My Heart for Yours: A Standalone Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  “Barrett.” The word is warm and rumbling. I notice the presence of the “t”s on the end and realize he’s not from around here, not from anywhere below the Mason-Dixon Line.

  “Anyone ever call you Bear?” I ask him, teasing.

  “Yeah.”

  I release the hair in my left hand and take another section of wet curls, and when it’s clear he’s not going to expound on his nickname, I say, “I’m sorry I’ve put you in a position to need Bear rehab. In all my years of doing taekwondo, I’ve never hurt someone like this. I think— I guess you scared me. Like I said.”

  He’s silent, still, although I feel his shoulders tense. My eyes run down them—I can’t seem to help it—and I notice the ink covering most of the right one: a black emblem featuring a sword. It looks military-ish.

  Oh Lord. If he got his head injury in the Army, I’m sure all he needs is to have it split open again so he can be reminded of the circumstances.

  I blow out the breath I’m holding. Just get this done and go. I rake my fingers down his nape. “I think I need to glue the wound now, if you still want me to do it.”

  His head lifts so our eyes meet in the mirror. His mouth is pressed into a line, and for a long moment, I think he’s going to say “no.” Instead he says, “I’ll hold the right side.”

  He lifts his right arm and presses on the right side of the wound with his fingertips.

  “Hang on,” I say softly. “I think I should dab it with some gauze.”

  He moves his hand out of his hair, handing me a gauze square from the little first aid box. I push his hair out of the way and dab the wound. “Okay.”

  His fingers come back, pressing the right side of the wound toward the left side: helping hold it closed. My left hand does the same thing, and when the two sides are joined—a jagged, fire-red puzzle piece fitted together—I grab the Dermabond from where I’ve left it and squeeze the tube to get it going. Then I rub the padded tip from the top of the slash to the bottom. I repeat the process three or four times, then go the other way: from bottom to top. I roll it over the skin a few more times, because I’d rather have too much glue than too little.

  “Okay. I think that should be enough.” I lift my right hand, still holding the Dermabond. “I can hold the right side if your arm is tired.”

  He smirks.

  I smile. “I was starting to think you might be part statue. Or just hating my guts.”

  I press my lips together.

  Why say that? Do you have to make things awkward?

  “The hate would be totally justified,” I ramble. Realizing I’ve almost obligated him to reassure me, I make a frenzied attempt to change the subject: “Hey, are you in the Army or Marines or something?”

  This is the new Gwenna: insecure, and trying too hard. It’s no wonder I never spend any time around guys. I’m unfit.

  It takes me a second to notice his eyes on mine in the mirror. They feel warmer this time, just a little.

  “Why do you ask?” he says after a beat.

  “About the Army? Um, because of your tattoos.” The one has a sword in the design, but there are many on his strong, wide back—and even from the brief glance I’ve gotten, they look like a soldier’s ink.

  “I am.” He blinks. “Was.”

  His reflection in the mirror looks troubled for a split second before he schools it into its usual blank canvas.

  “What branch?” I ask, thinking it’s a neutral, polite question.

  He looks down at his lap, and then back up at me. “I started in the Army.”

  I frown. Started? I don’t get it. “So…what happened after that?”

  His fingers let go of his scalp, which seems safely secured now with the Dermabond. He folds his arms over his chest. “I was in the Rangers.”

  “Oh, wow.” I don’t know all that much about the Rangers, but since my dad was in the Army, I know the bare essentials. They do special missions, and it’s hard to get through the weed-out training. If I remember correctly, only a dozen out of like 200 troops get in every time they open their doors for new members. I trace my fingertip lightly over the tattoo with the sword. “Is this a Ranger symbol?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Is it custom, like, did you design it?”

  His brows lift. “Something like that.” His lips twitch.

  I laugh. “You’re evasive. That makes me believe you are—or were—in the special forces.”

  His eyes burn into mine. His lips linger between smirk and smile. “Is there something that made you apt to disbelieve?”

  “Apt to disbelieve?” I laugh. “That’s some formal language, soldier. You must have been an officer.”

  He shakes his head, still smirk-smiling.

  I giggle. “Did your face cause a cease-fire?”

  His eyebrows scrunch, making him look no less perfect.

  “Oh, c’mon.” I step out on a limb, grappling for the old Gwen—the one who used to tease guys, second nature. “Don’t tell me you’ve never been teased about your face.”

  “My face?” He frowns.

  “Yes. Your hot face.” I laugh and hold my arms out. “I said it. I used to do some modeling with male models and your face? The artists would get them to that point with makeup. Fake lashes and an eyebrow pencil. I would be more likely to believe you did an Army-themed campaign for Armani than you were in the actual Army.”

  I realize as soon as I finish that what I said was insulting.

  “God. I guess that’s really rude.” I brave a look at him and find his dark head tilted back. A chuckle rises from his throat and he lifts a hand to his head, as if to keep the wound from splitting open. He’s grinning ear to ear and holy baby Jesus… “You have dimples.” I dip my own head back and slam my hand over my heart. “Slain.”

  His low, rich laughter is beautiful—and contagious.

  “Gwenna…Gwen. Fuck.” He lets out another low hoot, then rubs his eyes. “I can’t remember the last time I laughed.”

  His face goes stark so fast I know he must have thought of something painful. He covers it with a radiant, dimpled smile. Pushing my self-consciousness aside, I snarile back.

  “Just being honest.” I shrug. “I can see some women taking off their burkas for that.” I nod at him, an objectifying look that’s mean to amuse.

  His face goes completely white. He does this weird blink thing—a long blink, like a doll’s blink. Like he can clear the windshield of his brain with that blink. I expect him to turn to me and smile or offer some cover for his strange reaction, so when he stares blankly out at nothing, my throat tightens.

  “Oh God, wrong thing to say. I’m sorry.” I clamp my teeth down on my lip. “Like, really. I’m a moron.”

  He shakes his head and slowly brings his eyes to me. “No.” He sounds a little breathless.

  I see his Adam’s apple bob along the column of his throat. He tries to smile again, and it’s the biggest fail I’ve ever seen. It has to actually hurt.

  His left hand goes up to his temple, and I can see the fingers shaking.

  My body flushes with remorse. “I’m so sorry. Really sorry. I should be more careful with my big mouth.”

  He shuts his eyes again, and I watch his chest rise and fall as he exhales. His gray-blue eyes open.

  “I don’t get out enough,” he starts. His voice is full-on hoarse. He turns to me, his eyes deep wells. “You did…nothing wrong. Don’t feel badly.”

  My throat thickens and my eyes begin to sting. “I’m sorry. I should go now. I don’t want to keep on messing things up.”

  I rush out of the bathroom and hurry through his massive bedroom. As I reach for the doorknob, his hand comes down on my shoulder. The touch is fleeting. As I turn to him, he lets me go.

  “Thank you,” he says. His face is grave, his body hard and warm beside mine.

  I laugh. “The last thing you should do is thank me.”

  I turn and hurry down his stairs.

  When I get home,
I find a smudge of blood on my left cheek.

  NINE

  Gwenna

  This is stupid. Really stupid. I’m standing on his porch in this long-sleeved Ziggy Stardust t-shirt and a pair of skin-tight jeggings with my favorite casual, retro Jag Timberwolf boots, shivering from cold and nerves and feeling like a moron. It’s late, and he’s probably asleep.

  Either way, I’m hoping this will satisfy Helga, who, yesterday, when I arrived for my weekly appointment, knew something was off with me after maybe thirty seconds. I told her the whole sad and sordid tale of my assault on my new neighbor, followed by my trip to emo land while helping glue his head shut, and she said the first thing I should do is come back over and try to smooth things out.

  The first thing she did is made me do a mindful breathing exercise. After which we talked about my “evolving self-image,” and then she said I ought to drop back by here.

  Because I’m sure he wants to see me.

  That’s negative self-talk, I tell myself, clutching the Tupperware container to my chest.

  I can’t help thinking, as I reach my index finger out to ring his doorbell once more, how differently I feel today than two days ago.

  Helga says she thinks I’m making progress—whatever that means—and I don’t know. Maybe I am. But maybe I’m not. I didn’t tell her about the rust-colored spot I found on my cheek. About how I think he did touch me after I flashed my freakish-looking snarile. And I’m not telling her that I listened to Radiohead’s angsty, angry OK Computer album while I made this chocolate-on-chocolate cake: my least favorite kind of cake, as it happens. Because if I’m going to bake an apology cake for him, why should it be my favorite kind of cake?

  He touched my face. I know he did, because I didn’t have blood on my fingers, and when I did, I made sure not to touch my face. He could have HIV for all I know.

  But he doesn’t.

  He can’t.

  I sigh.

  He’s nice. I like him. Which is not okay for many reasons. Chief among them: he probably hates me. All I’ve done is fuck up in his presence, and on top of that, I’m weird looking. A guy who looks like him would never feel attracted to a woman with a smile like mine.

  I ring his bell the final time, and the sort of cold that precedes passing out or hyperventilating winds its way through my body.

  Why does he affect me this way? Helga theorizes it’s because he’s the first guy I’ve had close contact with since the accident. I don’t want to think that’s it—because that’s so pathetic. It’s been almost four years, after all. And anyway, I’ve had close contact with other guys. Say, the check-out guy at my neighborhood grocery store. He’s college-aged and cute. Or the priest at my church. I feel at ease around them, don’t I?

  I let my breath out, long and slow, and try to put a wall between me and my disappointment.

  You wanted to see him. You’ve got a crush.

  After I deliver my confectionery apology for being so insensitive the other day, I really need to stay away from him. I should treat this whole thing as a signal to myself that it’s time to dip a toe back in the dating waters. Not with Barrett, Gorgeous Army Ranger. But with someone.

  Someone old or desperate. Someone I could feel at ease with. Someone around whom, at the very least, I’m not flailing around like Facial Paralysis Muppet.

  I prop the Tupperware against a hip and stare at his doorbell.

  The last two nights, I dreamed of white, of lying on the ground immobilized. Both times I saw him walking over me: a giant, while I was ant-sized.

  I turn away, back toward the steps, rolling my eyes at myself. Self-loathing is a buoyant force inside me, making me feel darkly energetic—like I just might run back through the woods and slam my front door behind myself.

  Just about the time I turn around to do that, I hear a whiny creak, and then a soft whoosh.

  “Gwenna?”

  I turn slowly toward the door to find him standing in it.

  His wavy-curly hair is all over the place—as if he’s been tugging on it. His shadow is more beard-y, and his chiseled face looks starker underneath this wild crown of dark hair. Where two days ago, his eyes showed just a hint of tiredness, which I thought was pain from taking a kick to the head, now there are obvious circles under his eyes. He blinks, bringing his solemn face to life, but he still looks slightly dazed. Like he just popped a Xanax—or woke up.

  “Oh hell, did I wake you up?” I shake my head again as goldfish do synchronized backflips in my stomach. I can feel my cheeks burn as my gaze sweeps over his slouchy jeans and snug-ish white undershirt.

  He brings a hand up and pushes at the curls over his left eye. His face is still that quiet neutral.

  Silence stretches out between us. I swallow. He blinks, his eyes a little wider.

  “No,” he says belatedly, as if he’s only just now processing. He shakes his head. His lips press together. God, his eyes are serious. Probably because he’s wondering what it will take to get rid of me. With one hand on the doorframe, he leans out slightly. “Do you need something?"

  “Um, well…I just wanted to swing by and give you—” I hold out the Tupperware box. “Chocolate cake. It’s the traditional Southern new neighbor offering. Post-assault, of course.”

  After a brief hint of confusion in his brows, his mouth lifts slightly on one side. I pass the cake container to him.

  He blinks a few times down at it, then looks up at me. His face is serious and stark, as are his words when he says, “Thank you, Gwenna.”

  I nod. Now go. My feet don’t move. “How are you doing? I’ve been thinking of you. In a totally non-stalker way.” Stalker.

  His eyes widen. Is that supposed to be an answer? My hand lifts of its own accord. “Can I see it? Does it look okay?”

  He leans his head down. I step closer and push a few curls aside with my unsteady fingers.

  “Oh…yeah. It does look like it’s healing.”

  He lifts his head. He smiles, but it looks strained. Or maybe tired. I think of how our last encounter ended and I draw a deep breath of chilly air.

  “I wanted to say one thing…about the other day. That is: my dad was in the Army. I have a lot of respect for combat vets. Honestly. I just act like a dolt around you. I was tactless and I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t think I’d say that.” He looks down at his left arm, where a watch would be. When he looks back up, his face looks pained. “So your father. Army?”

  Awkward. He’s trying to make small talk, but he definitely seems uncomfortable now.

  I nod. “He was a bomb squad guy.” My eyes tear up with zero notice, and I want to give myself a throat-punch.

  He nods slowly, as if he’s taking that in. “Great guys. He still active duty?”

  I swallow, trying desperately to keep my eyes dry. “He passed away last November,” I manage with a stiff spine.

  I’m puzzled when he turns away from me and takes a step inside. A moment later, he turns back, empty-handed, and then surprises me by stepping out onto the porch.

  I eye his plain white undershirt, loose jeans, and bare feet. “Don’t come out here. It’s cold.” I fold my arms over my chest in demonstration.

  He smirks. “It’s not that cold.”

  “To me it is.” I hug myself.

  It’s hard not to be aware of how attractive he is when he’s standing right in front of me. Attractive, and massive, too. I wonder how long he works out every day.

  “You want a jacket?” he asks.

  What is this? I swallow. I’m supposed to say, I need to go now, but the words get stuck.

  I’m looking up at him like a pilgrim at a shrine. I fell him step in closer, then his arm comes up around my back.

  “Thanks for the cake,” he says.

  I feel his eyes on me, the hard warmth of his body against mine. I stand there holding my breath, waiting for him to let go of me so my heart can resume beating—but he doesn’t. He just stands beside me, his big arm around me, li
ke we’re good friends.

  I try and fail to breathe. My stomach sags into my knees.

  “You’re tall,” I manage, awkward as fuck; I dare a glance up at him.

  He nods. He lifts his arm off me, but doesn’t step away.

  I fold my arms around myself and watch his brows scrunch, like I’m a bug and he’s a scientist.

  “Thanks for the cake,” he says again. He puts his hands in his jeans pockets, casual although his eyes on mine feel hot. “I meant to tell you, the kick was good.”

  I laugh, widening my eyes up at him. “Really?”

  I have to struggle not to stare at his muscular arms, showcased by the way he’s got his hands in his pockets. We’re standing close enough that we could be eighth-graders at a school dance.

  He smiles, dimples and all. “You have surprisingly good form, considering your ankle.” His smile falters.

  I press my lips together. “What about my ankle?”

  “You have pins…right?”

  I make an “o” of my mouth, tres dramatique. “How the hell do you know that?”

  He crouches down by my feet and tips his head up, giving me a view of mostly his curls and his eyes. Then he looks down, laying his hand over the outside of my ankle. “Pins and maybe a screw or two on this side?”

  “What are you? Some kind of Fucked-Up Ankle Whisperer?”

  His hand curls around my leg, making my body burn so hot I worry I may spontaneously combust. Then he stands, shaking his head. “A friend of mine had similar range of motion. Not as good as yours, though. He did one tour after that—after the surgery to put the ankle back together—and that was it. It wouldn’t hold. He’s an instructor now.”

  I wonder what that means—what kind of instructor?—but I don’t ask. I nod.

  “I noticed you as I walked by,” he goes on slowly. “I had stopped to watch you, how you moved, and when I saw you saw me, I thought I’d come and introduce myself.”

  I bring a hand up to my face and nod my head. “That makes sense.” My tone sounds sarcastic, even though I’m not. I’m just embarrassed.