Broken (Brody Brothers Book 4) Read online

  For the most part, the shop was all gleaming white walls and directed pin-lights that spotlighted the displays of merchandise Cleone had chosen to push. Behind the checkout counter was an accent wall of exposed red brick, adding a dash of urban attitude that was rarely seen in the tiny town. The front of the store had floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out on the town square and was populated by faceless mannequins dressed in the latest fashions. At the back of the retail space was a tastefully decorated fitting area complete with a raised platform, where on-the-spot alterations took place.

  Cleone’s Closet did it all when it came to apparel, thanks to Winnie, who had worked there from the time she was in high school. She’d started the alteration facet of the business quite by accident. When she’d seen how an outfit a prospective customer was wearing could look a zillion times better with some on-the-spot nip-and-tuck, Cleone had swooped in and monetized alterations as a service without batting an eye. Suddenly Winnie had carte blanche when it came to altering existing merchandise, while also creating her own. Her personal label, “Win,” was designed in the back room of Cleone’s Closet, or upstairs in her hotbox of an apartment, and was now about a third of the Closet’s overall inventory. Keeping up with the demand kept Winnie working around the clock since Cleone didn’t want to hire extra seamstresses to cut into her overhead, but she still loved the creative side of it.

  Modeling her creations, on the other hand, wasn’t her most favorite thing to do.

  “Oh, isn’t that gorgeous.” Cleone flitted over, her high-heeled slipper-style stilettos slapping the bottoms of her feet. “Let’s get you up on your pedestal where you belong.”

  “What kind of shoes do you want, Win?” Cleo asked, heading over to the shop’s racks of shoes lining one wall. “Flats? Heels? Wedges?”

  “Let’s go with those spangly wedge espadrilles.” Winnie pointed at a pair of ankle-tie sandals that were almost the same color as the set she was modeling. “If your mom weren’t here, I would say that flip-flops would also go great with this. But you know how Cleone is about flip-flops.”

  “At best, flip-flops are shower shoes and should never leave the bathroom,” Cleone announced imperiously while Winnie sat on the dressmaker’s plinth to tie the wraparound espadrille cords around her ankles. “And speaking of things that should never leave the house, Winnie honey, what kind of bra is that you’re wearing?”

  “Go easy on me, Cleone.” Winnie sighed, coming to her feet. “It was the second bra in one of those bargain two-pack deals. It’s fine as long as I’m wearing dark T-shirts.”

  “I think it runs on batteries,” Cleo offered.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen that color in nature before,” a customer remarked, and Winnie glanced up to see that Cleo had done her best to make sure a crowd had gathered. “Though lava comes close.”

  “That’s a great name,” Winnie announced to the chuckling crowd, inspired by the imagery. “The lava bra. Doesn’t that sound hot—literally? Maybe I should see what it takes to come up with my own line of lava lingerie.”

  “Maybe you should take off your lava bra for the time being, so it doesn’t distract from the light and wispy aura of your latest creation.” Cleone gave the neon orange bra straps a nasty look before turning to her customers. “Just when you think this terrible heatwave will burn us all to a crisp and there’s no relief in sight, Winnie has been working overtime to come up with exclusive Cleone’s Closet apparel that can withstand even the worst temperatures, leaving the wearer looking cool and unruffled.”

  “I just love whatever Winnie comes up with,” one shopper remarked to another as Winnie climbed up on the raised platform. “I bought a polka dot A-line dress in three different colors because I couldn’t decide which I liked best.”

  “At Cleone’s Closet, our customers will never have to choose which color is their favorite, when there are so many to choose from,” Cleone announced, happily inserting herself into what was clearly a private conversation. “Whenever Winnie comes up with a design I adore, I make sure to order it in a rainbow of colors.”

  “You’d get more if you paid for more seamstresses,” Winnie put in, trying to help.

  “For instance, this set she’s modeling,” Cleone went on, a past master at turning a deaf ear to things she didn’t want to hear. “I think I’d like it to be in a range of pastels…” She turned back to Winnie, then sighed out loud. “Sweetheart, take that thing off. Or at the very least, take the straps down and tuck them in so everyone can see what you’ve made without… that… polluting their vision.”

  “I’m beginning to think you don’t like my taste in fashionable undergarments, Cleone.” With a shake of her head, Winnie modestly turned away and unhooked the catch at her back while the bell over the shop’s door sounded. “Now, you all have to promise me that you won’t tell my grandmother that I’m going braless in public. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

  “I promise,” came a deep voice just as she pulled the offending wisp of neon fabric out from under the cropped camisole. With a screech, she whirled around. To her horror, she found Des Brody watching the spectacle in front of him with obvious enjoyment. His arms were crossed in front of his broad chest, and his beautiful peridot eyes were alight with laughter…and something that made her blush all the way from the top of her head to the juncture of her thighs.

  Perfect.

  *

  Perfect, was all Des could think, staring at the woman standing on some sort of mini stage, clutching a neon-colored bra to her chest and, from the look of it, surrounded by a bunch of avid female worshippers.

  Not that he could blame them. From what he could see, he could become more than a little worshipful himself. Putting the likes of Winsome Smiley at the center of a goddess-like belief system was something he could definitely get behind.

  “Oh, my goodness. What an unexpected surprise.” An older blonde woman who moved like a teenager zipped toward him on shoes that would’ve killed an ordinary human, her made-up eyes bright and curious. “Desmond Brody, correct? Cleone Goddard, owner of Cleone’s Closet and the assistant to the Assistant Treasurer of Bitterthorn’s Chamber of Commerce. I always look for you and your brothers at the meetings, of course, but it seems you don’t know there’s an open invitation for you and your brothers to join—”

  “We’re usually run off our feet with work, ma’am. Ranching’s not a nine-to-five job, so whatever free time we do have, we spend on…” His gaze slid to Winnie and knew he’d remember this moment for the rest of his life. “More important pursuits.”

  “Oh, I understand, being an entrepreneur myself.” He had an impression that she smiled, but all he could see was Winnie, staring at him like he’d just dropped out of a spaceship and was looking for someone to probe. In all honesty, she wasn’t far wrong. “It’s just so nice to finally meet you in person, Mr. Brody. It’s not often we get a real-life rodeo star dropping in. Are you looking for anything in particular?”

  “Uh, Mom.” A tall blonde with similarly made-up eyes appeared behind her, before she shot Winnie a look that clearly said eeeek. “I, uh, don’t think Des Brody is here for clothes.”

  Heh. A pal of Winnie’s. Had to be.

  The older woman, Cleone, waved an impatient hand her way. “Of course he is, Cleo. Why else would he be here?”

  “We-elllll—”

  “As I was saying, Mr. Brody,” Cleone went on, clearly used to ignoring her kid, “is there anything in particular you’d like to pick up today?”

  Funny she should put it that way. “There’s definitely something in this shop that I’m determined to pick up, and I can guaran-damn-tee you that no other shop has it.”

  “Marvelous! What is it?”

  “Winsome Smiley.” He said it loud enough so Winnie could hear him, and ignored the collective gasp that rippled through the shop’s inhabitants. When Winnie’s face turned crimson, he couldn’t tell if it was with embarrassment or anger. Probably a good helping of both.
“Though she looks to be a bit busy at the moment. Did I interrupt some kind of weird tribal thing that women do in clothes shops, or something?”

  “Oh, my God.” At last Winnie spoke, though she seemed to be having trouble getting her jaw unclenched. “For your information, I was about to model one of my new designs.”

  “Uh-huh.” He gave her a thorough once-over and liked what he saw. A lot. “Don’t let me stop you, baby girl.”

  Her mouth tightened, and she hugged the bra closer to her chest. “I can’t do it now.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because… Look, everyone was supposed to vote on whether or not they like this new two-piece set I just made, but I can’t model what I’m wearing with you here, so go away. You’re interrupting.”

  Cleone gasped as if stabbed. “Winnie.”

  “I didn’t interrupt a damn thing, woman.” Des grinned, ignoring the shop owner who was now pearl-clutching fit to beat the band. “If anything, I am here to help you out.”

  “Help? Help how?”

  “I’ve got opinions. I have a right to cast a vote.”

  “No, you don’t. You don’t get a vote.” She stomped a foot shod in impossibly high platform-like sandals that looked way too dangerous for her to be wearing while perched high up on a fucking mini stage. “This is a shop for women. You have a penis, so by definition you can’t vote. Go away.”

  “Dear God, she said penis.” Cleone looked like she was about to faint, and her daughter hustled close as if getting ready to catch her. “Out loud. She said penis out loud, Cleo. To a Brody.”

  “I’ve heard the word before, ma’am,” Des volunteered, trying to help. He didn’t want Winnie to lose her job, after all. “Actually, I prefer the term cock, or maybe dick, but penis works in more polite settings, as it is the medical term for it. I think that’s something we can all appreciate.”

  “More polite settings?” Cleone goggled at him while her daughter couldn’t seem to stop herself from snort-laughing. “More polite settings?”

  Shit. Maybe he hadn’t made things better, after all. “My point is, I have a right to be here, no matter what my anatomy is.”

  “And my point,” Winnie announced from that teeny baby stage thing she teetered on top of, “is that we don’t usually get a whole lot of men just randomly dropping in on this bastion of pure femininity.”

  “Nothing I do is random, woman. Now stop wobbling around up there and get your damn arms down so we can all get a better look at you.”

  If possible, her face turned redder. “You. Are. Impossible.”

  “Right back atcha, Winsome.” Well and truly enjoying himself, Des wandered into the gaggle of staring women, gave Winnie what he hoped was a nonthreatening smile, and snatched the orange bra from her grip. “There we go. By the way, what kind of color is this?”

  “I think we decided it was called lava,” a patron of the shop answered, while everyone else nodded.

  Winnie executed a perfect facepalm. “I can’t believe this is happening.”

  “Why? Is something weird going on?” It nearly killed him not to laugh when she dropped her hand to glare pure death at him. “Now that you’re no longer distracted by your lava bra, how ‘bout you do your turn on the catwalk—or in this case, a little baby stage? This is a democracy, and I have a vote to cast.”

  “Okay, that does it. If you’re not going to leave, I will.” With a huff, Winnie turned and made a move to leap off the little baby stage.

  Holy shit.

  He moved before conscious thought had a chance to kick in. With images of horribly broken ankles flashing through his head, Des caught her mid-leap and for a nanosecond had his face buried in her pillowy-soft cleavage.

  Damn.

  This had to be what paradise was like. And her scent…

  He breathed deeply, his eyes closing to better drink her in.

  Damn.

  Long ago, his stepmother had convinced him that as a bastard he was the product of hell, and one day was destined to go back. The hard living he’d done since then had all but cinched that outcome, he’d be the first to admit it. But if this sweet-smelling softness bundled in his arms was anything close to what heaven was like, he’d fight the devil himself to stay right where he was.

  Right there in the valley of Winsome’s amazing fucking breasts.

  “What the…? Let go!”

  Then again, the devil had nothing on a pissed-off Winsome Smiley.

  “I’ll let go when I’m convinced you’re not going to kill yourself.” He held her a few precious seconds longer, savoring that glimpse of heaven he knew he had no right to have, before slowly setting her down. “What the hell were you thinking, jumping off that little baby stage thing, wearing those ankle-breakers? Trust me, you do not want to wind up in a cast during a heatwave. Been there, done that, and it’s pure fucking misery. That’s what I just saved you from.”

  “Saved me?” Fussing with the flimsy material just barely covering those breasts that made his mouth water and his dick throb, she looked up to hiss at him like an angry cat. “What in the world are you talking about? You just mauled me.”

  “I saved you, because you would’ve broken something dire if I’d let you land in these death-defying things.” Without giving it a thought, he bent down and yanked on the wraparound ties that held those dangerous killers onto her feet, uncaring that the gaggle of women around him made weird cooing noises. “See? Look at how toothpick-thin your ankles are. You’re built like a damn fancy thoroughbred, you know that? I saved you from a world of pain, so in addition to an apology, you now owe me a debt of thanks. Lift your foot, Winsome. I’m getting these deathtraps off you.”

  “They’re not—” She finished in a squeak when he tugged at them, and her hands suddenly landed on his shoulders for balance. The normal rhythm of his pulse stumbled like a drunk on a three-day bender when her touch burned through the thin layer of his shirt, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d left hand-shaped scorch marks on his suddenly sensitized skin. “I’ve been walking in heels since I was fourteen, Des. I’m perfectly safe.”

  “Uh-huh. Other foot, now.”

  “She does know her way around a good heel,” her friend Cleo offered from somewhere in the crowd, and he could hear the laughter in her tone. “Her father would’ve beaten the shit out of her if he’d known, but whenever Winnie came over, my mother and I gave her all the girly lessons she needed, from heels to makeup, and everything in between.”

  That piece of information was something he’d go over later, but for now only one thing snagged his attention. “Winsome.” He straightened and tossed the shoes onto her little baby stage, while an old rage flared to new and terrifying life deep inside him. He looked into her eyes and feared for half a second that he’d actually explode with it. “We need to talk. Now.”

  Bewilderment chased alarm across her expression before she nodded once and looked over to her boss. “Cleone, I’m sorry, but I have to clear this up. I’m taking my lunch hour early.” Then she stepped away and angled her head toward the backroom. “This way.”

  Chapter Seven

  Winnie didn’t think what it might look like bringing Des up to her apartment. At that moment, only one thing mattered—privacy. If he was going to make her beg for forgiveness, she wasn’t about to have that particular humiliation happen in front of an avid, pro-Brody audience.

  “Let me just get the air-conditioner going.” She grimaced when a crushing wave of heat rolled out of her apartment the instant she opened the door. “Besides the fact that heat rises and I’m on the second floor, this space never actually had central air installed when Cleone bought the property. It was just storage for the shop until I needed a place to live. The air will become breathable in a few minutes.”

  “You can’t live like this.” Scowling, Des unbuttoned his shirt almost all the way down, an action she found utterly hypnotic. “Jesus Christ, Winsome, you’re going to fucking die of heatstroke up here. Using that dinky
-ass window unit to combat this kind of god-awful heat is like taking a water pistol to a forest fire.”

  “Don’t say fire. That word just makes things hotter.” She moved to the minifridge under the counter by the kitchenette’s sink. “Want something to drink? I’ve got bottled water, Coke, and pink lemonade. Wait, scratch the pink lemonade. There’s only one left, and that’s the one I want.”

  “What I want is for you to not die in this goddamn oven. This space isn’t habitable.”

  “The drought’s been going on for eight months now, and the triple-digit heatwave has been going on since the first week in June. I haven’t died yet.”

  “That doesn’t mean you won’t.” Somehow she wasn’t surprised when he came over and helped himself to a can of soda. And all the while his pale green gaze bored into her like he was searching for the mysteries of life itself. “How long have you been living up here like this?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Why do you have to make it sound like I’m living in a cardboard box in the alley out back?”

  “Just answer the damn question.”

  “I’ve been lucky enough to live above Cleone’s Closet since I left home at seventeen. The rent’s super low, and I have all the basic amenities I need. See? A sink. A fridge. That futon there in front of the TV is also my bed. Behind that door—” she pointed to a tiny door that just managed to fit the slope of the roof. “That’s the bathroom, and it’s big enough for someone my size. I even have enough space for work,” she added, flinging a hand to the far side of the room, where she’d placed her dressmaker’s dummy, a sewing machine, and a blank white backdrop with umbrella lights, where she did the modeling and photography herself for her online store. “I dream of having my own studio someday, with my walls filled with photographs of my favorite designs.”

  He looked around the small apartment. “Looks like you’ve got a lot of favorites. Most of your wall space is already covered.”