Page 66 of A Little Broken

“Do you think he should pick Mercedes over his need for revenge?”

Nibbling my bottom lip, I consider his question and steal another peek at the boy beside me. “I mean, because of his best friend, he was locked up for years. He has every right to be pissed.”

“True,” Archer concedes. “I dunno, though. Part of me wonders if living out the rest of his life with Mercedes would’ve been worth letting his grudge go.” He smiles. “But Iama sucker for a pretty face, so…maybe I’m part of the problem?”

I laugh. “You’re never part of the problem.”

“So confident,” he teases.

I look back at my book, unable to hold his gaze for another second. “Hardly.”

“You should be,” he pushes. “You’re a catch, Tatum Taylor. There will be plenty of guys lining up to take you out, and I’m sure they’ll be more than willing to let go of their grudges if it lets them have a chance with you.” Dropping his voice low, he adds, “Once you get to college.”

The memory makes my eyes burn, but I blink the feeling away. I shouldn’t—I know I shouldn’t—but the reading nookoverlooking the ocean calls to me. I slip my shoes off, curl up on the cushion, and open the book.

“Hey! You here?”someone yells.

I jerk up in response and rub at my eyes. I have no idea what time it is, but the sun’s set, painting the room in different shades of gray.

Holy shit, it’s late. Like, really late, considering I sat down around 5 pm. I fucked up.

I reach down and grab the heel of my left shoe, trying to shove my foot into it as quickly as possible. The sound of footsteps echoes from the stairs, acting like gasoline on my already frazzled brain. My pulse gallops, and I reach for the second shoe.

“Yo? Where are you?” the same masculine voice calls. He’s closer now. Right outside the door. A shadow moves along the crack, and my throat swells.

I’m so screwed.

Shoving my heel into my sneaker, I stand as the door’s hinges squeak softly. Then, there he is. The owner of the house. Who just caught his house cleaner literally asleep on the job.

Please don’t fire me.

I smooth my shirt out, peeking up at the stranger. “Hi.”

With a small smirk, he rests his shoulder against the doorjamb, assessing me. “Hello.”

A shiver races down my spine as I take in the man’s strong jaw and long throat. The top two buttons on his white dress shirt are undone, giving me a perfect view of his dark skin. With black curly hair and chocolate brown eyes, a heavy dose of arrogancewafts off him. Why wouldn’t it? The man’s drop-dead gorgeous and clearly filthy rich if his home is anything to go by.

“And you are?” he prods.

“I, uh, I’m the maid,” I announce. “Tatum.”

“Roman.” His long legs eat up the distance as he strides toward me, offering his hand. When I take it, he adds, “Nice to meet you, Tatum the maid.”

“You, too.” I gulp and slowly slip my hand from his grasp. “I should…get going.”

“You from around here?” he prods.

“Yes and no.”

“I haven’t seen you before.” He drops his voice an octave lower, though I have no idea how it’s even possible, turning his already silky voice into velvet. “And I know everyone in this town.”

My gaze flicks up to him. Holy shit, this guy’s tall. Clearing my throat, I ask, “Do you want me to leave the hide-a-key on the kitchen counter or would you like me to lock up?”

Rocking back on his heels, he tucks his hands into the front pockets of his charcoal slacks. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m, uh, I’m finished for the day, so, yes. Yes, I’m leaving. Have a great evening…”

Shit, what was his name?

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