Fractured Heart

Chapter 5

I stuff my pendant back in my pocket as Tate crosses the room towards me. There's a confident swagger to his step and he's got something in his hand—his large, strong hand.

My pulse spikes. When he reaches me, he starts to kneel, and my jaw practically drops.

This is it! My heart hammers in my ears. This is the moment when Prince Charming gets on one knee in front of Cinderella.

I've written so many songs about it. I've even submitted the best one with my college application. I know it's not good enough—my application got rejected—but I can't help loving every single verse. The part where Prince Charming's eyes meet Cinderella's, and he raises the glass slipper...

I smile and glance down at Tate, who raises an eyebrow instead. The look is a familiar one. It tells me that he'd said something—something that obviously requires a response—and now he's waiting... and waiting... and waiting...

"Sorry, what?" My voice squeaks.

Tate may be Prince Charming incarnate, but this is yet another reminder that I'm no Cinderella. I'm the ugly step-sister with the short attention span. Or just a nobody who never even made it into the fairy tale to begin with.

"Can you roll up your pant leg?" Tate asks, and my gaze follows his.

My jeans are torn at the knee and my skin is coated with dirt. The gaping hole is much larger than it was this morning and reveals blood-stained threads that were once white.

A flush creeps across my cheeks as I shift on the couch. How did I not notice that my knee was bleeding?

Carefully, I start to roll up my jeans. The mud and water and dirt from the forest have all seeped into the fabric, which makes the task near impossible. I struggle, and the gaping hole at my knee splits further with a loud rip.

"I have an idea," Tate tells me. He gently pulls my hands away and grips the edges of the hole. Then he yanks, and the sound of ripping fabric echoes through the waiting room.

I gasp.

I bet Tate could rip off my clothes without breaking a sweat; or tear off his shirt, revealing the rock hard abs hidden underneath.

I suddenly feel very warm and shift uncomfortably on the couch. Tate's fingers graze my inner thigh. I try not to focus on his hands—on how long his fingers are and how big his palm is—but it's a losing battle. Then, his thumb touches the bare skin at my knee, and I jump.

"Sorry." Tate quickly lets go. Then he slowly leans in for a closer look, and I get this sudden urge to squeeze my thighs shut.

His breath grazes my knee, and a shiver travels down my spine. He places a gentle hand on my leg, and I let out something embarrassingly close to a moan.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," Tate whispers. His thoughts seem to run in a completely different direction than mine. Obviously.

He examines my knee carefully and opens a small, sealed plastic bag he must have gotten from Faye. Taking out a small bottle, he uses it to soak a cotton ball.

"This might sting a bit," he murmurs, placing it against my knee.

I jump at the intense, burning pain. Tate immediately pulls the cotton ball away.

"Squeeze my hand," he tells me, taking my right hand in his. I don't get a chance to savor the moment before he returns the cotton ball to my knee.

I can't help but squeeze his much larger hand tightly in response to the pain, but Tate doesn't react. He works diligently, his attention focused entirely on cleaning the cut.