Fractured Heart: a Fairy Tale Romance (LUV Academy Book 1)

by Mia Harlan

  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.

  “Roonie, are you alright?” The guy in question calls from the other side of the door.

  “I’m fine,” I call back. It’s not like there’s any way I can flood this room, too.

  “Do the clothes fit?” he presses.

  “Huh?”

  “The clothes Charles got you. Do they fit?”

  “Oh!” I look down at the pink bag of clothes. “Just give me a minute.”

  I cross the room to shut the blinds and dump the contents of the bag on the boardroom table. The clothes Charles got are an exact replica of the outfit I was wearing earlier, only better; and by better, I mean more expensive.

  The pink sweater is so soft it could only be cashmere and the distressed blue jeans look designer. There’s also a pink lace panty and bra set, which looks a lot sexier—and a lot less comfortable—than anything I’ve ever worn.

  I pull everything on. The lace is a bit itchy and the jeans much tighter than I’m used to, but everything fits perfectly. How did Charles even know my size? Either he has amazing eye measurement skills, or he looked through my clothes. I flush at the thought of him handling my bra and panties, of his huge hands picking them up off the bathroom floor and his long fingers checking for tags.

  Then, I remember something else. My clothes! I left Mom’s necklace in my old jeans and the cleaners are in there right now. They might have already thrown them out, and if they haven’t, they might do so at any second.

  With a panicked cry, I rush out of the room and race to the bathroom.

  “Roonie?” Charles shouts after me.

  “What’s going on?” Tate cries. “Roonie? Is everything okay?”

  I hear two sets of footsteps splashing after me, but I ignore them. If anything happened to Mom’s necklace…

  I skid to a stop when I reach the bathroom. The tub is drained and sparkling. Most of the floor has been scrubbed and the woman with the vacuum is sucking up the remaining water while two of the others are going at it with mops.

  I look around wildly but there’s no sign of my old clothes—just a large, black garbage bag that one of the cleaners is holding.

  “Have you seen my jeans?” I cry, lunging toward him and yanking the garbage bag out of his hands. Dirty water dribbles over the side, but I don’t care. I open it wide and prepare to reach inside when Charles pulls it out of my hands.

  “You’re going to ruin your sweater,” he grumbles and thrusts a large hand into the soggy, disgus
ting bag. Bravely, he pushes aside a mix of filthy rags. He continues to rummage through the contests, and then he pulls out my old jeans.

  “Thank you, Charles.” I grab the jeans from him. I retrieve a very soggy twenty-dollar bill, and then, more importantly, my necklace.

  “What’s that?” Tate asks, stepping closer to look at the four jagged pieces.

  “It was my mother’s,” I whisper. “It used to be a necklace, but now…”

  “I’m sorry,” Tate says gently as I stuff the pieces in my new, and much tighter, jean pocket.

  “Thanks.” I smile at him and turn to Charles. “And thank you for rescuing this for me, Charles. And for the clothes.”

  Charles grunts in acknowledgment and then, to my surprise, Tate frowns.

  Chapter 13

  The three of us are just heading back to the living room when there’s a loud knock on the front door. Tate opens it, and a man wearing a burgundy Chez Caviar vest and matching bow tie holds up a large cardboard box. It’s the exact same shade as his outfit, and I can’t decide if I should laugh or be impressed.

  “We didn’t order that,” Tate tells him. He starts to slam the door in the man’s face, but Charles grabs it with one strong hand, stopping him.

  “Actually, we did,” he says to the stunned-looking delivery man. He pulls out some bills from his shorts pocket, exchanges them for the box that presumably holds our food, and thanks him.

  As the man turns to leave, the elevator dings and a tall, skinny older gentleman in a black Pizza al Volo blazer walks up. Charles smirks and slams the door right in his face.

  “Very mature of you,” Tate grumbles and opens the door.

  “Delivery for Charles Harrington the Third?” the fancy pizza man asks in obvious confusion.

  “Charles, it’s for you.” Tate smirks and takes the large plastic bag. “Would you tip the kind man?”

  Charles grumbles but dutifully pulls out more bills from his shorts pocket. He hands them to Tate, who passes them to the pizza man. This time, I see the amount, and my eyes nearly bulge. Forty dollars. More than all the money I have to my name, and it’s just the tip?

  “Thank you, sirs,” the pizza delivery man says nonchalantly.

  Tate starts to close the door behind him when there’s another ding from the elevator. This time, a skinny teen in shorts and a hoodie races up.

  “I have an ice cream order here for a…” he pauses and looks down at the piece of paper, “Charles Harrington?”

  “The third,” Tate adds with a smirk aimed at Charles.

  “Sure thing, man. You want these in the freezer?”

  Tate opens the door wider, letting the guy through. He unloads four tubs of ice cream into the freezer and next thing I know Charles is handing him his tip.

  “I love delivering to this place.” The guy breaks into a huge grin as he counts off the bills.

  Maybe I should have applied to work at the ice cream store instead of trying to get into college.

  Tate closes it behind him and then turns to me and Charles. “Now, who’s ready to eat?”

  He sounds so excited that I can’t help but smile. I follow him to the bar and he pulls out the barstool for me, like a true prince.

  “Thanks,” I tell him, trying not to think about how much money all this must have cost.

  “Here.” Charles walks up behind me and places his strong hands on my waist. My eyes widen as he picks me up like I weigh nothing at all and sets me down gently on the stool. Tate pushes it in and takes a seat to my right. Then he gives me one of his heart-stopping smiles and I blush and quickly look away.

  Charles slides onto the stool to my left a moment later, distracting me. He unpacks the food from Chez Caviar, pointedly ignoring the large plastic bag from Pizza al Volo. “Here, Roonie. Try some real food, and whatever Tate ordered.”

  “We both know which one Roonie will like best.” Tate smirks as he unpacks his order.

  I look back and forth between them uncomfortably. I really hope they don’t actually expect me to settle their argument. I don’t want to cause a rift between the two roommates, not after everything they’ve done for me. I’m not even sure why they care what I think. I don’t know anything about fancy food.

  Of all the items spread out before me, the one I recognize most easily is the pizza, only it doesn’t look like any pizza I’ve ever seen. The crust is thin and as golden as sunlight. Tiny clusters of crispy cheese nestle along the edges. In the center, fresh basil rests on a blanket of finely shredded cheese. It glistens under the fluorescent lights, generously oily but not greasy. Beneath it, a luscious red carpet of tomato sauce peeks out. It’s speckled with flecks of ground basil and oregano and I inhale the fresh, savory herbs and a hint of olive oil.

  I start to reach for a piece, but then I’m distracted by the tray next to the pizza. It’s got an array of perfectly uniform slices of baguette. They’ve been toasted to crisp perfection and smell delicately of fresh wheat. Expertly placed, they lean against one another in an endless circle, and at the center is a bowl of perfectly smooth dip. It’s a pale gray that reminds me of silk and is most likely the black truffle pâté Charles mentioned. The name itself isn’t the least bit appealing, but it looks delicious.

  I reach for a fork so I can serve myself when I realize there are no forks. Every single dish here is finger food. The delicate bundles of smoked salmon on small circles of puff pastry, the ocean-fresh oysters, the stuffed mushrooms—it’s all meant to be eaten by hand.

  I hesitate, not sure where to start, and Charles plucks an unsuspecting baguette slice from the tray. He dips it into the truffle pâté and I fully expect him to scarf it down, but he holds it up in front of my lips instead.

  “Try it,” he says.

  I flush with embarrassment. It’s a surprisingly intimate gesture. I’ve never had a guy feed me before, but the bit of truffle pâté smells delicious and my mouth waters. Unable to help myself, I part my lips and Charles places the delectable bite on my tongue. His fingers graze my lower lip and tingles race down my spine.

  Tate places a hand on my arm, and I shiver from his touch as the silky, creamy truffle pâté dissolves in my mouth. It’s complemented perfectly by the crispness of the baguette and I barely hold in a moan. My eyes drift shut, and I focus my senses on the taste, intermingled with the warmth of Tate’s arm on mine.

  “Roonie, try this instead.” Tate rotates my barstool to face him and holds up a delicate slice of thin crust pizza to my lips. It smells so savory and delicious that I take a bite of it before I start to wonder if it’s weird that both guys are suddenly hand-feeding me food.

  Tate’s fingers brush my lips much like Charles’s did, and a fresh set of tingles race down my spine.

  Then, the fresh herbal flavors explode on my tongue and it’s all I can think about. Never in my life have I tasted something so perfectly balanced and seasoned. Complex layers of flavor reveal themselves to me. I don’t even realize I’ve let out a moan until Tate chuckles.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” he asks. When I open my eyes and see his boyish smile, my heart flutters.

  “But not as good as the black truffle pâté,” Charles argues, placing one strong hand on my shoulder and the other on my bar stool. He turns me so I’m facing him, and a trail of gooey cheese follows from the pizza slice in Tate’s hand all the way to my lips.

  Charles uses his large thumb to wipe the cheese away. My lips tingle at his sure, gentle touch and I become aware of how warm his skin feels. I can’t quite suppress a shiver, and Charles smiles knowingly as his eyes seem to turn an even darker shade of black. “So?” he growls.

  “So?” I squeak in response.

  “The truffles are better than some boring pizza, right Roonie?” he asks.

  “Clearly she likes the pizza better, Charles,” Tate snaps from behind me.

  Blushing, I look down at my lap. “I—I kind of like them both.”

  Chapter 14

  “You like them both, huh
?” Tate asks hoarsely. His words, coupled with his sexy tenor, flood my body with heat. I blush and look away, but not before I catch Tate and Charles exchanging a meaningful look.

  “Try this, Roonie,” Charles suggests. He picks up a stuffed mushroom and holds it up for me to taste.

  I part my lips, and Charles gently grazes them with large, warm fingers as he slips the mushroom in my mouth.

  My lips tingle at his touch and a burst of earthy flavor explodes on my tongue. The gourmet herbs, expertly-cooked filling, and Charles’s touch are a heady combination. I can’t help but close my eyes to savor it all.

  When I finally open them, I find Charles staring at me. He has an odd look in his eyes and something about it—and about him—makes me nervous. I swallow hard and quickly lick the remnants of sauce from my lips. It draws Charles’s gaze and his stare is so intense that my pulse spikes. I get this sudden urge to kiss him and quickly look away.

  “Roonie,” Tate murmurs and rotates my barstool to face him. I fully expect him to feed me more food, but he takes my hand instead.

  His touch sends tingles up my arm, even as the rest of my body is aware of Charles’s huge form behind me. I shift in my seat uncomfortably and realize just how close both guys are. They crowd me. They make my pulse race and my body tremble with heat.

  The exhilarating mix of sensations, from their nearness and the food, threatens to overwhelm me. It’s all suddenly too much and I have this sudden urge to run. I shift my weight, about to slide off the barstool, but then Tate starts to hum.

  It’s a familiar tune, the one I was singing in the shower, and I freeze in surprise.

  “You could hear me?” I whisper, my face flushing with embarrassment.

  “Sound travels in this place,” Tate replies, making me blush even harder. “I really like this song, Roonie.”

  Then he leans forward in his bar stool and starts to sing.