One – Harrison
ONE
HARRISON
W henever someone hires me to break up with their partner for them, I ask them to rate their soon-to-be-ex on a scale of birthday candle to forest fire, so I can properly prepare for the fallout.
The larger the flame, the more public the venue—so the soon-to-be-dumped has a deterrent not to cause a scene.
Since today’s target has been arrested twice for arson, I don’t think there’s an ideal venue for this.
“Mr. Jones?” A soft voice interrupts my thoughts.
I might’ve forgotten my mini fire extinguisher in the car…
“ Hello ?” The hostess at Per Se Café waves her hand in front of my face like I’m the senile grandfather she’s been assigned for the shift. “Mr. Harrison Jones?”
“Yes.” I adjust my cufflinks. “I made the reservation under ‘Tucker Bridges,’ though. There should be another name with it—Rachel Carver.”
She narrows her eyes and taps on her tablet. “We have that… but that doesn’t mean anything. I’ll need to call Mr. Bridges to confirm.”
Before I can respond, she lifts her phone and dials.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I answer on speaker.
“ Hello, hostess .”
She exhales and hangs up. “You can go inside now, sir.”
“Thank you.” I take the private elevator to the rooftop and set a timer for fifteen minutes.
That’s all I need to end a three-year relationship, and I’m not remotely surprised this guy hired me to do it for him.
Rachel’s already at the booth, sipping champagne with crossed legs and perfect posture. From where I’m standing, you’d never guess she once faked a terminal illness to get out of paying a month’s rent.
“Good evening, Rachel.” I slide into the seat across from her and flash a smile. “How’s your day going?”
“Um, fine.” She tilts her head. “Do I know you?”
“Your dress is stunning,” I say. “Really brings out the green in your eyes.”
“My eyes are brown.”
“My compliment still stands.” I wave down a server. “Whiskey, neat.”
“Do I need to call security?” she asks, already looking around the room. “I don’t know how the hell you know my name, or why the hell you think you’re welcome to sit in my boyfriend’s seat, but?—”
“Your boyfriend, Tucker, is actually the one who sent me.” I rip the Band-Aid clean. “He doesn’t want to be with you anymore. And by ‘anymore,’ I mean not even for another second. He has a moving crew pulling your belongings out of the apartment as we speak.”
She stares at me, blinking.
“Although there have been three decent years between you,” I continue, “he feels like you’re no longer growing together. He wants you to know it’s him, not you. Also, he won’t fight you for custody of the dog—Tulip—that you two recently adopted.”
“Tulip is a cat,” she hisses.
“Wait, what?” I lean back. “Aren’t cats deathly allergic to tulips?”
“Yes...”
“So, why the hell would you ever—never mind.” I pull my standard Fair Deal: Breakup Contract from my pocket and slide it across the table.
“What the hell is this?”
“This is a legally binding contract between you and Tucker that lays out what the future will hold for both of you as you walk into the land of singledom.”
“Legally binding? Oh, okay…” She pulls a lighter from her purse and attempts to flick a flame under the edge of the contract.
“I came prepared.” I sip my drink as it arrives. “Fireproof paper.”
She flicks again and again, until she finally gives up.
“Let me get this straight,” she says. “Tucker didn’t have the balls to break up with me, so he asked you?”
“No, he paid me. I’d never do this for free.”
“So, you’re that much of a heartless asshole?” she asks. “You take joy in hurting someone on behalf of others?”
“Let’s redirect the anger where it belongs: him, not me,” I say. “While you’re doing that, feel free to sign this contract.”
“No. I’ll just talk to Tucker myself.” She grabs her phone.
“He blocked your number.”
She calls him anyway, and it doesn’t ring. It goes directly to voicemail.
“If it makes you feel better,” I offer, “I provide other services. Rebound strategies. Emotional resets. Wardrobe overhauls for a new life…”
“Get the hell away from me.”
“I will. As soon as you sign the contract. Otherwise, I’ll have to file a restraining order on his behalf.”
“For what?”
“All the psychotic shit you’ve done,” I say. “Though I’ll only have to list the fire, the stalking, and the fact that you tossed a Molotov cocktail at his sister’s car to get this done.”
Her eyes narrow, and it looks like she’s about to try me, but she signs the contract with a furious flourish.
I consider leaving a business card but think better of it. The homicidal glare she’s giving me would probably incinerate it midair.
“You can apologize to me now,” she hisses.
“Apologize for what?”
“Your very existence to start, but if you have a bit of humanity left, you can also apologize for being part of the plan to break my heart. That is true villain behavior. I hope you atone for it someday.”
I stare at her, saying nothing.
Apologies have never been my strong suit—especially when I haven’t done anything wrong.
“Well, asshole?” She leans closer. “There’s a lot you could say, and I’m waiting…”
“You’re right,” I say, nodding solemnly. “I’m sorry.”
She smiles.
“I’m sorry the universe gifted me a perfectly chiseled face that makes women stop and stare,” I say. “I’m sorry my smile is capable of making most women’s panties wet, and I deeply regret that one night in my bed will erase every man in your memory. So. Damn. Sorry .”
She throws her champagne in my face and storms out.
Hopefully she’s checking into the nearest asylum.
Grateful the deal is done, I wipe my face with a napkin and make my way back down to the street.
The second I step outside—scalding hot liquid splashes across my chest.
“What the fuck?”
“I’m filing a fucking restraining order,” I snap, expecting to see Rachel. “You deserved to be behind bars a long-ass time ago.”
“Over the cup of coffee you wasted?” a deep Southern drawl replies.
I glance up. A beautiful redhead in a cutoff jean dress is waving her arms like she’s mid-monologue in a courtroom drama.
“You people—this city—sucks ass. Twenty effin’ dollars,” she snaps. “Like you own the sidewalk…”
I blink a few times, taking her in, ready to crown her as Sexiest Woman I’ve Ever Seen —but she splashes what’s left of her coffee onto my shirt.
“What the hell is your problem?” I ask. “I assumed you were someone else, but you might be the same brand of psycho as she is.”
“You thought someone else was standing outside this door waiting to baptize you with a cup of coffee?”
“Honestly, yes.”
“That coffee cost me twenty dollars.”
“It’ll cost me more than that to get it out of my suit,” I say. “This is the part where you ask for my phone number so I can send you the invoice.”
She blinks, speechless, and I realize she might be taking my sarcasm seriously.
“There’s a bar down the street,” I say, changing the subject. “It’s one of my favorites. Let me make this misunderstanding up to you.”
“Let me guess…” She taps her chin. “After we have one drink, you’ll suggest another and tell me that you think I’m pretty.”
“I think you’re fucking stunning ,” I say. “‘Pretty’ doesn’t even come close.”
Her cheeks flush—but her jaw stays tight.
“And after you not-so-subtly pay the check,” she continues her original lines, “you’ll invite me back to your condo?”
Yes. “Unless you’d rather skip the drink and go straight there. I like that option, too.”
She says nothing.
“If you’re not up to drinks, would you like to discuss making amends for what you did to my suit?”
She turns on her heel and storms off down the street. I watch until she disappears through the crowds.
Damn. I should’ve asked for her number.