Heartbreaker by Melody Grace
One.
They say time heals a broken heart, but you just try and get over the love of your life when he’s the most famous man on the planet.
At least, that’s what it feels like when I turn on the car radio. Nothing is playing except his latest hit song.
“Bringing you back for your afternoon on 107 Hits, it’s the track everyone’s talking about, Finn McKay—”
“Next up, Everyday, from the new number one smash—”
“And straight to the top, for music’s own bad boy, Finn—”
I let out scream of frustration, and hit the wheel. My horn blasts, and the elderly woman on the crosswalk startles, dropping her grocery bags. Crap. “Sorry, Mrs. Carter!” I call out the window, ready to jump out and help.
She flips me the bird and keeps walking.
Charming.
I head to work and hit the preset for the country station, figuring at least I’ll get some respite there. Maybe a good song about heartbreak, or murder -- either will do. But it turns out the universe really is laughing at me right now.
“Did you see the big duet at the Grammys last week? Finn McKay and Carrie Underwood. So by special request, here’s his latest single, Everyday.”
There really is no escape. It was bad enough when he was the hot new artist on the verge. At least then I could ignore the gossip and pretend like his five minutes of fame would be up soon. But two years later, he shows no sign of running out of steam. If anything, he’s bigger than ever: two number one albums, a dozen hit singles, and his music in the background of every TV show and movie I try to see. This spring he’s been inescapable, staring back at me from billboards and on the cover of my favorite trashy magazines. Peak Finn. AKA, a constant reminder of the boy who shattered my heart and left town five years ago, stranding my sixteen-year old self without a word.
AKA, the reason I’ve developed a serious cookie dough habit, had to boycott my radio, and spend my evenings hate-browsing the latest gossip sites looking at photos of Finn with his latest supermodel girlfriend.
But hey, at least I’m not bitter.
Back at the Oak Harbor Realty office, I deliver a takeout box to co-worker and new best friend, Delilah, then sink into a chair at her desk.
Delilah takes one look in the lunch bag and makes a face. “Screw salad, I’ve got cupcakes!” She opens the box with a ‘ta-dah!’
“Fancy,” I whistle, looking back and forth between the virtuous container of lettuce, and the box of double-chocolate frosting. Who am I kidding? Cupcakes always win. I reach for one and sink my teeth into pure sugar rush heaven. “What’s the occasion?”
“I finally closed escrow for Shana Norton on that new townhouse in the harbor.”
I high five her. “Does this mean she’s going to tell Mr. Norton she’s leaving him yet?”
“Not sure,” Delilah grins. “I’m guessing the moving trucks will be a big clue.”
I laugh. “Want me to do the paperwork?”
“Would you?” Dee bats her eyelashes at me. “Pretty please.”
“Just add it to the pile.” I sigh dramatically, but I don’t mind really. I haven’t closed a deal myself in months, and sooner or later our boss is going to figure out that real estate and I just aren’t a good match. Delilah knows exactly what I’m thinking, because she gives me a look.
“You need to be out there, getting clients for yourself. You could make a great commission if you hustled a little harder.”
“Me and hustle don’t get along.” I focus on my cupcake. “We had a falling out years ago. It’s not speaking to me.”
“Liar. You hustled plenty at the animal shelter holiday fundraiser. You talked half the town into emptying their wallets.”
“That’s different!” I protest. “It’s a good cause. Who can say no to puppies?”
“Me,” Delilah curls her lip. “I never got the appeal. They’re all drooling and needy, and piss everywhere. They’re like a frat-boy on a Friday night.”
“Cruella,” I laugh.
She grabs a file from her desk. “Hustle or not, you’ve got an appointment this afternoon. Some mystery client looking for a rental. I told Marcie you’d take it.”
“But I’m not dressed for clients!” I look down at my laundry-day skirt – missing a button – and the shirt that, yup, now has a smear of chocolate frosting over my right boob. I start dabbing, but the stain only spreads. “Look what I’ve done now. You take them.”
“Nope. And I’m saying this as your friend, and not because I booked an early nail appointment,” Delilah grins. “Go on.” She shoves the file at me. “It’ll be good for you. Work the whole small-town girl charm. They’ll be eating out of your hand.”
“I’ll be eating what now?”
A familiar male voice comes from the doorway behind me. Blood rushes to my head. I freeze, my heart pounding.
It can’t be.
It can’t be.
It can.
Delilah lets out a shriek, and bounces out of her chair. “Holy shit, Finn! What are you doing here?”