The Heartbreaker

  The Heartbreaker

  Pucker Up Series

  Sara Hubbard

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Excerpt from The Player

  About the Author

  Also by Sara Hubbard

  THE HEARTBREAKER

  Copyright © 2020 by Sara Hubbard

  Cover Design by Cover Couture

  Photo © Shutterstock/Tryam

  Photo © Shutterstock/Maksym Azovtsev

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-988212-32-6

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real in any way. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  The following novel contains strong language and sexual situations. It is recommended for ages 17+.

  Created with Vellum

  One

  I glance out the long picture window of the Firefly Cafe to watch the snow fall outside. As a car passes by, slush sprays outward and nearly hits the cafe window. I love the snow, but I could do without the slush and the cold. Thankfully, I’m inside near the electric fireplace and I’m toasty warm as I try to break into a local accountant’s social media accounts from my laptop.

  I’ve been sitting in the same spot for hours and my butt is getting sore, but I don’t want to move. I’m just too damn comfy. Earlier, when it was busier, I debated leaving, but now it’s nearly eleven o’clock and the crowd has long since gone. The only people who remain are me and my aunt, Claire. She owns the place.

  Sick with a cold, she sniffles as she sweeps the floor near where I’m seated. I glance up at her and notice her puffy eyes and red-rimmed nose. I didn’t notice how awful she looked earlier, but that’s probably because she spends most of her time in the kitchen. She’s such a hard worker. I doubt she’s worked less than fourteen hours a day since she bought this place six months ago. I have mad respect for her; she wanted more than a shitty minimum wage, so she worked her ass off, got a loan, and bought this place. I only hope one day I’ll be able to turn my dreams into a reality, too.

  “Take a seat,” I tell her as I push out the chair across from me with the tip of one of my black boots.

  She debates it before trudging closer and all but falling onto it. After leaning back, she exhales loudly. Congestion crackles from somewhere deep in her lungs.

  “You need to go home,” I tell her.

  “Another hour.”

  I shake my head at her.

  “I’ll be fine,” she says. “Though you should get out of here. I don’t like you walking home late at night.”

  “I have a rape whistle.”

  She raises her eyebrows. “Well, that makes me feel tons better. Shouldn’t you be out with friends, anyhow? It’s Saturday night. A year and a half at university, and I’ve never met a single one of your friends yet.”

  I shrug my shoulders because I’m not sure how to respond to that.

  “Are you dating?”

  “I’d have told you if I were.” I lower the screen of my laptop and meet her eyes.

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  No, I probably wouldn’t. “I’m too busy with work and school to socialize.” That’s not exactly true. What is true is that my sole focus right now is getting my degree and working enough to make sure I can pay for it. So far, I’m falling behind. I could always move back in with Claire, but that’s not fair. She has enough to worry about, and she’s already done so much for me. She was kind enough to take me in as a teen, but she doesn’t need to keep helping a grown adult who isn’t her own kid. I’m not her responsibility.

  “Marla, I worry about you,” she says.

  “Don’t. And stop focusing on me,” I say. “We were talking about you. Go home before you spread your germs all over the place and the town starts calling you Typhoid Mary.”

  “Who?”

  “Typhoid Mary? She was a cook who was sick and infected all the people she cooked for?”

  She stares at me with a blank look on her face.

  “She killed people?”

  She blinks.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell?” I say.

  “I have no clue who you’re talking about, but I guess that’s why you’re the smarty pants in university and I’m slaving in a kitchen.”

  “In a kitchen you own,” I say with a slight smile.

  She returns it. “I do own it, don’t I?”

  I nod.

  She looks around the space, and her smile builds as if she’s appraising her achievements. Her chest puffs up just a touch. She’s proud and should be. She might be the most accomplished person in our whole family.

  Her face contorts moments later. She inhales sharply before releasing a grand sneeze that echoes through the entire space.

  I groan. “I’m not playing nice anymore. Go home. This place won’t fall apart if you close early.”

  “I’ll lose trust. If I say we’re open until twelve, then we’re open until twelve.”

  Like most cafes, she sees most of her customers in the morning and early afternoon. I don’t really know why she insists on staying open so late.

  “What if I close for you?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” she says as she sucks in her lips and thinks it over.

  I know she trusts me, and I’m more than capable of closing the place even though I’ve never done it before. Closing the store is the least I can do for her after all she does—and has done—for me. At fifteen, when I had no place to live, she welcomed me with open arms. She served as a mother to me when, for all intents and purposes, I had none. I might not have experience with service or am overly comfortable around strangers, but how hard can it be?

  My gaze flickers up at the clock. “You close in less than an hour. I probably won’t even get a single customer in here.”

  “You don’t know how to work the cash register.”

  I chuckle at that. “I’m a computer whiz. I’ll figure it out. If someone comes in, how hard will it be for me to serve them a coffee and a donut and take their money?”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hell, I’ll even mop and wipe down the counters.”

  She heaves a weary sigh and tosses up her hands. “Okay. You convinced me.”

  I smile at her. I didn’t think she’d go for it, but I’m glad common sense won out. “Really?”

  She sniffs and nods. “Thank you.”

  Her gratitude makes my cheeks flame because I don’t need it. Doesn’t she realize I would do anything to make her life easier?

  She pushes herself up out of her seat and hangs her head before plodding to the kitchen in the back. The sound of her coughing travels through the walls and permeates the small open seating area. My chest squeezes hearing it. I’m sure she—and anyone else who’s ever known me—thinks I’m cold and insensitive because I have trouble expressing how I feel. The truth is I feel—a lot. And right now I want her to get better. I know she’ll be back here tomorrow to put in another fourteen hours of work, and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. She might be more stubborn than I am.

  When she returns, she hands me the keys. “The code for the alarm is six, seven, five, eight,” she says. “Make sure you leave within three minutes of setting it. After you leave, look through the door at the alarm. The light should be green.”

  “Six, seven, five, eight. Got it.”

  “Thanks so much, Marla. I sure could use the sleep.”

  “No worries. And maybe if you need more help, I could lend a hand around here. You wouldn’t even have to pay me,” I say with a grin.

  She shakes her head and her expression becomes stern. “No. You’re too busy. You need to keep up those grades. Maybe next year you’ll get that scholarship you’ve been hoping for.”

  “Sure.”

  “And then maybe you can work a little less for that PI guy.”

  “Sam pays me really well,” I say, because he does. Yet, even with the money I get from him for freelancing, I’m still behind on my tuition payments. I have thousands left to pay over the next couple of months or I won’t get my marks for the term in April, and then I won’t be able to continue school in September.

  “Of course, he pays you well,” she says. “You give him information he couldn’t get anywhere else, but if the police ever find out you’re getting information from hacking, you’ll be in jail.” She lowers her voice, and it takes on a softer tone, as though she’s reluctant to state the obvious, “Like your dad.”

  I swallow hard and scratch an itch on my eyebrow. I don’t talk about my father so I gloss right over that. And to be fair, he was never much of a father to begin with. She furrows her brow, and though I could take her comment as judgmental,
her face says something entirely different. But I still feel the need to justify my actions. “Sam’s a good guy. Sometimes he just needs a little help pointing him in the right direction.”

  She frowns at me.

  “Go home and go to bed, okay?” I say, hoping to end the conversation quickly.

  She pulls me into a hug and keeps me in her bubble a little longer than I like. I didn’t grow up with affection. The family I had often ignored me. For as long as I can remember, Claire is the only one who’s ever hugged me. Even guys I’ve dated never did it. Though, to be fair, the guys in my life were never long-term and they were more about sex than love. I preferred it that way. Still do. Hugging is just too intimate.

  “Thanks, Marla.”

  “You bet. I’ll drop the key off in the morning.”

  “Sure. Or whenever you can. I have a spare.” She lets me go and walks out the door. I follow her with my eyes as she walks by the window. She lives near the end of the street, above the laundromat.

  I let my gaze wander around the café. The floors are terrible and some of the tables have yet to be wiped down. I shut down my computer and tuck it, and my scrambler, into my book bag before I grab a cloth and start wiping down the countertops. Before long, I have the mop and bucket out and I’m putting the chairs on the tables upside down. I leave a couple of chairs down—just in case—though it’s twenty to twelve and unlikely I’ll see anyone now.

  The floors are shiny when I’m done. Of course, that’s when a customer comes in with dirty shoes. I sigh and guide the mop in the bucket behind the counter. I glance back at him and only see a set of wide shoulders on the back of a tall, lean body.

  “I’ll be with you in a minute,” I call out to him.

  He waves at me over his shoulder and mumbles something before he takes a seat at one of the few booths on the right side of the space. Something about him is familiar, even from behind. Maybe it’s his golden waves. Who has sun-kissed hair in January in Nova Scotia? He slumps forward to rest his elbows on the table and bows his head. He looks like he’s having a rough night so I immediately soften to him. I’ve had my fair share. Sighing, I grab the coffee pot and the tallest mug we have before plodding over to him. A few feet away, I stop and he looks up. My jaw drops.

  Crystal blue eyes stare up at me. But they aren’t what surprise me. What surprises me is the blackened flesh around his right eye and the swollen lid he can barely see through. On his cheek, a short scratch frosts his bright red and angry cheek. His left hand is bloodied and cut up on his knuckles. Frown lines appear on his forehead and his face pales. He looks at me wide-eyed, like he’s seen a ghost.

  I realize I know him, but only a little. I’ve seen girls point at him in glass, chat about him, call him a man-whore. A heartbreaker. I’ve heard girls say he’s only good for one thing, but boy is he good at that one thing.

  He clears his throat and shakes off whatever is going on in his pretty head. His color starts to return.

  I set the coffee mug down in front of him and pour coffee until it reaches the brim. Some servers might ask him questions or offer him a shoulder to cry on. That’s not me. Perhaps that’s why the only service job I had I got fired from. I hate conversation for the sake of conversation.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  I nod stiffly and leave him momentarily to head out back. I find an ice pack in the large walk-in fridge and wrap it in a hand towel. I also grab the first aid kit. When I return to him, I hope to God he hasn’t stolen anything. Though he doesn’t strike me as a thief. His black winter jacket is torn on the shoulder, but I saw the brand name on his chest and recognized it as expensive. I also didn’t miss the designer watch on his wrist that probably cost more than Claire’s three-year-old Honda.

  He slowly sips his coffee as I return.

  I hand him the ice pack.

  He wiggles his jaw back and forth before taking it. When his chilly fingers brush against mine, I pull away quickly.

  “You’re like my guardian angel tonight,” he says.

  “You want help with the hand?”

  He sets his mug down and holds his hands out to flex his fingers. “Sure, if you’re offering. I’m not in the mood to sit in the emergency room for something as minor as this.”

  “Minor? You look like you got jumped.”

  He chuckles. “You should see the other guy.”

  I roll my eyes. Such a guy thing to say. I sit in the chair opposite him and hold out my hand. “Give me your hand.”

  He doesn’t hesitate. He slides it across the table until it’s near the edge and right in front of me. It doesn’t look so bad. Just a lot of dried blood. I open the first aid kit and push things around until I find some saline. I grab some napkins and put them under his hand. He keeps his eyes on me. I can’t read his expression so I ignore it.

  “I’m Tate. Tate Donovan,” he says.

  “Marla.”

  He’s skinned his knuckles and they’re swollen, but I don’t think any of his bones are broken. Gently, I take his hand and lift it up. It’s an odd thing to hold the hand of a stranger, but I’ve bandaged up fight injuries so many times my instincts take over.

  He studies me. “Have we met before?”

  “That’s original,” I say.

  “No, I’m serious. I’m not good with names.”

  That must be really inconvenient when he wakes up next to a woman in the morning.

  “We slept together a year ago?” I say. “Don’t you remember?”

  His expression changes, suddenly becoming serious. “No, I’d remember you.” He says this so decidedly that it surprises me. Given what I’ve heard, I wouldn’t think he’d remember everyone he slept with.

  I relax my face and smirk. “All right, you got me. I’m joking.”

  When his face contorts to smile, he winces, then opens and closes his jaw slowly. When I hear it crack, my shoulders hunch.

  “Sorry,” he says.

  I pour a little bit of saline on his cuts and dry them off with some more napkins. I should put on gloves, but I honestly don’t think about it until I’m nearly done. I wrap a rolled-up piece of gauze around his hand and tape it up after biting off a piece with my teeth.

  “You’re good at this,” he says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Are you a nursing student? Or maybe you’re studying medicine?”

  “Neither.”

  He raises an eyebrow. He wants me to volunteer what program I’m in. I don’t.

  “Keep the ice pack on your face. It’ll help.” I let go of his hand.

  He holds up his hand, turning it over, examining it before his gaze trains back onto me. He’s still waiting for an answer.

  Sigh. “My dad was a fighter,” I say instead.

  “Like for sport? Professionally?”

  “Yep,” I say, not committing to either response.

  He shakes his head at me, a touch of amusement on the curling edges of his mouth.

  In truth, my dad fought people who looked at him wrong, who didn’t follow through with commitments, who gave him a hard time, or attitude. He never touched me, though. Never hit my mother either. He wasn’t overly nice to either of us, but I trusted him not to hurt me physically. Compared to the man my mom left us for, she had it good with my dad.

  Tate takes a long drink of his coffee and I stand, about to start closing up.

  “I don’t like to fight,” he says suddenly.

  I slowly lower myself back down onto the seat. I’m not sure why. Maybe his need to justify his actions makes me curious. Or maybe I feel bad for him. Or maybe this scene is so familiar to me, it feels comfortable.

  “If you don’t like to fight, then why did you?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Sometimes it’s unavoidable.”

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “If you say so.” My dad said the same thing. Only he never had fancy lawyers to bail him out of trouble like Tate probably does.

  “What time do you close?” he asks when he catches me looking at the clock above the counter.