Breaking Josephine (4 page)

Macy’s assumptions
that I cared about her society friends were getting under my skin. “No. I’ve
been living in reality. Unlike some people I know,” I answered. I picked up my
order and walked out into the restaurant, not giving Macy a chance to say
anything more.

We steered clear
of each other as best we could the rest of our shifts. As the morning went on,
I felt more and more remorse for snapping at Macy. She didn’t mean to offend
me, and she didn’t know the details about my past and how hard it had been when
I had no one and almost nothing I could call mine after my mom died.

When our shifts
ended, Macy walked out to her car and I ran after her. “Macy, I’m sorry. I
shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I didn’t mean it. I’m just tired and
stressed since I’ve been working so many shifts, and I took it out on you. Forgive
me?”

Macy looked at me
for a moment, and then nodded. “Yes, I forgive you. And I’m sorry if I offended
you, I didn’t mean to, you know.”

“I do. It was all
my fault. How about we head over to Mable’s for a coffee and you tell me about
this Dex Hartley guy I’m already supposed to know all about.”

“That sounds like
a plan,” Macy said as she smiled at me, “let’s go.” She unlocked her car doors
and we climbed inside.

We pulled up to
Mable’s, a small coffee shop overlooking the craggy rocks and ocean that took
up residence in a historic building on the edge of town. It was owned and run
by Mable Jackson, a true Oregonian, who bought the place decades ago before
Cannon Beach became a tourist hot spot and who lived upstairs, roasting and
brewing her own coffee in the first floor shop. Although only a couple thousand
people at most called Cannon Beach home year-round, hundreds of thousands of
tourists visited each year, and Mable’s was always a favorite destination for
locals and tourists alike. I’d spent many afternoons over the past year in
Mable’s, reading a book, safe from the rainy coastal weather and enjoying the
view.

Macy and I ordered
our usual coffees and homemade scones and snagged a quiet table tucked in a
corner away from most of the busy shop. “So, I still can’t believe you haven’t
heard of the Hartleys!” Macy began. “Just wait till I tell you about them.” She
settled down into the overstuffed chair, kicked off her flip-flops, and tucked
her legs under her yellow pleated skirt.

Taking a sip of
her coffee, she began, “Dex Hartley is actually Declan Hartley, Jr., the son of
Declan Hartley, the founder of Hartley Industries. His family made its money in
the timber industry when Portland began booming in the late 1800s. Dex’s mom,
Evangeline, was a socialite from Portland whose family had made it big in the
railroad industry. They never had any other children and Eva was extremely
protective of Dex. She actually had Declan build her their Cannon Beach mansion
specifically so that she and Dex could leave Portland and live out here on the
coast, away from the big city when he was little.”

“How do you know
so much about the Hartleys? It’s like you’re their own personal biographer,” I
quipped, as I sipped frothy foam off my coffee.

Macy rolled her
eyes. “Give me a bit of credit, Jo. My mom and Dex’s mom Eva got to know each
other in the summers when we were here for vacation and although Dex is older
than me, we hung out quite a bit since our moms were friends. Dex helped me
learn how to swim when I was little, helped me finally get rid of training
wheels on my bike, and treated me like the little sister he didn’t have. I
looked forward to every summer here, just so I could hang out with Dex.

“When Dex was 15,
his mom got really sick. Turns out she had stage four ovarian cancer. She went
from seeming healthy and happy to terminally ill and on her deathbed in a
matter of weeks. They went to every specialist across the country, she had
multiple surgeries, extensive chemotherapy, saw doctor after doctor, but it was
too late. She died that summer and her death wrecked Dex and his dad. They
shuttered the mansion, moved back to Portland, and tried to get on with their
lives. His mom’s funeral was the last time I saw Dex. I was only 9, but it hit
me really hard, losing my summer big brother.” Macy paused, taking another sip
of her coffee.

My eyes drifted
out over the ocean as I thought about my mom and losing her all those years
ago. Macy looked out at the ocean too, watching the waves hitting the rocks
below and continued, “Tragically, just two years later, Dex’s father was
driving between here and Portland one rainy night when a semi lost control
going around a curve and hit his car head on. He died on impact. The only
reason I even knew was because my parents talked about it. For some reason, the
papers and the media didn’t cover the story and hushed up the accident. I
always assumed it was because Dex’s dad had been drinking and the local paper
wasn’t going to upset the wealthiest family in Cannon Beach. But I didn’t know
for sure.”

Macy sighed, and
went on, “At 17, Dex was essentially an orphan, and the sole inheritor of a
massive family fortune and Hartley Industries, the business his father had
built. I’m sure you’ve heard of Hartley Industries it’s—”

“Why exactly I
should care about all of this?” I asked, interrupting Macy. “I work as a
waitress, remember? And I don’t really need a lesson on successful family run
businesses right now, okay?” I was probably being rude, but the last thing I
wanted to hear was story after story about how successful another family friend
of Macy’s had become, and how much I didn’t fit in with any of her friends or
her life.

Macy rolled her
eyes. “You, know for someone so smart, you can be so aggravating sometimes,”
Macy said. “Anyway, back to Dex. From what I remember my parents saying and
from seeing the tabloids, Dex went wild after his father died, leaving Cannon
Beach and Portland for Seattle, then LA, and then New York. He’s spent the last
ten years becoming quite the playboy. But I’ve never seen him with any woman
longer than a few weeks. I doubt he’s ever even had a girlfriend. Not that I
blame him—he’s definitely grown into his name and his looks. Those
disarmingly blue eyes of his could make any woman throw her panties on the
floor, and from what the tabloids say, I’d guess quite a few have done just
that.”

I looked away from
the ocean and straight at Macy. Disarmingly blue eyes, she had said. Oh no, no,
no, no. It couldn’t be. I took a tentative sip of my coffee and asked Macy,
trying to sound as nonchalant as possible, “You said Dex is back. Does that
mean he’s living here now?”

“Yep. Out in his
family’s mansion on the beach,” Macy said over the rim of her coffee cup.

“Really? Which
mansion is Dex’s?” Anticipation percolated in my stomach like a fresh pot of
Mable’s coffee.

“The only stone
mansion on the beach—the one that looks like a fortress out there—Hartley
Manor.”

I sucked a quick
breath of air into my lungs. Hartley Manor. Dex Hartley. The man I have been
dreaming about almost non-stop for a week and whose house I broke into last
Saturday. A playboy with a national reputation and sole heir to an enormous
family fortune and the owner of a huge Portland company. Someone completely and
totally out of my league and my reality. Despite an ominous feeling washing
over me, I knew I’d need to find out more about this Dex Hartley and why I
couldn’t get him out of my thoughts or my dreams.

With the library
closed on Sunday, and me being the only 22-year-old in Cannon Beach without a
computer, I had to wait until Monday after work to delve into my research on
Dex. I spent Sunday anxiously cleaning my apartment, scrubbing the wood floors
until they shined, bleaching the grout in the shower, anything to keep my mind
busy and off of Dex.

As soon as my
shift ended Monday afternoon, I changed into running gear and jogged the mile
through town to the local library. I logged on to a public computer and
searched for anything and everything on Cannon Beach’s most eligible bachelor. I
glossed over his business endeavors, noticing he was in fact the owner of
Hartley Industries, but not really processing any of the details. My eyes were
drawn instead to photo, after photo, after photo of Dex stumbling out of
various bars in Los Angeles and New York, half of the time with some beautiful
model on his arm. There were even photos of him blatantly kissing random women
in clubs, on the street, pretty much anywhere. Macy was right though, I rarely
saw a woman more than once, and if I did it seemed like they were only in his
life for a few weeks at most. I scrolled through image after image, until I
landed on one that captured my attention. It was Dex, alone, walking out of a
club in the wee hours of the morning. It looked as if the paparazzi had surprised
him and caught him off guard, snapping a picture as soon as he looked up. And
in that picture, his eyes, unguarded and open, stared back at me, vacant and
damaged and lost. I closed the web browser, logged off the computer and walked
outside.

I closed my eyes
and leaned against the bike rack outside the library entrance. I knew that look
in Dex’s eyes because I had the same look for years after my mom died. The
feeling of being utterly alone, out of control, and powerless. It was that
feeling that caused me to start stealing and it was that feeling that
resurfaced after all these years and led me to break into Hartley Manor. “Maybe
my life and Dex’s life aren’t that different,” I thought to myself. “Maybe
there is a connection there worth pursuing.” My stomach tightened as I thought
of his hand on my stomach and his fingers touching my neck.

I needed to get a
grip, I told myself. Not only was Dex Hartley probably the most available and
sought after bachelor of the Pacific Northwest, he also appeared to be a
womanizer or at least a serious playboy. Even if I did fanaticize this past
week of nothing but him, usually in various stages of undress, nothing could
change the fact that I was ordinary old Jo Sinclair, orphan from Portland, who
couldn’t even afford a car or a cell phone. And it’s not like we had the most
friendly of first meetings. Not only did I steal from him, but I ran away, and
when I saw him again, he basically slammed a door in my face. Not that I can
blame him for that. I’d probably be mad if I saw the woman who broke into my
house the night before too.

I couldn’t compete
with Dex’s women or his money, but I could afford a coffee, so I headed to
Mable’s to relax, clear my head, and drink a delicious latte. I ducked into
Mable’s just as the first raindrops of an early summer storm started falling. Although
I was grateful for the rain making everything so lush and green and vibrant
year-round, I couldn’t help but be tired of it now and then. I ordered a coffee
and headed over to a big overstuffed chair to wait out the storm.

When the storm
ended, I headed into Jack’s, the local grocery store, for a few necessities. Although
I did well at the Red Barn, and did better in the summer since vacationers had
a habit of tipping well, I still barely made enough money for rent and
groceries. Part of me liked to pretend that the reason I neglected the packaged
food isles was my healthy eating habits, but it was really out of
necessity—fresh vegetables, fruits, and lean meat kept me full for a lot
less than fancy cookies, crackers and a lovely bottle of wine. Besides, I had
gotten into a habit of cooking once I was out on my own in Portland, and I
actually did enjoy it—taking ordinary ingredients and turning them into
something delicious was a good way to distract myself from what I was missing
and would never have again. My mom and I made a point of having family dinner
every night and I savored that part of every day. Losing my mom and our family
dinners, and moving to Overton, where staff served meals in a dining hall and
the rules strictly forbade talking during dinner, was incredibly painful. By
taking my time and cooking dinner for myself, I felt connected to my mom again
in a small way and it made me grateful for what I did have—a stable job,
a long-term apartment rental, and enough free time to enjoy my beautiful
surroundings.

Absentmindedly, I
set my grocery bag down on the wet pavement to tie my running shoe. Finished, I
reached over to pick up my groceries, but the paper bag, soaked by the wet
pavement, gave way, my groceries slipping, skidding, and rolling down the
sidewalk in a ridiculous mess. Embarrassed, I set the remaining soggy bundle
down and crouched on the sidewalk, crouch-stepping my way from apple, to
lettuce, to onion, picking up my groceries and reassembling what was left of my
pride. As I braced myself to lunge for a still-rolling orange, a pair of
sun-faded leather flip-flops and tattered jeans crouched in front of me and a
large, masculine hand claimed the orange.

“Reaching for
this?” Dex Hartley asked as he handed me the orange. Dex Hartley. The man I’d
just been researching in the public library, the man whose mansion I’d broken
into, and the one I couldn’t get out of my head. He was even more breathtaking
in the light of day. His hair was so dark, it was almost black, with the sides
cut short and the top just long enough to fall on his forehead but not be a
distraction. His vibrant blue eyes sparkled like the ocean on a bright sunny
day and his tight black t-shirt showed off his incredibly masculine physique. I
felt I like I was glimpsing the page of a magazine brought to life right in
front of me. And there I crouched, picking up fruit from the sidewalk, still in
my running clothes, looking like something the tide washed in.