Page 7 of Fractured Heart

“Thank you.” Charming gives her a winning smile. In the bright light, without the night casting him in shadow, he looks even more perfect. His eyes aren’t blue or green like I’d originally thought, but the lightest of browns, like a mix of chocolate and molten honey. I realize I’m staring and quickly look away, but not before I notice how achingly handsome he is—this stranger who found me in the forest and whisked me away.

“You just wait here,” he says. In the time that I’ve been ogling him, he’s carried me across the room, and is about to set me down on one of the expensive-looking leather couches.

“Don’t,” I cry. “I’m covered in mud.”

“It’s fine.” Charming ignores my protests and gently lowers me onto the soft surface. Then, he takes a step back and stares at me, his eyes roaming over my mud-caked body. My face suddenly grows hot and I quickly look away. Then, I feel his warm touch on my cheek. My eyes snap back up, and Charming leans closer and whispers, “You have some mud. Right here.”

“I…I…” I stutter as he wipes it away. Then I blurt out, “I’m Roonie.”

“You told me.” He chuckles. “But I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Tate. Tate Green.”

A part of me is disappointed he doesn’t say ‘Charming. Prince Charming.” I blush, and he offers me his hand. The first time he did that, back in the forest, it was so he could rescue me. Now, he squeezes it, his grip warm and strong and perfect. “Wait here, okay Roonie?”

My heart leaps at the sound of my name on his lips. “Okay,” I whisper, the tremble in my voice unmistakable. Tate smiles warmly and heads back to Faye’s desk. Thanks to me, his light blue t-shirt is covered in wet mud, and the thin cotton clings to his tanned skin. My eyes linger on his broad shoulders, then drift down to take in the rest of him. His jogging pants hug his backside and outline toned, muscular legs.

I jerk my gaze away and try to listen in on Tate’s conversation with Faye. He says something I can’t make out and she responds, her voice too soft for me to overhear. Then, she heads into a back room while Tate leans casually against her desk and turns to watch me.

A blush creeps up my cheeks and I nervously reach for the steadying presence of my pendant. My fingers graze bare skin, and my insides lurch. My attention locks on the empty spot at my collarbone and panic threatens to overwhelm me.

I quickly reach into my pocket. My fingers graze cold stone, and I take out each of the fractured pieces, one by one. When I have all four, I squeeze them against my palm and compose a song.

My fractured heart, split into four

Then once again mended whole

They’re good lyrics and I like the tune, but they’re a lie. The four fractured pieces stare back at me from the palm of my hand, a reminder that my pendant can’t be fixed. I stuff them back in my pocket and watch Faye return with a small, sealed plastic bag. She says something to Tate, gestures at the contents, and then hands it to him. Tate nods and crosses the room. Then, to my complete shock, he starts to kneel.

My heart hammers in my chest. That moment, when Prince Charming gets on one knee in front of Cinderella and tries on her shoe has always been an inspiration. I’ve turned it into multiple songs and even submitted the best one with my college application. I know I got rejected because it’s not good enough, but I can’t help loving every single verse. The part where Prince Charming’s eyes meet Cinderella’s, and he raises the glass slipper…

I smile and glance down at Tate, who raises an eyebrow instead. The look he shoots me is a familiar one I’ve gotten hundreds of times. It tells me that he’d said something—something that obviously required a response—and now he’s waiting…and waiting…and waiting…

“Sorry, what?” My voice squeaks.

Tate may be Prince Charming incarnate, but this is another reminder that I’m no Cinderella. I’m the ugly step-sister with the short attention span. Or just a nobody who never even made it into the fairy tale.

“Can you roll up your pant leg?” Tate asks—his tone implying this isn’t the first time he’s asked—and my gaze follows his.

My jeans are torn at the knee and my skin is coated with dirt. The gaping hole is much larger than it was this morning and reveals blood-stained threads that were once white. Embarrassed, I shift on the couch. How did I not notice that my knee was bleeding?

Carefully, I start to roll up my jean leg. The mud and water and dirt from the forest have all seeped into the fabric, making the task near impossible. I struggle and the gaping hole at my knee splits further with a loud rip.

“I have an idea,” Tate tells me. He gently pulls my hands away and grips the edges of the hole. Then he yanks, and the sound of ripping fabric echoes through the waiting room. I gasp. I bet Tate could rip off my clothes without breaking a sweat; or tear off his shirt, revealing the rock hard abs that must be hidden underneath.

I suddenly feel very warm and shift uncomfortably. Tate’s fingers graze my inner thigh as he pulls up my jean leg. I try not to focus on his hands—on how long his fingers are or how big his palm is—but it’s a losing battle. Then, his thumb touches the bare skin at my knee, and I gasp.

“Sorry.” Tate quickly lets go. Then he slowly leans in for a closer look and I get this sudden urge to squeeze my thighs shut. His breath grazes my knee and I gasp. Then, he places a gentle hand on my leg and I let out something embarrassingly close to a moan.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Tate whispers. His thoughts seem to run in a completely different direction than mine. He examines my knee carefully, then opens the sealed bag Faye gave him. He takes out a small bottle and uses it to soak a cotton ball. “This might sting a bit,” he murmurs, placing it against my knee.

I jump at the intense, burning pain and Tate immediately pulls the cotton ball away.

“Squeeze my hand,” he tells me, taking my right hand in his. I don’t get a chance to savor the moment before he returns the cotton ball to my knee. I can’t help but squeeze his much larger hand in response to the pain, but Tate doesn’t complain. He works diligently, his attention focused entirely on cleaning the cut.

No one has ever been this gentle and caring with me, not since I lost my mom. I have a sudden urge to start sobbing or throw my arms around Tate and never let go. His concerned gaze floors me. I don’t even realize he’s done cleaning my wound until he takes out some antibiotic ointment and a large bandage from the sealed bag. My gaze flits down of its own accord and I watch Tate’s nimble fingers work as he spreads some of the clear gel on my knee and then affixes the bandage.

“Thank you,” I whisper when he’s done.

“No problem.” He smiles up at me. “Do you want me to get you a blanket? Or something to drink?”