Page 41 of A Little Broken

“Mm-hmm,” I hum, mimicking her. “Well, I should probably get back to cleaning the house.”

“Cleaning the house?” my mom laughs. “Come on, Tatum. Surely you can come up with a better lie.”

“Okay, you really want to know what I’m going to do for the next two hours?” I ask.

“Hit us with it,” my dad replies.

“I’m going to scroll social media and brain rot. Both of which are more interesting than this conversation. I was trying not to hurt your feelings by saying I needed to be doing something productive, but…” My dad’s bark of amusement teases a smile from me as I shift my phone to my opposite ear. “I’ll call you guys on Sunday, okay?”

“Deal,” they say in unison. “Love you, baby!”

“Love you, too.”

11

TATUM

Okay, it’s official. Rich people are way too trusting. Or maybe it’s my boss who’s lost her marbles. Who sends an address, gate code, and the location of a hide-a-key in an email labeled important info? My employer, that’s who. Or maybe I think too much like a shady person, and I’m the problem. Who knows? Regardless, I’m late. Pressing a little harder on the gas, I try to stay focused on the winding road, though my eyes keep straying to the houses lining either side. Mustard yellow, lavender gray, hydrangea blue, sage green, and creamy white colonial style houses. Each is gated with stretching green lawns leading to the front of picture-perfect homes and expertly manicured flower beds that look straight out of an agriculture magazine.

Absolutely—and annoyingly—gorgeous.

When I reach the address, I roll down the driver’s window and type the gate code into the keypad.

The wrought iron gate jerks to life, opening and letting me enter the pristine fortress as the ocean air filters through the open driver’s side window and into the cab of Rory’s car. Thank goodness she’s able to walk to and from her classes without needing a vehicle. Seriously, I owe her one. Or you know, athousand. Salt clings to the air, and I breathe in deep, grateful my best friend decided to settle down somewhere so freaking beautiful.

Once I pull into the driveway, I cut the engine and grab a cleaning bin from the backseat loaded with all the supplies listed in my employer’s email. Heading to the side of the yard, I search for the not-so-well-disguised rock beneath a hydrangea. I pick it up and flip it over. The hide-a-key is inside like the email said it would be. Satisfied, I walk up the stone steps to the front door and insert the key. It works. My lips part as I take in the tall ceiling, winding wood stairs, and floor-to-ceiling windows giving the perfect view of the backyard, which happens to be the freaking ocean.

“Holy shit.”

Don’t get me wrong. My dad played NHL hockey. We’re definitely comfortable financially, and I was exposed to plenty of fancy shindigs, experienced a plethora of extravagant vacations, and had some pretty epic birthday parties. Not to mention the fact that my parents’ best friends included other professional hockey players. And the Buchanans. Who are the Buchanans, you might ask? They’re Rory’s parents, who are freaking bajillionaires. So, yeah. I’m used to expensive shit. But this? This is something else entirely. Maybe it’s the view. Maybe something in the air is going to my head. Maybe it’s because the ambiance isn’t tainted by being located in Lockwood Heights so I can actually appreciate it instead of resenting it. Honestly, I don’t really care about the reasons. All I know is I am officially speechless.

“That’s it. I’m moving in,” I announce to the empty house when my phone rings.

Setting the bin of cleaning supplies on the marble floor, I pat my pockets and pull out my cell, finding my best friend’s gorgeous face staring back at me from the screen.

“Hey, Rore,” I answer.

“Hey! How’s the place?”

“Uh, freaking beautiful?” I offer. “I’ve already decided I’m moving in.”

“Already, huh?” she quips.

“It’s not like you couldn’t use the extra space.” I head up the stairs but stop at the landing. There’s a perfect view of the waves lazily rolling in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. “So, is the sky bluer here? Is the sand whiter or something?”

“What are you talking about?” Rory asks with a laugh.

“I’m just saying, the colors I’m seeing from this view are so picturesque, I might actually vomit.”

“Just as long as you clean it up,” she replies.

With a scoff, I continue my journey to the second floor. There’s another couch, television, and bookshelf in the middle of the space, along with a handful of doors leading to various rooms. I peek inside the first one.

“So? How is it?” Rory prods.

“Massive bed. Massive window. Massive fluffy rug. Massive closet. Massive bathroom.” I tick off everything I see like it’s my grocery list, though I’m more than impressed. “Wanna bet when the owner’s home, there’s a massive ego in here, too?”

She snorts. “Nice.”

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