Fragile Hearts

1: Sexy Blue

Part One: Morgan

The course of true love never did run smooth.

--William Shakespeare

Late August, 2013

I glance at the printout. My first day at university and I'm lost. My mouth goes dry and my palms start to sweat. I know it's stupid to feel so anxious when all I have to do is ask someone where Psych 101, Room 11-A, is located.

"Ah, you look a little lost. Can I help you find wherever you're supposed to be?"

The deep voice that's a little scratchy startles me and I drop my printout in my lap. Placing my hand over my heart, I jerk my head up and fall into blue eyes. They're bluer than the water on the Big Island where I spent a week's vacation with my family when I was thirteen—a year before the end-of-my-life as I knew it.

My heart jumps into my throat when I look from the azure eyes, to the straight nose, to the sexy mouth with perfect teeth—except for a slightly crooked eye tooth—to a dimple-crease on the left side of a beautifully chiseled face—the kind of face a woman would be hard-pressed not to fall for.

Instinctively, I place one hand over the right side of my face, and with the other, I push the joystick of my wheelchair to move it out of the way of oncoming students, but I can't get my vocal chords to move. The guy gives me a curious look. He probably thinks I'm mentally challenged, as well as physically. He tilts his head to read the printout in my lap. His hair is close cropped, but not a buzz cut, and a shade lighter than my own.

He says, "Room 11-A. Well, it just so happens my class is a few doors down so I can personally escort you there."

The guy is being super nice. My voice finally works. "Oh, hey, no need. I don't want to hold you up. Just point me in the right direction." My eyes are drawn to a tat on the hot guy's right arm—a snake that wraps around his forearm from elbow to wrist. He shifts his backpack and his T-shirt sleeve slides above an impressive left bicep. There's another black snake encircling it.

He looks at me again with an expression I can't decipher and I feel even more flustered. Rather than argue and appear pathetic, I reply, "Ah, okay. I'll follow you."

He grins and that dimple-crease peeks at me again. The guy starts forward but turns around and walks backward. Maybe he thinks I'm such a lame brain I might not follow him.

Whatever.

The classroom that's been giving me hives turns out to be only a few paces down an intersecting hallway. The awesome guy stands in front of the door waiting for me. Because of my upbringing, I know I have to thank him.

Overcome by the curse I've been born with—shyness—I feel my face turn as red as the stripes on the American flag I passed when I entered the halls of Brookside University, a private college in my hometown of Brookside, Arizona, east of Tucson. My manners prevail. "Thank you for coming to the rescue."

Did that sound dumb?

The guy holds his hand out for a shake. "Tyce Brandon."

Almost imperceptibly, I shrink backwards. I can't help myself. Since the accident that killed my sister and her boyfriend, and disabled me, I don't like being touched by strangers. I stare at his hand, willing myself to grasp it.

I can't.

Instead, I lift eyes almost overflowing with tears. "I'm Morgan Weston."

The guy pulls his hand back and smiles so sweetly, I blink, and a tear leaks. Jerking my head down, I quickly maneuver my chair into the room. Before I've gone three feet, a pair of faded Levis and worn Nikes step in front of me, and once again I find myself staring up into eyes too beautiful for words. I almost gasp when the guy goes down on one knee in front of me. "Morgan, if you need anything, you just let me know."