by Mia Harlan
As it is, I doubt he’s planning to stick around. He’s just a nice guy who’s looking out for me. He probably plans to walk me home, like the gentleman that he is. Except that I don’t have a home or even a place to stay for the night.
“Roonie?” Tate presses.
“Everything’s fine,” I lie, trying to keep a bright smile on my face even though it’s the furthest thing from the truth.
Chapter 6
My mind races as I follow Tate across campus. Each step hurts and he has to slow down so I can keep up. Once we’re outside, we walk side by side, so close that our arms are almost touching. It’s enough to distract me from the pain.
I glance up at Tate and catch him staring down at me. There’s this expression on his face that I can’t quite read, but for a split second, I hope it’s attraction. Only that’s impossible. I may be staring up at Prince Charming, but Tate is looking down at a mud-caked girl who has no business being in a fairy tale.
I try to smooth back my damp, sticky hair but it’s a losing battle. When I’ve done all I can, I wipe my palms on my jeans and try to focus on my surroundings. We make our way down the paved walkway and when we turn the corner, I gasp.
The building before us is beautifully lit up in colorful panels. Each window pane has been fitted with an LED frame that causes it to flicker in juicy rainbows. When they all shine together, the whole structure appears to be a waterfall of color.
Tate leads the way down a narrow path and we enter the quad. There are more shops here, selling everything from books, to clothes, to art supplies. They are all closed, but their window displays are lit up so I can look inside. I stare with longing at the sweaters with the college logo, the jewelry, and…musical instruments!
“Do you play?” Tate asks when I slow down to look at them.
I nod.
“What instrument?” He sounds genuinely curious—excited even.
“Piano and guitar.” When I was in high school, I’d spend hours in the music room, composing songs. After graduating, I downloaded some software onto my laptop in order to replicate my favorite instruments. Now I create everything digitally—or, I used to. Since I left my laptop behind, I guess I’ll be composing all future music in my head.
“I have a guitar.” Tate grins. “We should play together sometime.”
My breath catches and my heart leaps. I can’t help staring up at Tate dreamily. I can’t decide which part of what he said I like best. That he owns a guitar? That I may get to hear him play and, dare I hope, sing? Or that he wants to spend time with me? Any of the three sound like a dream, but put together, they’re a fantasy.
Tate smiles, his cheeks dimpling adorably, and I look away, blushing. “Where are we going?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“Huh?” I frown.
“I’m walking you back to your dorm.” He chuckles. “What building are you in?”
“Oh.” I freeze. Didn’t Dr. MacAulay tell him I don’t go here? I thought for sure she’d have lectured him about that back in the examination room.
“What’s wrong, Roonie?” Tate puts a hand on my arm, completely unaware that his gallant mission of escorting me to my dorm is going to be an impossible task.
I stare down at my wet, muddy sneakers. There is a chance he won’t care that I’m not a student, but what if he does? My plans of seeing him again—of listening to him sing and play guitar— begin to slip away.
There’s no point fighting it. I might as well rip the bandage off—the metaphorical one, not the one on my knee—and tell him. I take a deep breath. “I’m not a student here.”
“Okay.” Tate shrugs like it’s no big deal. He doesn’t even seem surprised. Then again, why would he be? I don’t look anything like the other students who go to LUV Academy.
“I-I should go.”
“I’ll walk you home. Do you live nearby?”
I shake my head.
“Are you here visiting a friend?”
Another head shake.
“A boyfriend?” Tate frowns. A part of me hopes the frown means he’s jealous, but he’s probably just getting annoyed at having to guess.
“N-no,” I squeak.
“Ex-boyfriend?”
I shake my head.
“Girlfriend?”
“What? No. I just…” I don’t want to say it aloud, but there is no way around it. “I don’t have a home.”
“You don’t—” Tate’s eyebrows practically fly off his forehead and I rush to explain.
“I…I left…” I trail off as tears spring to my eyes.
“Oh, Roonie.” Tate takes my hands in his. “It’ll be okay, I promise.”
“No. It won’t.” It’ll never be okay.
“Of course it will,” Tate says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Whatever’s wrong, we can fix it.”
“How?” I cry. “I didn’t get into college. I can’t even get a job. And now, I don’t have a place to live. How will anything ever be okay?!”
I cover my mouth and my eyes widen in horror. Did I just say that aloud? Tate stares back at me, equally wide-eyed, and that’s answer enough. I really am a mess, just like Father always says. I couldn’t even last an hour with Prince Charming before I ended up ruining that, too.
I start to pull away, but Tate’s grip on my hands tightens. “It will be okay,” he says resolutely. “Until then, you can stay with me.”
Wait, what? This time, it’s my eyebrows that practically fly off my forehead. I just met Tate and he’s inviting me to stay at his place?
For a split second—and I do mean just a split second—I want to say yes. Tate is Prince Charming straight out of one of my favorite fairy tales. He rescued me from a forest and carried me over a threshold. He’s sweet and caring and tall and handsome. This is all like a dream come true and my heart skips a beat.
Until I remember that this is real life.
I can’t go home with a stranger, no matter how good-looking he is. It’s just not safe, but what is? Going back home and begging Father for forgiveness? That would only lead to more pain…not just tonight, but tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. Which suddenly makes Tate’s offer to stay at his place look a whole lot safer.
Plus, I can’t picture Tate turning into an ogre. He’s been so gentle with me since the moment we met. He hasn’t gotten angry, not when I’ve gotten mud all over him or the times I started humming or full out singing. He waited for me while I saw Dr. MacAulay, and he even thought to ask her for painkillers. I just can’t picture him being anything but kind.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s handsome, either. I can’t help but notice how good he looks in the moonlight. It accentuates his perfectly chiseled jaw and adds a glint to his eyes. I search them and something in their honeyed depths tells me Tate would never hurt me.
Then, my gaze drifts down to his lips and I have this urge to lean up and kiss him. I long to lean into his body, rise up on tiptoe, and press my lips against his.
“That’d be grice,” I blurt out, my heart thundering in my chest as my cheeks flood with color.
“Grice?” Tate frowns.
“N-nice. I meant nice.” I blush harder. I was going to say ‘great,’ but I didn’t want to sound too eager. Now, I just sound like an idiot.
“Great!” Tate has no problem saying the word, and when he grins, I do too. “Come on. It’s this way.”
We turn back the way we came and head toward Tate’s dorm room. My ribs start to ache, and the uncomfortable feeling of wet socks is back, too. We pass the clock tower, with its giant arrows pointing to eleven fifty-five, and I idly wonder if I’ll turn into a pumpkin at midnight. It would actually make for a great song if I just—
“Roonie!” Tate suddenly grabs my hand and tugs me to the left, sending waves of pain through my ribs.
“Why did…oh.” I trail off when I see the rosebush I was about to walk into. “Thanks, Tate.”
He chuckles and doesn
’t let go of my hand. His large palm envelops mine, his grip strong yet gentle. My heart rate accelerates, and I tilt my head to look up at him. Tate’s tall frame cuts a regal figure in the moonlight and his eyes drift to my lips. When he slows to a stop, I do too. Caught up in the moment, I start to lean toward him, and Tate yanks his hand away from mine.
“I have two roommates,” he says, stepping back until there’s an arm’s length between us.
“You have two roommates?” I repeat in confusion. Why is he suddenly acting like I’ve been struck by an evil curse? It’s like he can’t get away from me fast enough.
“We share one of the campus apartments. I just thought you should know.” Tate continues to back away. Any further, and he’ll end up in walking into the same rose bushes he just rescued me from.
“Tate…” I raise a hand to warn him.
“I’ll sleep on the couch,” he interrupts. “You can have my room.”
I flush as his meaning finally sinks in. Tate saw that I was going to kiss him and he’s trying to make it clear that he’s not interested. Going by the wide-eyed look on his face and how close he is to that rose bush, he’s clearly horrified by the idea.
“Tate, I—”
“I know,” he interrupts, though I’m not sure what it is he knows? That I’m into him? That I was about to kiss him? That I’m a mess and no guy could ever want me?
“I’m so sorry.” For all those things. I should have known a guy like Tate wouldn’t be interested in me.
“Hey, don’t apologize, Roonie. You’ve been through a lot. I would never take advantage of that.” He rubs the back of his neck and gives me a tentative smile. “We should get going. My apartment’s just this way.”
He takes the lead, but this time he keeps a healthy distance between us. I’m almost too embarrassed to follow, but I don’t have anywhere else to go.
When we approach a three-story building, he stops in front of a large, wooden door and pulls out a key card from the pocket of his jogging pants. “After you,” he says, unlocking the door and holding it open.
We enter the elevator and Tate pushes the button for the third floor. I can’t help but notice how well-formed his hands are, elegant and strong. His cheeks dimple when he turns to smile at me and my breath hitches in my throat. My body doesn’t seem to care that Tate’s not attracted to me, but my brain knows better. I can’t let myself hope that this Prince Charming could ever be mine. Not even for a second.
I’ve had my fairy tale, my princely rescue from the moonlit forest, and that is all I can ever hope for. A guy like Tate would never be interested in a mess like me. He’s made that clear. I’m lucky he’s even letting me stay the night, but by this time tomorrow, I’ll be out of his way.
Chapter 7
When we walk into Tate’s dorm room, I freeze in the doorway and stare. I’d expected a small, messy room with pizza boxes, takeout containers, and clothes strewn everywhere. This place…it belongs on the cover of a magazine.
The suite is massive. It’s even bigger than the entire house I share—shared—with Father. It’s also spotless, something I’ve never mastered, no matter how long I’ve spent cleaning.
There isn’t a single stain or speck of dust on the gorgeous white carpet or the crystal lamps. They shed light on the huge white couch that’s almost directly in front of the door; a couch currently occupied by a giant beast of a man.
With a squeak, I take a terrified step back and slam painfully into Tate’s chest. He steadies me and my cheeks heat as I quickly step away.
I refocus my attention on the huge, sleeping beast and barely contain a whimper. He’s at least a head taller than Tate and made of sheer muscle. His beard is wild, almost feral. There’s also something dark and foreboding about his clothes: black dress pants that stretch across huge, muscular thighs, a black, button-up shirt that barely fits over bulging muscles, and large—scratch that—gigantic black dress-shoes.
Then, my gaze lands on the book propped open on the Beast’s chest, and I gape in horror. I recognize it immediately—it’s Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Any fairy tale usually makes me squeal with joy, but not this book.
I take one look at the illustration on the front cover and tense with disgust. It is a sickeningly graphic image from Grimm’s repulsive version of Cinderella. In this one, she doesn’t drive off with the prince in a pumpkin-shaped carriage. Instead, her ugly step-sisters get their eyes pecked out by birds. On the cover, blood oozes from their eye sockets, the gruesomeness surpassed only by their mangled feet.
I’m familiar with this original story and the part where the stepsisters cut off their toes and heels so they’d fit in the glass slipper. I hate it. Fairy tales are supposed to be happy. In a fairy tale, the glass slipper fits, chirping birds help princesses dress, and the Beast’s exterior hides a warm, kind heart. What kind of person finds comfort in the darkness of such gory tales?
The Beast shifts and the heavy tome slips off his chest and onto the floor, startling him awake. He looks around in surprise and eyes as dark as crows lock on mine. They’re wild, like a predator’s tracking his prey. Whereas Tate’s gaze fills me with happiness and longing, the Beast sets my heart racing.
His eyes rove down my body, almost as if he’s stripping me, inch by mud-caked inch. Wherever he looks, a flood of heat follows, and my heart beats erratically in my chest. Then, his gaze lands on the gaping hole at my knee, and I flush with embarrassment.
“Roonie, this is Charlie.” Tate places a warm, strong hand on my shoulder. “Charlie, Roonie.”
I open my mouth, but Charlie’s glare dries my throat right up. When Tate mentioned having roommates, I didn’t give them much thought. I definitely never considered one of them might look like this.
“H-hi Charlie,” I barely manage to get out the greeting and my palms start to sweat.
Charlie’s eyes blaze in response. His midnight black hair tumbles over them, and he brushes it back with one huge hand. I don’t mean large hand, or even above average. It is huge, just like the rest of him.
When he starts to sit up, I instinctively back up, crashing into Tate again. I notice that the pain in my ribs and back isn’t as excruciating, so at least the painkillers are starting to kick in.
Then, I become aware of Tate’s hard, muscular chest pressed up against my back and quickly step away.
“Charles Harrington the Third,” Charlie finally replies. His voice burns through me like a well-played cello: smooth, deep, complicated, and overwhelming. I feel my knees grow wobbly. If Tate weren’t keeping me upright, I think I might collapse at Charlie’s feet. Then he raises that hand again, this time to scratch his chin, and I can’t tear my eyes away.
“Charles just started growing the beard.” Tate’s breath grazes my ear. “Don’t call him Charlie, by the way. He hates that.”
“He does?” I swallow nervously as the Beast stares back at me, his face impassive. I just called him Charlie! I only did it because Tate told me to, but now Charles probably hates me. Which he makes abundantly clear when he picks up his Grimm’s Fairy Tales off the floor, retrieves a pair of glasses from halfway under the couch, and turns to his book like we’re not even there.
I tilt my head up to glare accusingly at Tate and immediately realize my mistake. He’s close. Too close. All I have to do is stand on tiptoe for our lips to touch. Even with Charles the Beast in the same room, I still want to do it, and the way Tate stares down at me almost convinces me he wants it, too. Except that he made it abundantly clear earlier that he wasn’t interested in me. And even if he hadn’t, I’m covered in mud.
Flushing with embarrassment, I look down at my ripped jeans and dirty sneakers. For a few seconds, no one says anything, and the sound of Charles turning a page in his awful book echoes through the silent room. Finally, he looks up.
“So, what happened to you?” he asks, his eyes locked on me.
I swallow nervously.
“She slipped, out by the ravine,” Tate finally answers
for me.
“Thought you were the only one who went running in the middle of the night.” Charles stares at me intently for a few seconds, then reaches up to scratch his cheek.
“Beard still bothering you?”
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“It’s for a role,” Tate tells me. “He hates it, by the way.”
“He hates the role?” I frown and look back up at Charles. The black, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose should make him look less beastly, but if anything, they’re even more intimidating.
“The beard.” Tate chuckles.
Charles grumbles in response. He scratches the offending facial hair and goes back to reading about hacked off toes and pecked out eyeballs. I shudder.
Happy thoughts, Roonie, I remind myself, like I do when I’m lying in my bedroom, bruised, beaten and missing Mom. My usual escape is fairy tales, but I’m too curious about the Beast’s role. Is he an actor in a play? A movie? Or, dare I hope, a musical that Tate is also a part of?
The image of Prince Charming on a stage singing is a thrilling one. I picture the Beast, tall and frightening, standing next to him. They’d both be dressed as princes, facing each other with swords drawn.
Then, they’d break into song: a duet. I can picture Tate the Prince singing tenor and Charles the Beast singing bass, their voices weaving together like a fairy tale dream.
“What’s that song?” Charles asks with a beastly growl, his eyes locking on mine.
“N-nothing. Just something I heard on TV,” I lie. My face feels impossibly hot. How could I just start singing like that? In public? In front of two guys I just met, who now probably think I’m nuts?
“She’s not a student here,” Tate adds and my heart plummets. I know I’m not a good singer, definitely not good enough to get accepted here, but does Tate have to go around announcing it?
Charles shakes his head in obvious disappointment, making me feel even worse. I try to hide my hurt feelings, but then Tate does something that distracts me. He starts to sing my song, and I forget about everything else.
