Page 22 of Fractured Heart

“Um…” I whisper as Charles slides onto the barstool next to mine and reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, just like Tate did. I know I shouldn’t read into it. My hair is probably a huge mess if they both feel the need to fix it.

I reach a hand up self-consciously, but when Charles moves his giant palm to gently cup my cheek, I forget everything else.

He stares at me, his dark eyes boring into mine, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat and swallow nervously. Then, Charles’s gaze shifts lower, locking on my lips, and he starts to lean in. My pulse hammers in my chest like my heart is about to explode.

Charles’s lips, half-hidden by his beard, are full and tempting. I’m sure that he’s about to kiss me, and I lean forward to kiss him back.

Chapter 12

A knock on the door interrupts us. Charles growls—a truly beastly growl that rumbles in his chest—and slides off his barstool. Once again, he splashes across the living room, while I touch my fingers to my lips. Did I just almost kiss Charles?

I watch his tall, muscular frame as he throws the door open with so much strength, I’m surprised he doesn’t tear it off its hinges. My breath hitches and I realize that I’m attracted to the beast…while Prince Charming is right there in the kitchen, his tight shirt stretching over strong muscles as he fiddles with a fancy-looking kettle.

“Your order, sir,” a man announces from the doorway.

I spin around in surprise. How could the food have gotten here so quickly? Unless it was already prepared—in the apartment next door—that’s impossible. There is also no way it could fit in the small pink bag the delivery man—who happens to be wearing a suit—hands to Charles.

Maybe I drowned in the bathroom, just like Tate was worried I might, and this is all a bizarre dream?

As if on cue, the elevator in the hall dings. A woman carrying a large duffel bag rushes up to the front door. Charles steps aside, and she marches into the apartment. A second later, two men also carrying duffle bags arrive and follow her in.

All three take off their shoes near the doorway and splash through the living room. They seem to know exactly what they’re doing, but instead of heading to the kitchen to drop off food, they head down the hall.

The elevator dings again, and this time a man with a mop and bucket and a woman carrying a giant vacuum rush inside. They also take off their shoes and follow their colleagues toward the bathroom. Charles closes the door behind them and returns to my side.

“Here.” He hands me the pink bag the man in the suit delivered.

“What’s this?” I whisper, staring down at it in surprise. It says Villa in gold cursive letters on the side, and it’s way too small and far too light to hold any of the food.

Charles shrugs his huge shoulders in response. I wait for a few seconds for him to explain, then turn to Tate, who is no help. He shoots Charles a glare and then goes back to making tea.

Finally, I peek inside the bag. I have to push aside the crinkly pink paper, and the contents make me gasp. The bag holds new clothes. There’s a pair of jeans and something pink and soft underneath.

“Charles, I can’t.” He’s already done so much—him and Tate—and I have perfectly good clothes already. They’ll need washing and drying, but they definitely don’t need replacing.

“You don’t like it?” A hurt expression flits across Charles’s face. He takes back the bag and starts to turn away, but I reach out and grab his arm.

I ignore the pain that shoots through my ribs at the sudden movement and try to explain. “Charles, I do like it. Of course, I do. But it’s too much.”

For a second, I think Charles is going to storm off again. He doesn’t. Instead, he wraps his large palm around mine and pulls me off the barstool. I barely feel it in my ribs this time, a testament to the power of pain medication.

I’m also too shocked to protest as Charles gives me back the pink bag of clothes and tugs me across the wet, slippery floor.

It’s only when we reach the door that it dawns on me that he’s taking me to his bedroom. I don’t even get a chance to protest—not that I’m positive I want to—before he pulls me inside. Then he switches on the lights and slams the door shut behind me…while he stays on the other side. Wait, what?

It takes me a few seconds to realize that I’m not even in his bedroom. That was the room next door, while this is some mix of library, study space, and storage closet. In the middle of the room is a large boardroom table surrounded by five executive chairs. My gaze travels past them and locks on the floor-to-ceiling window.

It overlooks the college campus and gives me the perfect view of the moonlit clock tower. According to the hour and minute hands, it’s almost one thirty in the morning. Yet somehow, I feel more like Cinderella right now than I did before the clock struck midnight.

With a dazed smile, I turn back to study the room. All three walls are lined with bookcases, but only one holds actual books. They’re a mix of novels and textbooks, so many that it would take years to read them all. I slide my fingers gently along their spines and hum a tune I made up for Beauty and the Beast.

The next wall of shelves is littered with dumbbells and sports equipment. There’s only one book among them. It’s shabby with post-it notes protruding between the pages. A boxing glove rests on top of it, hiding the title from view, and I touch it gently as I walk past.

I reach the final wall and its contents bring back old memories. There are stacks upon stacks of board games, which remind me of a time when my mom was still alive. She loved everything from Chess to Uno, and we’d play a different game almost every night.

Mom would sit across from me, her long brown hair—so much like my own—framing her freckled face. She had this adorable way of scrunching up her nose in concentration right before she made her move. And she’d always hum during our games—I’d forgotten about that. Forgotten how her eyes would twinkle with merriment whenever I would join in.

I force myself to move on from the board games and look at the rest of the shelves. There’s a stack of Blu-rays of old films, some textbooks, and an acoustic guitar that could only belong to Tate.