22. Look After You #2
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know who else to call.”
Tears sting the corners of my eyes. Physically, I’m okay—my ego, my pride…not so much.
Mortimer pressed on every Alex-shaped bruise like it was sport.
“Baby, you can always call me. Even if I’m halfway across the world. You have me. Always.”
I breathe in his words. Usually, that kind of declaration from him would have me running for the hills, but in this moment—I need it. I need him.
“Are you sure? Can I see you? If that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude or anything.”
“You could never intrude. Of course, come,” he says.
“Where are you?”
“Harlem. Lenox and 117th.”
I hang up and relay the details to Luca. It doesn’t take long to reach our destination. As Luca pulls up to the curb, I stare out the window, confused.
“Where are we?”
“Lenox and 117th, ma’am.”
I groan, having let his earlier discretion slide before. “Ma’am—Luca, we’ve been over this. Just call me Elena please—friends remember?”
“Okay.” He chuckles. We slow to a stop. A small crowd mills near a squat brick building with peeling paint and a faded blue awning.
People filter in and out, some carrying crates, others ushering people through the door.
The sidewalk buzzes with quiet urgency—bodies shifting, coats layered, heads down.
“What is this place?”
“Soup kitchen, I think.” He shrugs.
I lean forward, squinting past the windshield. What the hell would Broderick be doing here?
Luca shifts. “I’ll need to accompany you inside. It may not be safe.”
“Why?”
He doesn’t answer—just steps out and opens my door. I don’t argue.
Inside, the air smells like onions and floor cleaner. Fluorescent lights hum overhead. People line up, cheeks flushed from the cold, coats hanging open, kids weaving between legs.
A little girl in a puffed-up red jacket stomps her boots to the beat of her own invisible music.
And then I see him.
Broderick, behind a steel counter, sleeves pushed up, spooning mashed potatoes like he’s done it a hundred times. His T-shirt clings to his back, damp at the collar. There’s a smear of something across the hem—gravy, maybe. Or paint. No idea.
Just seeing him—solid, focused, here—settles something in me I didn’t even realize was splintering.
I watch him for a moment, and it really puts things into perspective. While I’d just escaped the Montgomery inquisition wrapped in all its finery—untouchable—he’s here.
And I wonder why.
Someone like him could have easily written a check. Does he do this for the publicity? I glance around, but nothing suggests that.
He really is a good man.
He looks up, spots me—a huge grin spreading across his face, those perfect dimples on full display.
I walk up to him, a few of the other volunteers smiling as I pass.
“You gonna help or just stare?” he asks.
I’m grateful he doesn’t prod about what happened. He has an uncanny way of knowing exactly what I need—there’s a comfort in that.
“Put me to work.”
“Here you go baby.” He hands me an apron, still warm from the dryer. I tie it on without another word and take over the green beans.
We work in silence. Not awkward. Just...easy. It feels...nice. Serving others who need it most.
Every so often, he glances sideways, like he’s checking I’m still there.
A boy in a Spider-Man beanie grins up at him. “You look like the Hulk.”
Broderick grins back. “You callin’ me green?”
The kid shrugs. “You’re big.”
“Fair,” he says. “It’s all the green beans.” He nudges me.
The kid’s not wrong.
Broderick’s massive. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Solid and strong.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Trying not to picture him without the T-shirt.
My body betrays me anyway—not now hormones.
He passes the kid a plate, eyes crinkling with amusement.
“Damn, El—no smart remark about being called the Hulk? You must be upset,” he says, nudging me with his elbow again.
I shrug, unsure where to even begin.
“It’s not like you to be quiet. Tell me what’s going on.”
I heave a heavy sigh. The rhythm of scoop–nod–smile helps.
“That bad?”
“Mortimer asked if it was really over with Alex,” I mutter. “Like I’m stupid enough to force something with Alex when he doesn’t want me anymore.”
His jaw tightens. He doesn’t say anything.
“I can’t control what he posts, and I don’t know why he’s doing it.”
Broderick listens as he works, giving me the space to get if off my chest.
“He says he’s worried about my future. My name. Wants me to pursue legal action or whatever. But really, he’s just projecting his own insecurities about blowing up our family with his indiscretions.”
Broderick nods once, eyes fixed on the line.
“Warned me not to be like my mother.”
He shakes his head. “Sheesh, low blow Mr. Montgomery, I hope you slapped him with a dinner roll.”
A laugh almost escapes me. “It was tempting.” It comes out resigned. “I’m not trying to play stepmom at twenty-three to my ex-boyfriend’s maybe-baby.”
Broderick bumps my elbow. “You’d be terrible at it.”
I nudge him back. “Thanks.” Already feeling a little lighter.
“Anytime.”
A little girl runs up, braids bouncing, three more trailing behind her like ducklings.
“Hello, Miss Keisha. Ladies,” Broderick says, tipping his head like a gentleman.
“Mr. Brody.” Keisha beams, pointing straight at me. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“She’s so pretty,” one of the others whispers.
They all giggle.
Everything in me seizes.
My hand freezes mid-scoop. Heat shoots up my chest, floods my face. My ears ring.
Girlfriend.
The word knocks me off balance—sharp and small and stupid—pressing at a wound that hasn’t quite healed.
Broderick doesn’t miss a beat. “Girlfriend?” he repeats, scrunching his nose in mock disgust. “Eww. Cooties.”
The girls shriek, laughing like he’s a stand-up comic instead of the man I’ve come to know biblically.
I stand there, trying to remember how to breathe. My fingers tighten around the spoon. My mouth goes dry. My stomach flips.
He’s right there. Close enough that I can smell the mix of soap and sweat clinging to his shirt.
When I look up at him, he gives me a wink—and it shoots straight through me, but not between my thighs.
It hits my chest.
Hard.
Ripping my emotional door right off it’s hinges.
My mind replays through all the quiet moments we’ve shared these past few months—every broken rule, every look, every touch. Every time we leaned too far into what this wasn’t supposed to be.
I force a laugh. Too loud. Too late.
Broderick just keeps serving like nothing happened. Like that word didn’t just split me open in front of a pack of seven-year-olds.
Eventually, he bumps me with his hip, snapping me out of my daze and we continue working. Plate after plate.
People smile. Say thank you. Take what they can.
The line finally thins. Trays empty. The buzz fades.
While Broderick carries things back and forth, Keisha and her friends pull me over, ‘teaching’ me a clapping game.
“Like this, Miss Elena,” Keisha says, holding her hands up.
Her friend Mika claps out the rhythm, and they giggle when I can’t follow—which, to be fair, is only partly on purpose. It reminds me of the games Philippa and I used to play when we were younger.
I thought this time would be different. That my first Thanksgiving back would be spent with family. But as far as runners-up go, this—helping people who need it—actually feels good. Maybe even better.
It’s something my mother always understood.
Before she was Miss Universe, before the crown and the titles, she was already this way—giving, open, always looking for someone to help.
It came naturally to her. She took Riley and her brothers in without hesitation, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Like kindness wasn’t something you chose—it was just who you were.
She used to remind me how lucky we were. That there were kids out there—kids like her, once—who had nothing.
I look at Keisha, at the way she laughs, carefree despite everything, and I can’t shake the feeling settling in my chest.
I want to do more.
“How are you with dishes, girls?” Broderick asks, leaning against the wall.
They all shake their heads, squealing playfully.
“Can I steal Miss Elena?”
They push me to my feet, playfully shoving me into him—he catches me. His warmth soothes me in more ways than one.
In the kitchen, I scrub trays in water that runs too hot. Steam clings to my face, curls into my hair. I don’t mind.
Broderick works beside me, slow and steady, wiping down counters.
“You gonna recover?” he asks.
I glance over, heart already slamming into my ribs. “From what?”
He leans a hip against the counter, grinning. “The girlfriend comment nearly took you out. You went stiff like someone tasered you.”
“I did not.”
“You did. Full body-lock. I thought you were gonna throw the green beans.”
I roll my eyes, but my heated cheeks betray me.
“I mean…” he goes on, treading lightly, “I get it. Horrifying. The idea.”
Was it?
I shove the thought aside. The last time I was desperate to be someone’s girlfriend, it ended before it ever truly began.
I’m not exactly rushing to relive the experience.
I side-eye him. “You’re the worst.”
“So I’ve been told,” he says.
He smiles like he’s already won.
I turn back to the sink, lips twitching. But the heat from earlier hasn’t gone anywhere. If anything, it simmers lower now—tight and coiled in my stomach.
I hear him sigh. “Elena, for what it’s worth…I don’t think you were stupid. That whole Alex situation—none of it was on you.”
I freeze.
“I appreciate that,” I whisper, not sure if he even hears me.
I’m not naive for falling for Alex—I know that. But I hate how easily I bought into the version he sold me: the charm, the grand declarations, the media frenzy that turned us into a whirlwind fantasy.
I was hooked on the high of being wanted. Of being chosen. Of being swept up by someone like him.
Broderick wipes down the last tray, then leans into the counter.
“The way he keeps posting after…that’s dickhead behavior,” he says, voice even, eyes ahead. “But if I were in his position, and I lost you. I would move heaven and earth just for a chance to get you back.”