Chelsea Fine - Best Kind of Broken

Levi should know better by now. He really should.

Casually moving around my room, I plug in every electric item I own and wait until he’s halfway through shaving. Then I turn everything on at once. The electricity immediately goes out and I hear the buzz of his razor die.

“Dammit, Pixie!”

Ah, the sweet sound of male irritation.

Plastering on an innocent look, I open my door and peer across the hall to the bathroom. Levi looks ridiculous standing in the doorway in just his jeans—still no shirt—glowering at me with half of his face shaved.

He stiffens his jaw. “Seriously?”

I mock a look of sympathy. “You really should charge your razor every once in a while.” I exit my room and move down the hall, singing out, “Have fun rocking a half-beard all day.”

As I head down the stairs, the wet side of my ponytail slaps against my neck with each step. Another smile pulls at my lips.

If Levi wants to play, it’s on.

Twelve days.

Pixie’s been living here for only twelve days and I already want to stab myself with a spoon. Not because she keeps blowing the fuse, though that reoccurring shenanigan of hers is certainly stab-worthy, but because I can’t do normal around Pixie.

But fighting? That I can do.

After pulling a shirt on, I march downstairs and out the back door. The large lavender field behind the inn sways in the morning breeze, and thousands of purple flowers throw their scent into the wind, reminding me of things better left forgotten. Things I used to have locked down. So much for all that.

I blame Ellen. Maybe if she’d given me a heads-up about Pixie moving in, I could have prepared better.

Another breeze blows by and shoves more lavender up my nose.

Or maybe not.

The sky hangs above me, bright blue and free of clouds, and the early sun slants across the earth, casting a long shadow behind me as I walk the length of the building. I squint up at the white siding and notice one of the panels is cracked, which is nothing new.

Willow Inn is nearly one hundred years old, and parts of it are just as broken as they are picturesque. It’s a quaint place, with white cladding and a wraparound porch beneath a blue-shingled roof, and it sits on ten acres of lavender fields and swaying willow trees. It has two wings of upstairs rooms and a main floor with the usual lobby, kitchen, and dining space.

The newly remodeled west wing has seven bedrooms, each with their own bathroom. That’s where all the guests stay.

The east wing has yet to be remodeled, which is why Ellen allows Pixie and me to stay there and why I’m a live-in employee. Along with my other handyman duties, I’m also helping Ellen gut the old east wing so she can have the area remodeled to accommodate private bathrooms in every room.

I reach the fuse box at the edge of the inn and, flipping a breaker I’m far too familiar with, restore electricity to the east wing.

Fortunately, all the gutting and redesigning requires the east wing to run on its own electricity and water supply, so guests are never affected by my hot water usage or Pixie’s electricity tantrums, but damn. We really need to find a less immature way to be around each other.

I turn and follow my shadow back to the door, holding my breath as I pass the purple field. The wooden floors of the lobby are extra shiny as I walk inside, which means Eva, the girl who cleans the main house, probably came in early and left before anyone saw her. She’s tends to work stealthily like that, finishing her work before anyone wakes. Sometimes I envy Eva that. The solitude. The invisibility.

Back inside, I see a figure up ahead, and a string of curse words line themselves up on my tongue.

Daren Ackwood.

I hate this douche bag and he’s headed right for me.

“What’s happening, Andrews?” He gives me the chin nod like we go way back. We went to the same high school and I think we had a class together senior year, but we’re not pals. He looks over my partially shaved face. “What the hell happened to you?”

“Pixie,” I say.

He nods and looks around. “Is Sarah here?”

Sarah is Pixie’s real name. The only people who’ve ever called her Pixie are me and Ellen and…

“Why?” I cross my arms and eye the case of water he’s carrying. “Did she order water?”

Daren is the inn gofer, delivering groceries and linens and anything else the place needs, so unfortunately he’s here twice a week with his preppy-boy jeans and nine coats of cologne. And he’s always looking for Pixie.

“No, but you never know.” He lifts a cocky brow. “She might be thirsty.”

“She’s not thirsty.”

He looks over my facial hair again. “Oh, I think she’s thirsty.”

And I think Daren’s throat needs to be stepped on.

“Morning, Levi.” Ellen walks up with a smile and hands me my To Do list for the day. Her long dark hair slips over her shoulder as she turns and throws a courteous smile to the gofer. “Hey, Daren.”

“Hey, Miss Marshall.”

As Ellen starts talking to me about the fire alarm, I watch Daren’s eyes cruise down her body and linger in places they have no business lingering in.

More than his throat needs to be stepped on.

Ellen Marshall is a very attractive forty-year-old who’s used to guys checking her out. Not me, of course—Ellen’s like family to me and I respect her—but pretty much any other guy who sees her instantly fantasizes about her, which pisses me off.

“… because the system is outdated,” Ellen says.

“Routine check on the fire alarms,” I say, my eyes fixed on Daren, who is still ogling her. “Got it.”

“Can I help you with something?” Ellen smiles sharply at him. “Looks like your eyes are lost.”

He readjusts his gaze. “Uh, no, ma’am. I was just wondering where Sarah was.”

“Sarah is working. And so are you.” Her hazel eyes drop to the case of water. “Why don’t you take that to the dining room? I think Angelo is stocking the bar this morning.”

He gives a single nod and walks off.

Ellen turns back to me and looks over my face. “Nice beard,” she says. “Pixie?”

I rub a hand down the smooth side of my jaw. “Yeah.”

She lets out an exasperated sigh. “Levi—”

“I’ll check out the fire alarms after I finish shaving,” I say, quickly cutting her off. Because I don’t have the time, or the balls, to undergo the conversation she wants to have with me. “Later.” I don’t give her a chance to respond as I turn and head for the stairs.

Back in the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror and shake my head. Pixie timed it perfectly, I’ll give her that. My facial hair is literally half-gone. I look like a before and after razor ad.

I think back to the irritated expression on her face and a small smile tugs at my lips. She was so frustrated, waiting outside the bathroom door with her flushed cheeks and full lips and indignant green eyes…

Why does she have to be so goddamn pretty?

I turn on the razor and run the blades down my jaw, thinking back to the first time I saw those indignant eyes cut into mine. My smile fades.

Pixie was six. I was seven. And my Transformers were missing.

I remember running around the house, completely panicked that I had lost my favorite toys, until I came upon Pixie sitting cross-legged in the front room with my very manly robots set up alongside her very dumb dolls.

I immediately called in the authorities—“Mom! Pixie took my Transformers!”—and wasted no time rescuing my toys from the clutches of the pink vomit that was Barbie.

“Hey!” She tried to pry them from my hands. “Those are the protectors. They kill all the bad guys. My dolls need them!”

“Your dolls are stupid. Stop taking my things. Mom! Mom!”

Haunted eyes stare back at me in the mirror as I slowly finish shaving.

I wish I would have known back then how significant Pixie was going to be.

I wish I would have known a lot of things.

I enter the kitchen and grab my apron off the wall. It’s bright yellow with dozens of red cherries all over it and trimmed with ruffles. It’s the happiest apron in the world and my name is written in permanent marker on the front. Gah.

“Good morning!” Mable looks up from a bowl of egg yolks with a smile. Her thick, gray hair is pulled back in a bun, and her chubby cheeks are rosy like always. She reminds me of a sassy Mrs. Claus—minus the furry red dress and spectacles.

“Morning.” I tie the yellow-and-cherry madness around my waist before moving to the industrial-sized sink in the corner to wash my hands.

I’ve known Mable, and pretty much every other inn employee, my entire life. Nearly everyone Ellen hires is from our hometown—a tiny dot on the map named Copper Springs. It’s a typical small town, with struggling business owners, troublemaking teenagers, and churchgoing folks who pray for both. And it’s a place I’d be fine never visiting again.