Take Your Heart (The For Better Or Worse Series Book 1) Read online

  Copyright

  Take Your Heart is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  TAKE YOUR HEART: A NOVEL

  Copyright © 2022 by Kalila Black

  All rights reserved.

  Editing by Pure Grammar Editorial Services

  - www.puregrammar.com

  Cover Design by KP Designs

  - www.kpdesignshop.com

  Published by Kingston Publishing Company

  - www.kingstonpublishing.com

  Photographer - Melian Photography.

  Models - Miki Capote and Luke Gardiner

  The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Extras

  About the Author

  Also by the Author

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  Grayson

  A loud thud startled me as a wet, slushy snowball splats against the shop window next to my shoulder. I peer out through the crystals of ice coating the glass, except the spot I'm leaning against where my body heat has melted it. I smile to myself when I see a group of little boys having a snowball fight with what’s left of the big snowstorm we had last week. Judging by the heat I can feel radiating through the glass, there won’t be anything but gray slush left by the end of the day. The boys run off, shouting, dodging through the crowd that’s already gathering in the streets.

  December in Holly, Michigan is magical in the way that only a small town can make it. There isn’t a single shop on the main street that doesn’t go all out, decorating their windows and street signs. Just about every house in town does the same. The firehouse, too, and the school. You’re hard pressed to find somewhere that doesn’t at least put out some garlands and lights. Christmas cheer is a way of life around here. And Christmas in Holly is not complete without the Dickens Festival.

  It started back before my parents were even thought of. The festival brings in people from all over the state, sometimes even some from out of state. While Dickens festivals aren’t exactly unheard of, ours has the honor of being the longest running in the United States, and everyone here takes it seriously, like it’s an integral part of our identity. Local businesses set up tents in the street or run specials in their shops, drawing in potential customers with their trays of free cookies and steamy cups of creamy hot chocolate. And if you’re hungry? Well, there’s just about every kind of food you could want, an entire street’s worth of food trucks parked and ready to serve.

  Chestnuts roast over open flames in the town square, competing with the savory scents of frying meat and the sugary tang of cotton candy being spun. A group of carolers, borrowed from the church choir, walks the streets. No matter where you’re at in town, if you stop and listen, you’ll hear faint strains of their voices. Off to the side of the town square, there are some games and activities for kids. There is a metal slide so cold you have to go down on a piece of carpet, a reindeer ring toss, and a pin the hat on Santa. I remember my first year being big enough to go down the slide. Gideon had to ride with me because I was terrified. Pretty sure I screamed the whole way down and gave him material to rib me with for the next ten years.

  There’s a beautiful stable on the outskirts of town, owned by one of the original settling families. During most of the year, you can visit and pay to ride the wooded trails on one of his horses, but come December he busts out his pride and joy, an old-fashioned Victorian carriage that he decorates with sprigs of evergreen and poinsettias and piles full of blankets and furs. For just ten dollars, he offers rides around town—the clip clop of hooves passing through downtown like clockwork every thirty minutes or so.

  And then there’s my favorite part of the festival - the street plays. Volunteers from the local theatre group dress in Edwardian costumes and put on street plays based on the works of Dickens himself. My personal favorite is The Christmas Carol. I’ve probably seen it performed a hundred times, but every time I catch a play starting, I have to stop and watch. Not just because I love the story or because of the nostalgia related to the experience, but because it gives me a sense of belonging to something bigger than just me. My town does this amazing thing, and people come from all over to be a part of it. I was born a part of it, and I don’t ever want to take that for granted.

  Outside, the group of boys run off, taking their laughter and mischief with them. No longer distracted, I glance at the clock hanging over the break room door and can’t suppress a grin. My shift here at my parents’ store is almost over. I’ve only got another twenty minutes or so, and then I’ll be cruising the streets myself. Maybe I’ll call Anthony and see if he wants to grab lunch together from one of the food trucks. I’ve got enough money saved up that it won’t break the bank. I need to go to the art store and get a new set of charcoals anyway. Might as well make a day of it.

  I look down at the drawing I’ve been working on since this morning. The lines are a bit too smudged, giving the whole thing a softer feel than I intended, but it fits. She was all soft curves and sweet smiles. Looking at her, my fingers flexed, itching to touch her, to run through her hair and see if it was as soft as I imagined it to be. I wanted to trace my fingers over the graceful curve of her cheek, the gentle slope of her jaw. It was not long after opening the store that I saw her. Dad had just taken the bank bag and left. Alone and with no customers to see to, I parked myself on the window seat Dad installed the week he rented the shop out with my sketchbook in my lap and my charcoals underneath my bent knees. I’ve got a project due for art this coming week, and I’m desperate for some kind of inspiration. Something different from the still-life scenes we usually do in class or the landscapes I tend to gravitate to when left to my own devices. It was her hair that first caught my attention. The mass of vivid auburn was twisting in the wind like flames licking at the sky, and it drew my eyes to it. Once I saw it, I couldn’t look away.

  She was tiny, maybe an inch or two over five feet, if I had to guess. The navy-blue coat and blue jeans she was wearing couldn’t hide her generous curves. Her hands came up, battling against the wind to tame her waist-long locks, a smile curving candy pink lips. A thought rose before I could squash it. I wonder if she tastes as sweet as she looks. I licked my own, not even trying to tamp down thoughts of kissing her and letting my hands wander and become familiar with those curves.

  With her hair finally wrangled into compliance, she moved past the window, and I practically face-planted into the glass trying to see where she was going. My brain short-circuited watching her walk away, because damn. The back view was as good as the front. I think I might have actually groaned out loud. Before I could get my shit together, maybe slip outside and get her number, ask her to meet me for coffee or something after work, she slipped around the corner, disappearing into the alleyway between this building and the next.

  The whole thing couldn’t have lasted more than thirty seconds, but I couldn’t get her off my mind afterward. I didn’t recognize her, and in a town this size, that means she isn’t a local. My chances of ever seeing her again are pretty much non-existent, so the healthiest thing to do would be to move on, forget about her. I mean, how often do we walk by people who catch our eye and then we never see them again? Still, I couldn’t seem to let it go. Before I knew it, the picture I started to draw changed from my typical landscape to a portrait, and her face was staring back at me.

  I’d already started the journey to Hell with my handbasket in tow, so against my better judgment, I gave in and I’ve been filling in what details I can recall all day. This will be what I turn in for my project this week, and considering that I’m brand new to portraits, and despite my habit of being overly critical of my own work, it’s pretty good. Still, I wish I could see her again, even if it was just for another thirty seconds. Some things just aren’t meant to be, Grayson.

  The bell over the door rings out, and I look up, snapping the sketchbook closed. Gideon walks in, kicking off the slushy snow from his boots. I frown at the mess on the floor. I spent twenty minutes mopping earlier, but saying something will just start a fight and frankly, I’m not in the mood to get into it with Gideon today.

  “You’re early,” I comment instead, which is surprising. Gideon is never early. If anything, he’s turned arriving a few minutes late into a personality trait.

  “Man, Gabi got this little makeup set from that birthday party she went to yesterday. She kept trying to put purple lipstick and
hot pink eyeshadow on me.”

  I press my lips together to suppress a laugh. “Yeah, I can see why that would be upsetting. Not sure those are your colors.”

  He sends me a poisonous look. “It was leave or let her give me a Barbie-style makeover, and that shit was not gonna fly.”

  Gideon’s been in a pretty foul mood lately, ever since the youth pastor at church turned him into a lecture on adultery. He hasn’t been back to church since, and I can’t say that I blame him. Gideon’s not a product of adultery, but rumors are more interesting than fact—even to pastors sometimes, apparently.

  He disappears into the back room and comes back without his coat, carrying a catalogue from Bass Pro. He tosses it onto the counter, collapsing with a dramatic sigh onto the stool. “You headed home now?”

  “Nah,” I shake my head. “I was thinking about calling Anthony, see if he wants to walk around the festival together, maybe grab something to eat.”

  “How are you not sick of the festival yet? You’ve been to sixteen of them.”

  “Nobody ever gets sick of Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, bro.”

  Gideon groans long and low. “Oh, man. Okay, point taken. You wouldn’t want to grab one for me, would you?”

  “I can probably do that. You’ll owe me, of course.”

  He makes a sound of disgust low in his throat. “You can’t just buy your brother a sandwich?”

  “Nope. But I can buy him a sandwich if he cleans the bathroom for me tomorrow.”

  “I wish those damn sandwiches weren’t so good. Fine. I’ll clean the bathroom in exchange for a sandwich, but I want extra meat and extra cheese.”

  “Done.” And it’ll be well worth the price of the sandwich to be able to skip bathroom duty. Mom makes us clean them weekly. I try to keep that in mind, but Gideon, not so much. Cleaning after him makes me realize why Mom stopped doing it when I was ten or so.

  I slide off the window seat, stretching out my stiff muscles, arching my back until it gives a satisfying string of pops that hurt as much as they feel good. Ducking into the back room, I stop at the cubbies Dad built for the break area. There’s one for each member of the family, labeled with our names. Gabi’s just has a bunch of toys to distract her when Mom has to be here at the shop and Gabi isn’t at school, dance class, or a friend’s house. Gideon’s is stocked mostly with snacks, a few energy drinks, and older issues of the same catalogue he’s thumbing through currently. Mine holds mostly art supplies, another sketchbook that’s already full, and a set of charcoals that are mostly un-usable nubs. I slip the supplies I used today back inside. My coat is where I left it, draped over the back of one of the seats at the break table. I snag it on my way by, shrugging into it and pulling my hat out of my pocket at the same time.

  I pass by Gideon on the way out. He raises a hand in farewell, not bothering to say anything or pull his nose out of the catalogue. I pull out the cell phone that Mom and Dad gave me last Christmas and call Tony. It goes to voicemail immediately, which can only mean one of two things. Either he forgot to charge it, or he’s with a girl and hit the fuck-off button. Either way, it looks like I’m on my own for the day, which is fine. I’ve never minded alone time.

  Do I grab something to eat, or go to the art store first? The internal debate rages for a few minutes until my loudly rumbling stomach makes the decision for me. Definitely food first. If I cut through the alley, I can avoid most of the crowd and skip two crosswalks. Tucking my hands into my pockets, I put my head down to shield my eyes from the wind and walk toward the alley, fumbling in my coat pocket for my earbuds. Just as I’m about to turn the corner, something crashes into my chest with bone jarring force. I catch sight of flailing arms and fiery hair, but shock prevents me from acting fast enough to avert disaster.

  On the ground in front of me, flat on her back, is the girl I saw through the shop window this morning. I’d recognize her anywhere. Up close, she’s even more stunning. Pale, creamy skin, translucent enough that I can see the veins in her slender neck. A light smattering of freckles dances across the bridge of her nose. Thick, dark lashes rest like feathers against her cheeks. The arch of her brows gives her a regal kind of look, like her face belongs on the front of a coin or something. She reminds me of the porcelain doll my grandma used to keep in a glass case in her living room. Delicate, breakable, but all the more beautiful because of it.

  A harsh gasp parts her full lips, ripping my attention away from her looks. Her chest is rising and falling quickly, like she can’t seem to get enough air. Duh, asshole. You basically body slammed her into the pavement. Panic quickly sets in as I watch her struggle to breathe. Is she hurt? How badly? Should I call 9-1-1, or is that overkill? Does health insurance work the same way for collisions that car insurance does? Am I supposed to carry proof of insurance with me in case some girl tries to run me over? The questions pinging around my head get steadily more ridiculous. Obviously, I’m not great in times of crisis.

  Before I even think about getting my shit together, she’s sitting up, cradling her temples. She gives her shoulders a slow roll, testing the waters out. Her spine gives a few audible pops, making her wince.

  “What just happened?” she groans.

  “Uh. I think that was me.” I lift one hand in a half-hearted wave, heart sinking further in my chest. Yeah, my giant ass happened. Sorry, babydoll.

  She pauses, her pretty eyes going wide when they catch sight of my feet, and slide up, and up, until she meets my gaze. The breath whooshes from my lungs, like someone kicked me square in the diaphragm. Her eyes are an intense green; not quite emerald, not quite forest, but something in between, a color unique to her. It hypnotizes me, dragging me further under her spell. A guy could get really addicted to eyes like these. I’m not ashamed to admit that I would do some seriously sketchy stuff to keep her attention focused on me.

  Not that keeping her focus is a problem at the moment. Her wide-eyed stare is more than a little wary. Up close, she looks even smaller than she did before, and I am suddenly aware of how I must look, looming over her with my hulking frame. My last growth spurt I had rocketed me straight to six feet, four inches. I’m still not used to taking up so much space, or the shock-and-awe stares that my height draws. Combine that with my wider-than-average shoulders, and more than a few good-natured ‘fee-fi-fo-fums’ have been shouted at me in the halls at school. I’m probably lucky that she hasn’t scrambled up and run away screaming about the giant that just assaulted her.

  The silence between us becomes heavy, stretching on way too long, but I don’t know what to say or do. I nervously twist my lip ring with my tongue, waiting for any kind of reaction from her. Just when the wait feels like it’s becoming unbearable, she shakes her head and suddenly, she’s speaking, words pouring out of her like water through a broken dam.

  “Oh my god, I’m sorry! I’m running late to meet my mom, and I was checking the time and wasn’t looking where I was going, and… oh god, I am so sorry!”

  She’s sorry? I practically knocked her out, and she’s apologizing to me? I hold my hands up, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. “It’s okay. I’m fine, not a scratch on me. It’s you I’m worried about. It looked like you bit the dust pretty hard.”

  I bend down, moving slowly, carefully, so I don’t scare her, all too aware of the differences in our sizes. I slide my fingers into her hair, trying to ignore the fact that the apple-scented strands are every bit as silky as I imagined they would be, and gently probe at her skull. I can feel a good-sized goose egg already forming, but there’s no blood, no splits in the skin.

  “You aren’t bleeding, but you should probably still get it looked at. You could have a concussion.”

  Her pale cheeks blush a faint pink. She waves a hand in the air, saying “Oh, I’m fine. I have a pretty hard head. It’s my pride that took the real hit.”

  I laugh in surprise. Most girls I know would be sobbing right about now, either for attention or because damn, she hit the ground hard. Her head has to be pounding right now, but she’s brushing it off like it’s nothing and showing off her sense of humor. It’s impressive as hell, and I find myself even more attracted to her.