Fragile Hearts

By Colleen Clay

Fragile Hearts is the story of twenty-one year old Morgan Weston who is confined to a wheelchair. A car accident at the age of fourteen left her not only physically challenged, but emotionally fragile. There are mysteries to unravel regarding the car accident that killed her only sister and her sister's boyfriend. Because Morgan's parents love her, they are forcing her to enroll in college and live on her own for the first time.

Enter now, Tyce Brandon. Tyce has his own secrets.

Over several months, Morgan and Tyce become friends. Tyce is drawn to Morgan, but is he confusing love for pity, or even worse, guilt?

Fragile Hearts is not only a love story between a most unlikely couple, but also a coming of age story for a sheltered young woman. Will the mysteries revealed drive these young lovers apart, or is forgiveness the key to sealing a love begun in the depths of despair?

Some profanity
Sweet love scenes
Verna Clay writing under the pen name of Colleen Clay

• Language: English
• Publisher: Verna Clay
• Release date: Aug 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311396440

Colleen Clay

Colleen Clay is a pen name for Verna Clay. I chose to use this name for my debut YA novel, "Fragile Hearts," because Verna Clay is associated mostly with my contemporary and historical westerns.As for my own personal taste in leading characters, I prefer my heroes and heroines to be utterly mismatched. To me, a hot guy and a glamorous gal getting together is boring. As a result, one of my leads is neither popular nor physically gifted. Both characters, however, are multifaceted, sometimes hurting, but always honorable by the end of the story. My storyline contains obstacles intended to build character in my characters.

Book preview

Preface

After reading a collection of Young Adult novels, I decided to try my hand at writing in a genre new for me, and Fragile Hearts is my debut story. Of course, trying anything new is both frightening and exciting, and I found myself alternately biting my nails or cheering myself onward.

As for my own personal taste in leading characters, I prefer my heroes and heroines to be utterly mismatched. To me, a hot guy and a glamorous gal getting together is boring. As a result, one of my leads is neither popular nor physically gifted. Both characters, however, are multifaceted, sometimes hurting, but always honorable by the end of the story. My storyline contains obstacles intended to build character in my characters.

In Fragile Hearts, the heroine is Morgan Weston, a woman fragile both in body and spirit, and I had to listen with my heart to understand her.

The hero, Tyce Brandon, is a complex man of substance, but also fragile in spirit.

Both leading characters have suffered terribly—physical limitation and scars being obvious for Morgan, emotional scars for both of them.

As for the town of Brookside in Arizona, it is a fabrication of my imagination. I needed a midsize town with a local college, and rather than search for a town fitting my needs, I created one.

I have chosen to use the author name of Colleen Clay because Verna Clay is associated mostly with my contemporary and historical westerns.

Finally, I'd like to mention that this book is written in first person, present tense. Normally, I would not choose to write in this fashion, but the characters assured me it's what they wanted. I have also written the romance from the point of view of both characters. Part I is Morgan's perspective and Part II is Tyce's. The timeframe is the same for both individuals, so you can experience déjà vu when you reach Part II and read from Tyce's point of view.

I hope you enjoy Morgan Weston and Tyce Brandon's romance.

Colleen Clay

Part I

Morgan

The course of true love never did run smooth.

--William Shakespeare

1: Sexy Blue

Late August

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 backward. 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.

I want to pinch myself. Am I dreaming? I open my mouth but nothing comes out.

Promise? he prods.

Slowly, I nod. He gives me another heart-stopping grin, and then he's gone.

Did I just hallucinate this guy?

Rolling my chair to the back of the room, I hope to make it there without knocking someone's books off their desk. I still feel hot with embarrassment and want to cry. The dozen or so students in the room had all stopped what they were doing when Tyce knelt in front of me. Most have gone back to talking or pulling stuff out of their backpacks, but not all. Over by the windows, three pretty girls whisper and keep glancing in my direction. I hate garnering attention.

Finally, I reach a desk at the back and maneuver my chair as close as I can. Although the room is accommodating with a desk for wheelchairs, it's in the front row. I never sit in front. Not only am I in a wheelchair, but I have a facial scar that, as much as I try to cover with makeup, is still slightly visible. It runs from the middle of my right cheek to below my jaw. Cosmetic surgery and time have minimized the scarring, but not my awareness of it.

It takes a second before I realize someone is speaking to me.

Hello, earth to whoever you are, says the girl at the desk next to mine. She's wearing a red T-shirt that clashes with her orange hair. She tries again, Hellooo. My name is Lucy. I'm a sophomore. What's your name? I'm guessing you're a freshman?

The girl seems genuinely friendly, not like some people who only act friendly but can't wait to get away from the invalid in the wheelchair.

For the second time within minutes, I introduce myself. I'm Morgan Weston, and yes, this is my first year.

"Nice to meet you, Morgan. Oh, my last name—are you ready for this—is Arnez. Yep, my mother loved Lucille Ball so much that she couldn't resist naming me after her daughter, so she could introduce me as Lucy Arnez. The spelling's a little different, but it sounds the same.

I immediately like the friendly girl and uncharacteristically joke, Do you have a brother named Desi, Jr., or a dad named Desi?

Lucy grins. Nope. My dad's name was John and he died when I was five. I'm an only child. After me, my mom said she couldn't handle more children. She said raising me was like raising triplets. Lucy chuckles at her own joke. What about you? Got any brothers or sisters?

A stab of pain pierces my heart for my dead sister. Ah, two brothers, Nate and Les. Nate is four years older and Les is three years younger. I don't tell her about Emily who died at the age of seventeen.

Lucy leans closer. "You do know, don't you, that the guy who knelt in front of you is the hottest of the hotties on campus, right?"

Um, no. I didn't know that.

Well, now you do. He's a senior and super smart. I think he tutors a lot of students.

Oh, that's nice. Another lame response.

I think he's between girlfriends. From what I've heard through the gossip mill, he used to go with Cindy Thornton. She motions toward the window with her eyes. Those girls that keep glancing your way and whispering are some of her friends.

I lower my lashes and peek in their direction. True to what Lucy said, they're still eyeing me and whispering.

Lucy leans closer, lowers her voice, and says expressively, O. M. G., when Tyce knelt in front of you with all that male intensity, I thought someone might have to peel me off the floor.

Our conversation is suddenly interrupted when a very short, stocky man, with bushy gray hair pulled into a low ponytail, walks into the room.

In a booming voice that should belong to a tall man, he says, Welcome newbies to Psych 101. My name is Professor Shields. Hopefully, by the end of the semester, you'll have learned something useful for everyday living.

As much as I try to concentrate on what Professor Shields is saying, I can't get Tyce Brandon out of my thoughts. Why would the campus hottie even notice me? He probably felt sorry for the crippled girl.

After an hour of listening to Professor Shields call roll, warn students about intolerable behavior, and finally introduce class objectives, he writes the homework assignment on the whiteboard and dismisses us. I'm almost finished copying the instructions when I hear Lucy's quick intake of breath and feel the atmosphere in the room shift, like it just got electrified. Gut instinct tells me Tyce Brandon is back.

Lucy drops her pencil on the floor. When she bends to retrieve it, she let's loose with an F-bomb and whispers, He's coming our way.

I nervously place a hand over my scarred cheek. After I