Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 79553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79553 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 398(@200wpm)___ 318(@250wpm)___ 265(@300wpm)
As she waits for my response, I can’t help but see the vulnerability in her features. Every time I’ve seen her, she’s always so put together. Her makeup and hair are done, and a smile is plastered on her face. But right now, something about her is different, like without everyone watching her, she’s able to unveil her mask and simply be herself.
“Every day of my life,” I tell her honestly.
She nods in understanding. “Did you know Easton isn’t my real dad? It’s why I have blue eyes, and everyone else has green and hazel.”
“I didn’t.” I’ve been friends with Camden for a couple of years, but guys don’t tend to gossip like girls do. Despite their age difference, I know they’re close, but aside from me saying she’s hot and him pointing out I don’t stand a chance, she’s not mentioned often.
“My real dad,” she says softly as if she doesn’t want to chance anyone hearing her, “was a piece of shit. A rapist and a corrupt politician. I never knew him, but from what I’ve read and heard, he was heartless.” She sniffs and wipes her eyes. “Sometimes, I wonder if I’m screwed. If nature will win out over nurture, no matter how hard I try.”
“You’re afraid of becoming a rapist, corrupt politician?” I ask. “Because the last time I checked, you’re a pop princess who sings about love and shit, and I don’t think you’ll be running for office any time soon.” I’m half joking, hoping it’ll cut some of the tension she’s brought into the kitchen with her.
I know it works when she snorts out a laugh and rolls her eyes. “No, smart-ass. But…” She sighs and closes her eyes as if needing to get her thoughts together. Finally, she opens them, and her blue orbs lock with mine. “If you think about it, I don’t actually sing about love. I sing about heartbreak because… I’ve never experienced love.”
She swallows thickly, and it takes everything in me not to move toward her. “I’m afraid I’m more like my sperm donor. Cold, heartless, incapable of love. Every song I write comes to me once I’ve been hurt, or I’ve done the hurting.”
Her words have me gravitating toward her—even though she couldn’t remember my name a few minutes ago—and pulling her into my arms. Surprisingly, she lets me, dropping her head against my chest and releasing the sob she was holding back.
“What if I’m broken?” she whispers.
We stay like this for several minutes, in the kitchen, me holding her while she sits on the barstool crying into my chest, and every second that ticks by has me falling harder and deeper for her. Because every time I saw her, she was beautiful, talented, always smiling, and putting on a front for the camera and the fans, but now, she’s real and broken, and in the world we live in, that’s worth more than the fakeness we’re surrounded by.
I lift her chin gently, forcing her to look at me, and then tell her the only thing I can think to say. “I think we’re all a little broken, and that’s okay.”
Present Day
“You’re right,” Kendall says with tears in her eyes. “I didn’t notice you… at least not until that day. But that conversation was the only time I told anyone how I felt, and what you said glued several of my broken pieces together. I was so down. I had just broken up with a guy who told me I wasn’t capable of more than a good time, and I was feeling low.
“And then I found out some stuff about my bio dad… And it all just hit me so hard.” She reaches around and takes her bra off, and I’m confused about what she’s doing until she lifts her arm, exposing a small tattoo covered by her bra.
I edge closer and read the words inked on her skin: It’s okay to be a little broken.
“I got it that night after we talked. I cover it up in public, when I’m wearing something that could show it, not wanting the paps to psychoanalyze me, but when I’m standing in front of the mirror, naked, I look at it a lot… to remind myself what you said: we’re all a little broken, and that’s okay.”
Finding out that she’s been wearing my words for the past nine years has me grabbing her face and kissing her passionately. I roll us over, caging her in my arms, and enter her smoothly, her legs locking around my waist. I’ve never been this turned on in my life, knowing that she looks at that tattoo every day and thinks about me, about what I said to her. If I wasn’t already head over heels for this woman, this would’ve sent me right over the edge.