Page 57 of Fractured Heart

“It’s one of my favorite spots on campus.”

We turn the corner and I see why.

A large fountain graces the center of a paved quad. It’s tiered like a wedding cake, layer after layer of concentric circles. Water cascades down each level like a miniature model of a waterfall flowing down the face of a mountain. There’s something magical about it and I barely resist the urge to sing.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper instead.

Charles nods and leads me across the quad. Fancy shops line all four sides, and he stops in front of a charming bistro. The elegantly stylized sign out front tells me it’s Chez Caviar, the place Charles ordered from last night.

Shielding my eyes from the glare coming off the huge windows, I peer inside. The back wall is lined with shelf after shelf of spotless wine glasses. Burgundy tablecloths drape over minimalist tables, each one home to a bud vase with a single rose.

“We’re eating here?” I ask, eyes wide.

I can see why the Beast feels at home here, but I’m no Beauty. Even in my new, expensive clothes, I feel underdressed. I finger-combed my hair this morning but I’m wearing zero makeup. Another girl might be able to pull this look off, but not me. I’ll probably knock something over before we even make it to the table.

“We can dine in if you like, but I was thinking takeout. That way we can eat while we work.”

“Definitely takeout.” I nod in relief.

Charles holds the door open for me and we step inside. As fancy as this place looked from the outside, it is even more unbelievable on the inside. The air is perfumed with the delicate scent of fresh herbs. The tiles sparkle beneath my feet, making me feel like I’ve been transported into a magical world.

A waiter decked out in a burgundy vest and matching bow tie is folding cloth napkins into ruffly formations. He’s dressed like the delivery man who showed up at the apartment last night, and an identically-clad woman crosses the room with a tray of silverware. It’s all polished to a mirror shine and for a second, I wonder what songs the spoons, forks, and knives would sing if they were enchanted.

“Takeout or dine in, Mr. Harrington?” the woman asks. I gawk. They know him by name here?

“Takeout, please. I’ll have my usual and…what would you like Roonie?”

“Menu, Miss?” the waitress adds. She grabs a leather folder that matches her vest from the nearest table.

I open it and frown. Canapés, foie gras, canard. I don’t know what any of this stuff is. I’m not even sure it’s in English. I glance at the prices instead. They make me feel a little faint, but Charles is waiting for me to order. I skim the numbers and pick the cheapest option. I can’t pronounce it, so I point and tilt the menu for Charles to see.

“Escargot? Good choice.” He nods approvingly and adds a few more things to our order.

The only thing that sounds at all familiar is caviar, like the restaurant name, and my eyes widen. “That’s too much, Charles.”

“The portions are quite small, Miss.” The waitress smiles like ordering a hundred dollars worth of caviar for lunch is no big deal. Maybe if you’re Charles, it’s not.

I’m still a bit overwhelmed when he leads me back outside to wait for our order. We sit on a bench, listening to the soft splashing from the water fountain. I press my hands against the soft wood, which has been warmed by the sun, and take in the sensation.

“You alright?” Charles pulls me into his side.

I nod. I’m surrounded by warmth—from the sun, the bench, his body—and I close my eyes and enjoy the moment.

“Do you know which of your songs you’d like us to use?” Charles asks, his chest vibrating against my side.

“Not really.” I shake my head.

I’d told the guys I’ve written other songs, from my all-time favorite about Cinderella and her princes, to the little mermaid song I wrote when I didn’t get into LUV Academy. They’re all objectively better than the song Tate sang to me before our first kiss, even if that tune now means the world to me. I’m just not sure any of my songs will be good enough. What if the guys bomb their audition and it’s all my fault?

I really want to believe that my song, coupled with the guys’ voices, will be enough. But we’re talking about a college-level competition here. I submitted my best songs with my application for admission and still got rejected. Why would this be any different?

“I don’t know if I can do this, Charles,” I say, my panic reflected in my voice.

“Let us use your song?” Charles tenses.

“No. I mean pick a song. What if it’s not good enough?”

“It will be.” Charles gives my shoulder a gentle squeeze. “How about we pick a couple of songs together and let the guys decide which one to use?”