Page 88 of A Little Broken

Thought you might appreciate this.

A link to a news article shines back at me, making my brows pinch before I click on the tiny, granulated image. It only takes a second to load, and when it does, I cover my mouth to keep from cackling. Front and center is a photo of Paxton walking into a salon, the tips of his yellowish green hair on full display beneath a worn baseball hat.

Oh my hell, this is even better than I expected. Scrolling up, I read the title of the article. The Infamous Paxton Six is Known for His Laid-back Style, But Even His Rugged Good Looks Can’t Save Him From the Green Monstrosity Hidden Beneath his Sexy Baseball Hat.

Unable to help myself, I scroll back to the photo and take a screenshot for safekeeping. Tucking my phone back into my pocket, I open the front door. In the foyer, there’s a table and sitting on top of it is a box. Curious, I inch closer, ignoring my erratic heart rate. Like, seriously. Pick a speed, dammit. This slow and fast thing is making me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the envelope attached to the box glaring at me. My name is scrawled across the top in big, blocky handwriting. Who knew handwriting could be sexy? I drag my finger along the bold letters, slip my nail beneath the edge, and pull the note out.

Hey, Birthday Girl -

I’ll be a few minutes late. Had to run to my hairdresser after a strange mishap. Still not sure how green dye got into my shampoo, but it seems one of my employees has a vendetta against me. Because of this, I’ve decided it’s best if I run a tighter ship around here. Inside is your new uniform. And before you ask…yes. If Roman decides he everwants to work for me, he’ll be required to wear the same attire.

Start in the bathrooms, yeah?

-Pax

AKA your boss.

Now, be a good girl and do as you’re told.

I tuck the note back inside the envelope, then set it beside the box, my curiosity getting the best of me. I should know better by now than to let it happen, but I can’t help myself. Pax should’ve fired me after the stunt I pulled. Yet, here I am, opening a box from the devil himself.

When I lift the top off, I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. It’s a black and white, frilly French maid outfit, complete with thigh-high stockings, a tiny white apron, and kitten heels.

Wow.

I pull the outfit from the box, examining the lacy fringe and low-cut top. Part of me wants to kill him. The other wants to slip it on just to drive the asshole crazy because I have no doubt I’ll look incredible in this.

I weigh my options, and my mouth lifts into a grin.

All right, Pax. You want to play? Well, buckle up, buddy.

He won’t know what hit him.

Okay,so maybe this was a bad idea. I unplug the vacuum in time to hear the stairs creak.

“Honey, I’m home,” Pax calls. “And it seems you forgot your?—”

He freezes on the top stair, his eyes flaring with heat. “What are you doing?”

“The outfit didn’t fit,” I lie. “Figured this was the next best thing.”

His eyes stay glued to my chest. “You’re topless.”

I look down at my boobs. “Am I?”

Scratching his jaw, the man doesn’t even bother trying to hide his interest as he moves closer. “Is this you getting back at me for the dishes thing?”

“No, breaking your dishes was getting back at you for the dishes thing.” I beam down at him. “This is me making my own rules.”

“Birthday Girl, if this is how you look making your own rules, I’ll play whatever game you want.”

It shouldn't be so enticing. The way he knows when to cave and when to stand his ground. When to push and when to give in. Hell, it makes me feel like a freaking yo-yo—again—but this time, I kind of like it. Honestly, I like it more than I care to admit.

“If you’ll excuse me.” I move past him, fisting the rag in my hand as I head into the music room. When he joins me, I keep my surprise locked down and head toward the guitars, wiping each of them and removing any fingerprints or dust that might’ve accumulated since last week.

Once I’m finished, I peek over my shoulder to find Pax readingThe Count of Monte Cristonext to the window. The green dye from his hair is gone, covered with a sandy-blonde looking so damn natural, it’s not even fair. I wonder how much he had to pay to get the appointment so quickly. It’s not like he got the color from a walk-in salon. Nope, despite the man’s best intentions to wear his rockstar title proudly, he’s far fromflashy. Honestly, I’ve rarely seen him in anything but a T-shirt and jeans, and not the expensive kind, either. The fact he likely had to pay a premium to a stylist because of me is the exact thing I need to get through today.

“Am I paying you to stare?” he asks without bothering to look up at me.

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