Page 111 of A Little Broken

Reading between the lines, Tatum says, “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

I break the last of my bagel into small pieces, tossing them one by one into the water. “Judge’s family is close, even if they do hate each other. When his nephews started stirring up shit, Judge’s brother, Titas, called him home to keep the boys in line.”

Her brows pull. “Aren’t the boys adults?”

“In age, yeah,” I reply. “But they’re also loose cannons, and since they’re expected to take over the family business once they graduate, their personas matter.”

“And they aren’t meeting their father’s expectations,” she concludes.

“Exactly. They’re too busy fucking shit up, which is why Judge is here.” I hesitate. “It’s why I’m here, too.”

Like the little detective she is, she tilts her head, collecting more pieces than I’m putting down, despite my intentional ambiguity. “And what do you have to do with Judge’s nephews?”

“Judge’s family is hoping the extra publicity from the band will be enough to keep the boys’ sideline shit where it belongs—on the sidelines and out of the public eye.”

She bites back her scoff. “They really think that’ll work?”

I shrug. “It’s Judge’s family, not mine, although it doesn’t hurt that we’re killing two birds with one stone, either.”

“What do you mean?”

“If we’re able to stay relevant in the gossip magazines, it’ll help our fans not forget about us. Or so I’m told.”

“That’s a thing?”

“You have no idea.” I shake my head. “Mindy, the band’s publicist, insists all publicity is good publicity.”

“Oh, then I’m sure you’re her favorite,” she teases.

I scratch my temple. “I dunno. Dodge and Tuke put up a pretty good fight for first place.”

“Not Judge?” she assumes.

“Not even close,” I admit with a laugh.

“Well, I still think you win first place on that front,” she replies. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the paparazzi outside your gate, anxious to catch a glimpse of the infamous Paxton Six.” She pauses. “Which I assume is not your real last name, right?”

“Turner,” I tell her.

“Turner. Got it.” She hesitates again, as if making a mental note, then clears her throat. “Although, Paxton Turner, the photos of you walking into the salon with green hair are probably my favorite leaked photos to date.”

My eyes widen. “You saw those, huh?”

“Yup.” She brings her fingertips to her mouth and kisses them. “They were chef’s kiss, let me tell ya.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” she returns shamelessly. “But my point stands. Seems you're good at creating buzz just by being here.”

“I’m trying.” I shrug. “But I’ve been a little preoccupied pursuing my maid, so…”

She beams at the thought before it turns sassy, and she counters, “Sounds very boring.”

A bark of laughter escapes me. “Hardly.”

She joins in, the lightness of her laugh acting like a cool glass of water on a hot day. To be honest, after last night’s spiral, I wasn’t sure I’d see this side of her again. The glimpse is refreshing. And more addictive than I want to admit.

“So, what does the great and powerful Pax do when he isn’t playing rockstar, or trying to keep the public eye on him instead of his bandmate’s nephews?” she prods as we make our way down the coastline.

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