(un) Broken Read online

  (un) Broken

  A Book Boyfriend Series

  Charlotte Daniels

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2020 by Charlotte Daniels

  All rights reserved. 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.

  First paperback edition March 2020

  Book cover design by LYNC

  Book edited by EC Editorial

  ISBN 978-0-6486940-0-7 (paperback)

  ASIN B07YWX799P (ebook)

  authorcharlottedaniels.com

  Created with Vellum

  For anyone who’s ever felt broken.

  You are not alone.

  Contents

  1. Ellie

  2. Garrett

  3. Ellie

  4. Ellie

  5. Ellie

  6. Garrett

  7. Ellie

  8. Garrett

  9. Ellie

  10. Ellie

  11. Ellie

  12. Garrett

  13. Ellie

  14. Ellie

  15. Garrett

  16. Ellie

  17. Ellie

  Next In the Book Boyfriend Series

  Please Review

  About the Author

  Also by Charlotte Daniels

  Also By Charlie Daniels

  1

  Ellie

  “Ellie… I love you, but this isn’t going to work.” Mia Sinclair; bronze Goddess, agent, editor, bustling businesswoman, and—begrudgingly—my best friend, hands back my latest manuscript with a frown. “Readers are looking for more heat. Sex sells, Ellie, and your stories are drier than a nun’s hoo-hah.” She snorts, laughing at her own joke.

  Well, that’s just rude. I shoot her a small glare which she smiles at, the golden glow of the sun streaming through the window a stark contrast to her critical let’s-get-down-to-business nature.

  “Women are looking to escape into a fantasy. They want to curl up with an amazing book and read a romance that sends their hearts fluttering a mile a minute. They want sex scenes that make their lady bits cough up cobwebs.”

  I involuntarily shiver at the image, my lips pulling up into a disgusted scowl. Thanks, I needed that for my nightmares.

  “You need spice; think vindaloo level. I want you to knock the panties off your readers, not make them go out and buy a chastity belt.” Mia relaxes into her chair, her eyes searching mine as she hands my manuscript back to me, the papers flopping pathetically like a flaccid… I groan. God, she’s right.

  My debut romance novel reached number one within a matter of a few weeks, and for two amazing years, they were in high demand. Which brings us to now. My shaking hands clutch the wad of papers, and I sigh as I flick through graffitied pages, the flashes of red staring boldly back at me, daring me to disagree with her assessment.

  “Would revealing my real name help at all?” My body stills at the thought of leaving the sanctuary of my pseudonym.

  When I started writing, I decided to use a pen name. Not because I didn’t want to be recognized, but because who would believe someone like me, a survivor of domestic abuse, was writing romance? It wouldn’t mesh well with the world. The stigma and doubt would have killed my career before it even started.

  “Ellie, I think coming out of the writer’s closet may hurt your career more than help it at this point.” Her eyes flick pointedly over my clothes… then my face, my hair, my nails—basically all of me—and she shrugs, leaning against her mahogany desk.

  “You wear graphic tees, ripped jeans, and ugly, green Converse shoes. You have the most amazing auburn hair, but you’re always hiding it in a sloppy bun.”

  I try to smooth the flyaways framing my face.

  “Your gorgeous, hazel eyes are hidden behind those atrocious, eighties-style frames that you’ve had since we were kids, and honestly, Ellie, when was the last time you took care of yourself? Had a spa day or did something that made you feel good?”

  She exhales, a sad smile pulling at her lips. “Actually, don’t answer that. Do you want the harsh truth? You don’t exactly exude sex appeal, or have the air of sexual confidence people expect from romance authors. Women want sex. Dirty sex. Panty-melting sex. They want an excuse to tear off their partner’s clothes and have their wicked way with them. After everything… you’re not a nun, Ellie. How can you write about hot and orgasmic sex if you’ve never had it?”

  “Just because I’ve never been to Mars doesn’t mean I can’t write about it…” Does it?

  Mia smirks as she grabs the manuscript from my clawed hands. I frown at her as she flips through the pages, her eyes darting across the words, searching, until: “Connor’s penis lit up Elsbeth’s nerve endings like the first spark of a newly lit fire.”

  She looks up at me and I stare back at her blankly. “… What’s wrong with that?”

  She looks down again and reads: “Their love was explosive, like a volcano erupting, swallowing the world in a lava of love.” Mia’s snickers ring in my ears as she throws the manuscript on her desk. It slides a few inches toward the edge. “Honestly, what were you doing when you wrote this?”

  “I was watching Pompeii…” Heat tinges my cheeks as she continues to laugh. “It seemed like a great idea at the time.”

  “You’re a great writer, Ellie. You just need to get back on the horse; enjoy a makeover, buy some sex toys. Do whatever it takes to light a fire under you, or in your vagina.” She snorts again and shakes her head. “But please stop watching volcanic documentaries for inspiration. Enjoy some porn or read erotica like most women.”

  I cross my arms. “Not everyone has to look like Jessica Rabbit or be a nympho to write about sex.”

  “You’re right. But you need an intervention or some damn good inspiration… cock-spiration. Whatever it is Ellie, we only have three months until you need to hand in a panty-scorching manuscript. Thank God you always hand them in months in advance or this would have been a disaster.”

  Mia pauses and her lips twitch. The sudden mischievous sparkle in her eyes unnerves me, and I take a wary step back. Having known Mia for most of my life, I know exactly what this look means: trouble.

  “So…” I start slowly, “what do we do? You obviously have a plan or you wouldn’t have called me in so early.” Mia raises her eyebrow at the clock on her wall: 9 a.m.

  So maybe it’s not so early, but I’m equally not a morning person. I spend most of my waking moments in the twilight hours, working on—apparently—vagina-shriveling novels. In my silence, I notice that Mia’s lips have curled up into a wicked smile. Small ripples of fear slide down my spine. My worst villains would tremble under that look. I look to the office door, then the window that opens out onto the street below.

  Probably sensing my desire to flee, Mia speaks: “I have taken the liberty of signing you up for a full-body makeover; waxing, plucking, hairstyling… styling in general,” she points to my ripped jeans.

  The tension building in my body drains away, and I release the breath I’d been holding. That doesn’t sound… bad. At the prospect, my mind immediately flits back to the closest comparison it can remember, settling on Mia Thermopolis’ makeover in The Princess Diaries. I imagine myself turning to look at myself in the mirror, made-over, beautiful, irresistible. Wait… didn’t her stylist snap her glasses?

  My hand flies up to touch the thick frames resting on my nose—these are my favorite pair. I
catch Mia’s gaze opposite me and she rolls her eyes. No doubt she knows where my mind is. But after a moment, I sigh with relief—nobody will touch my glasses; in the real world, that’s called criminal damage. I slump back into my chair, my body molding into it, and nod for Mia to go on.

  Her smirk turns into a grin to rival the Cheshire Cat, and I immediately regret my decision. “I also have a particular… package… arriving for you tomorrow. Be home by six o’clock.”

  The color drains from my face. “Please tell me you didn’t hire another stripper?” Groaning, my head flops back against the chair, my mind picturing my sexy-as-sin neighbor’s smug grin, as Mrs. Peters, the frisky, eighty-year-old flirt across the hall, pinches him on the ass.

  Mia laughs as she relaxes into her chair, her eyes sparkling. Oh God… it can’t be worse than a stripper in a cake thong, can it? Pushing up in the chair, my back goes ramrod straight, and I shove my glasses back up my nose as dread slithers through my veins.

  Opening a drawer in her desk, Mia reaches inside, pulls out a laminated sheet of paper and holds it out to me. Hesitantly, I reach out to take it, but she draws it back to her. “Before I give this to you, know that we love you and only want to see you happy.”

  How is that meant to be reassuring! Apprehension flows through me and my pulse quickens as she continues:

  “I knew you wouldn’t do this by yourself, so Katie and I will be with you as your wing-women while you complete these challenges.”

  Challenges? I reach across the table and snatch the sheet from Mia’s outstretched hand. Her bemused expression meets mine, and she sits forward, elbows supporting her head. I suck in a shaky breath. Are my dreams worth whatever she has planned? Unfortunately, yes, and I scan the words:

  “One. Ask a handsome stranger to buy you a drink.” Humph. Not bad.

  “Two. Ask a handsome stranger if you can touch his abs for a minimum of ten seconds.” My cheeks burn at the thought, but I keep reading.

  “Three. Dirty dance in the dark with someone for at least two songs.”

  An image flashes through my mind. A song beats through the ceiling above. Deep breaths, Ellie. I swallow.

  “Four. Give a lap dance to a hot someone.” My chest tightens. I can smell him, his cologne. I can see his naked chest, his tensed arms, his clenched fists.

  “Five. Perform a sexy pole dance number.” I read the words, but they don’t compute. I’m not in Mia’s office anymore. My vision narrows, the room growing smaller, darker. Fear wraps its way around me, my muscles tensing, and my breaths coming out in short, erratic bursts.

  The damp mildew of the basement floods my nose, along with the sickly sweetness of his cologne. The cold, stone floor chills me to my core. He stands over me. Something glints through the darkness.

  Gripping the arms of the chair so hard my fingers turn white, my eyes burn into Mia’s. I focus on her and her office; the sunlight, the soft wooden chair, the sandalwood incense she burns each morning. She leans over her desk and pries my fingers from the chair arms, holding my hand tightly in hers. “I’m here, Ellie,” she says, her voice steady. “You’re not there. Breathe.”

  Breathe. It’s not that bad. Pretend you’re back in college and Mia is playing another prank on you… a fucking terrible one.

  The darkness framing my vision recedes somewhat and I meet my best friend’s eyes. “Please tell me this is a joke?” I beg. But she shakes her head with a small smile as she soothes my shaking hands. Her touch grounds me enough to argue.

  “You’ve got to be kidding, Mia! I write under a goddamn pen name because of my panic attacks! How do you expect me to do all of this—meet people—without breaking down like some nut job?”

  Mia’s expression softens at my words and she squeezes my hand. Sadness fills her eyes as she searches my face. “Ellie, you need to stop letting that asshole control you. He might be gone from your life, but he’s still in your head. He can’t hurt you anymore. And you need to start living again.” She pauses, her eyes settling on mine, filled with sympathy and an empathetic loathing for my ex. “What Michael did to you was… evil and we understand why you locked yourself away. But we miss you so much, Ellie—the old you, the real you. And your books are your world—you’ve worked so hard to reach where you are. Please don’t give up on them too.” Mia’s voice cracks and my fear deflates at the sound.

  Springing from my chair, I lean across her desk and fling my arms around her, bringing her toward me and crushing her in a vice-like hug.

  Michael destroyed me. He was wonderful at first; charming, happy, handsome. I don’t remember when he changed, or if I ever realized. It was so subtle: sweet requests to change my top to match his tie; saying he loved my hair when it was out and styled; purchasing a gym membership for me because I looked “down” about my appearance. None of the things screamed ‘controlling psycho’. Until they did.

  One night, I’d refused to change into an elaborate, evening dress just to greet his friends. All I wanted to do was relax in the study, read a new bodice-ripping rom-com and curl up with a hot chocolate and my teal woven blanket.

  Rain pounds the windows. His eyes are ablaze with fury and twisted satisfaction.

  I bury my face in Mia’s hair, concealing the tears rolling down my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kneeling down to take my hand. I’m shaking, stinging, but he wraps me in a hug that soothes it all. “I’ll never do it again, but you know I only want to show you off. Can you forgive me?”

  That was the first time, and it wasn’t the last. He would always tell me he would change. And I always believed him. But he was like Augustus Gloop; one bite and he craved more. His anger grew more violent, more vicious. Until the last time.

  A glint of metal in the darkness. His shadow looming over me. The sweep of a knife across fabric.

  My stomach rolls as vomit rises in my throat, choking off my air supply. I attempt to rip away from Mia, but she holds me tight. Her hand runs across my back. “You’re okay,” she whispers. “I’m here.”

  They say revenge is sweet. But betrayal? Not so much.

  But my breathing finally slows. My muscles release, and I think back to the list. Back to the prospect of introducing my damaged self to a new man. “Hey, I’m twenty-seven and I was physically and emotionally abused by my ex-husband. I’m prone to panic attacks, so don’t freak out if I have one while touching your abs, okay?” I snort into Mia’s neck and pull away, shaking my head.

  Mia watches me sadly and silently as I sit back in my seat and wrap my arms tightly around myself. I take a deep breath, inhaling happy thoughts, exhaling the black cloud of anxiety and fear. I’ve been seeing a therapist for way too long.

  “I’m sorry for snapping, Mia,” I say. “When… er… when do we get started?”

  Mia’s ear-piercing squeal cuts through the office as she leaps from her chair and ushers me toward the door, barely even giving me the opportunity to grab my things. Dread fills my stomach as she chatters away beside me, but I bury it deep as I stare down at the red-marked manuscript clutched in my hands, the red lines like a maze I want to find myself in the center of.

  “When you said I was getting a makeover, I expected a haircut and maybe some new makeup. I think Sarah saw more of my lady bits than I ever have, Mia! I’m feeling drafts in places I didn’t know existed!” I smack the call-button for the elevator for a third time and it finally dings open. I drop the dozens of shopping bags inside as I lean against the cool, steel walls, the only warmth coming from the overheating cellphone pressed against my ear.

  Mia snickers down the line. “I did tell you, Ellie. You need to actually believe you’re confident and sexy, and to do that I’m going to make you look like a popsicle of sin.”

  That sounds wet. And cold. I glance around the empty elevator and close my eyes. “But what does this have to do with my hoo-hah? I thought you meant waxing my legs and mustache! I’m practically naked now—like one of those hairless mole rats. Do I ha
ve to moisturize it every day like those Sphinx cats? Do I need to buy a special moisturizer? Is there one for your vagina?”

  Mia’s cackling laugh bursts through the speaker and I wince, pulling my phone away from my ear and holding it at a distance. “Oh my… Ellie… I can’t breathe,” Mia’s voice says, quieter now, so I draw my arm back.

  “I’m serious! And why do I need lingerie? Do you know how many thongs I have? Ten, Mia. Ten. And do you know how many pints of ice cream I could’ve bought instead of one thong? Four!” I glare down at the bags by my feet and hammer the ‘close door’ button on the wall. Damn this elevator is slow. “They were so far up my ass, I could practically taste the material, and let me tell you, cotton is furry and weird.”

  A deep chuckle echoes beyond the open elevator doors, synchronizing in perfect harmony with Mia’s. My eyes snap up to meet a pair of sparkling, baby blues I recognize straight away. Of course, he had to hear that.

  Garrett Warner; the six-foot-two, muscled Adonis, and my neighbor. His choice, black, three-piece suit molds to his body like a second skin, showing off his broad shoulders, tapered waist, and thick… thighs.

  Somehow Garrett pulls off the business look despite his lumberjack-style, shaggy blonde hair and trimmed beard. If you look up ‘wet dream’ in the dictionary, a picture of Garrett in his bronzed glory would be there. Ugh. You stupid, gorgeous man.

  His lips pull into a sexy smirk as he steps into the elevator, shooing my hand away from the ‘close’ button. His gaze flicks between the shopping bags and my new outfit.