped on.

  “Morning, Levi.” Ellen walks up with a smile and hands me my To Do list for the day. Her long dark hair slips over her shoulder as she turns and throws a courteous smile to the gofer. “Hey, Daren.”

  “Hey, Miss Marshall.”

  As Ellen starts talking to me about the fire alarm, I watch Daren’s eyes cruise down her body and linger in places they have no business lingering in.

  More than his throat needs to be stepped on.

  Ellen Marshall is a very attractive forty-year-old who’s used to guys checking her out. Not me, of course—Ellen’s like family to me and I respect her—but pretty much any other guy who sees her instantly fantasizes about her, which pisses me off.

  “… because the system is outdated,” Ellen says.

  “Routine check on the fire alarms,” I say, my eyes fixed on Daren, who is still ogling her. “Got it.”

  “Can I help you with something?” Ellen smiles sharply at him. “Looks like your eyes are lost.”

  He readjusts his gaze. “Uh, no, ma’am. I was just wondering where Sarah was.”

  “Sarah is working. And so are you.” Her hazel eyes drop to the case of water. “Why don’t you take that to the dining room? I think Angelo is stocking the bar this morning.”

  He gives a single nod and walks off.

  Ellen turns back to me and looks over my face. “Nice beard,” she says. “Pixie?”

  I rub a hand down the smooth side of my jaw. “Yeah.”

  She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Levi—”

  “I’ll check out the fire alarms after I finish shaving,” I say, quickly cutting her off. Because I don’t have the time, or the balls, to undergo the conversation she wants to have with me. “Later.” I don’t give her a chance to respond as I turn and head for the stairs.

  Back in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head.
Pixie timed it perfectly, I’ll give her that. My facial hair is literally half-gone. I look like a before and after razor ad.

  I think back to the irritated expression on her face and a small smile tugs at my lips. She was so frustrated, waiting outside the bathroom door with her flushed cheeks and full lips and indignant green eyes…

  Why does she have to be so goddamn pretty?

  I turn on the razor and run the blades down my jaw, thinking back to the first time I saw those indignant eyes cut into mine. My smile fades.

  Pixie was six. I was seven. And my Transformers were missing.

  I remember running around the house, completely panicked that I had lost my favorite toys, until I came upon Pixie sitting cross-legged in the front room with my very manly robots set up alongside her very dumb dolls.

  I immediately called in the authorities—“Mom! Pixie took my Transformers!”—and wasted no time rescuing my toys from the clutches of the pink vomit that was Barbie.

  “Hey!” She tried to pry them from my hands. “Those are the protectors. They kill all the bad guys. My dolls need them!”

  “Your dolls are stupid. Stop taking my things. Mom! Mom!”

  Haunted eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I slowly finish shaving.

  I wish I would have known back then how significant Pixie was going to be.

  I wish I would have known a lot of things.

  3

  Pixie

  I enter the kitchen and grab my apron off the wall. It’s bright yellow with dozens of red cherries all over it and trimmed with ruffles. It’s the happiest apron in the world and my name is written in permanent marker on the front. Gah.

  “Good morning!” Mable looks up from a bowl of egg yolks with a smile. Her thick, gray hair is pulled back in a bun, and her chubby cheeks are rosy like always. She reminds me of a sassy Mrs. Claus—minus the furry red dress and spectacles.

  “Morning.” I tie the yellow-and-cherry madness around my waist before moving to the industrial-sized sink in the corner to wash my hands.

  I’ve known Mable, and pretty much every other inn employee, my entire life. Nearly everyone Ellen hires is from our hometown—a tiny dot on the map named Copper Springs. It’s a typical small town, with struggling business owners, troublemaking teenagers, and churchgoing folks who pray for both. And it’s a place I’d be fine never visiting again.