Free A Broken Us (London Lover Series Book 1) by Amy Daws Page B

me
again, in an incredibly annoying placating tone.
    “You know what! Olivia! O- fricken - livia Gabriel. Is he seriously seeing her, Cade?” I can’t stop the shaking in my
hands.
    “I don’t know why the heck you even care,
Finley,” she bites back. “Seriously, get your shit straight. You dumped him.
You got it in your head he won’t want you if you’re barren and now you’ve
pushed him into the arms of someone who will probably give him six precious
little babies,” she peals into my ear.
    I feel my chest rising up into my chin, “That
is a low blow, Cadence,” I pause, my voice cracking, “even for you.”
    She sighs heavily, “Well, I’m not sorry! You
know how I feel about this whole ridiculous situation you have going on here.
You are getting what you asked for.”
    “I didn’t ask for this!” I scream, unable to
check my emotions, “I didn’t ask for him to run into the arms of the one chick
I’ve hated for over five years!”
    “You asked for it when you refused to give him
a chance to know the truth, Finley. Now you have to learn to live with it.
Learn to live with the idea of him snuggling up to Olivia Gabriel. I see her
when I go into the city, you know, and she looks good, Finley. She hasn’t aged
a bit!” Cadence cheerily adds the last line with melodramatic flare.
    I hang up. God,
my sister can be a real bitch sometimes! This is bullshit, complete and utter bullshit. I stand up from my
mattress and throw my phone down against it as hard as I can. I toss my hair
over one shoulder and take a big lap around the tiny room.
    When that doesn’t seem to help, I run back to
my bed and quickly inspect my phone, fearing I may have damaged it. It’s fine, thank God. But shit, the drama of
that toss felt good, damn it. I tuck my phone into the back pocket of my
Skinny Jeans and pull the sleeves of my long sleeve navy t-shirt down to stick
my thumbs through the thumbholes.
    Needing something to take the edge off, I pound
down the stairs and head straight into the kitchen cabinet above the fridge
where Frank keeps all the liquor. A bottle of tequila looks pretty good. I
barely touch the stuff anymore because Leslie and I had once mixed it with root
beer when we were teenagers and drank so much we got sick.
    I rummage for a shot glass and can’t find one,
so I grab a coffee mug instead. I pour an inch or two of the golden liquid and
throw back the cup. Oh, crap!
    “That was way more than a shot! Way more than a shot!” I screech out
loud, jumping up and down with my face pinched.
    A strange squeal comes through my throat as I
force myself to swallow. I place my hands wide on the counter and drop my head
down low, gagging . Oof !
Why the hell did I grab tequila?
    I scream as loud as I can in frustration.
    “Crap day?”
    I jump when I see Mitch sitting in the
breakfast nook by the window, sipping tea out of a mug.
    I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, “You
could say that.”
    “That tequila is crap. Seriously, I think it
might actually be poison,” he gets up out of the booth and squats down by the
stove, rummaging through the drawer below the oven.
    “Try this,” he says, handing me a bottle of
clear liquid with a foreign label on it.
    I eye it, cautiously.
    “Trust me,” he states, dumping the contents of
his tea out and pouring a bit into his mug and mine.
    “ Salud ,” he says,
clinking mugs with mine.
    “ Salud ,” I reply
back, gently tipping the liquor back at the same time as him. “Wow! Tastes like
lemons!” I say, and lick my lips appreciatively.
    He nods his head with a smirk. “Finish it off
if you like. But watch yourself, that’s a lot stronger than the shit you get in
America,” he adds, walking out of the kitchen.
    “Thanks, Mitch,” I reply, feebly.
    “Cheers.”
    He makes his way up the creaky stairs, leaving
me to my own devices.
    I take my coffee mug, fill it up with the clear
foreign liquor, and head across the street to watch the skateboarders and