Page 24 of Fractured Heart

“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.