Page 7 of My Indecent Valentine

Night spills over into morning. We have nowhere to be, but we both know we should be figuring out how we’re going to fix the halo so we can reopen Ollas Encendidas by tomorrow evening, which is Valentine’s Day for the rest of the world. Neither of us brings it up, an unspoken agreement to ignore our problems for as long as we can.

The fire orbs burn themselves out by early afternoon, and with them goes the last of the fire magic that connected us in that wondrous place inside the flame.

“Is it a real place?” I ask as I drowsily nuzzle into his neck.

He doesn’t know. “My mother used to call it the Soul’s Abyss, but I think it’s in the mind, a meditative place that only fire can awaken.”

“In the mind,” I muse, tapping my chin. “So, then, were we in my head or yours?” I ask with a grin.

“Yours,” he answers with a firm nod of his chin.

“How do you know?” I ask with a disbelieving scoff.

“It tasted like you.”

“I don’t think that’s a real answer,” I say, my eyes narrowing suspiciously. He’s teasing. He has to be.

He gives me a lopsided smile. “I know what I know.”

We eat and sleep and spend the evening in restful silence. The crackle of a fireplace, the whistle of a kettle, and little else. But every now and then, I slip away from Samite. I take my phone into the bathroom, and hands shaking, I read a new message from Magleon.

The black-horned demon is not easily shrugged off. Refusal after refusal, and each time he comes back with a more tempting offer. I should ignore him, delete his messages and block his number, but it feels impossible. I know he’s manipulating the situation and me, but even knowing that, I feel powerless to disengage. From the moment I sat down across from him, I haven’t been able to shake the feeling I’ve swallowed a hook.

“What’s the one thing you can’t buy?” he asked me. Only later did I realize he was asking me to name something I couldn’t afford, something he could give me that Samite couldn’t.

“Love,” I answered, stupidly in retrospect.

“Love?” he frowned. “You can’t buy love?” he scoffed at me from across the table. “Another human cliché that entirely misses the point of existence. The only thing worth buying is love. If you don’t love what you buy and buy what you love, you’re wasting your money and your love. This place, for example. You loved your restaurant enough to buy it, didn’t you?”

“We’re renting.” Most restaurants lease space. It’s a common practice.

“Well, there you have it. The truer statement would be ‘you can’t lease love.’” He leaned back into his seat, arms spreading as if to declare his point made. “That was an unfortunate mistake. What others have you made? Why is this marvelous restaurant going under?”

“We’re not going under. We’re fine,” I insist.

“Lie to yourself if you want, but don’t lie to the person who can save you. Just think what it would do to you if this place were to fold. What it would do to Samite.”

Damn him.

When I come out of the bathroom, Samite is on the couch. “We need to figure out how to get the halo working,” I say, loath to pop our happy bubble, but time is of the essence.

“Already on it. I called the repairman this morning. He’s there now.”

An oppressive weight lifts off my shoulders, and I float to the couch. I shove my phone into the pillows before curling up next to my husband, light and free. “Thank you.” I peck him on the cheek. We’re going to be fine.

Around seven, I wander into the kitchen and start dreaming up plans for dinner. Samite follows me a few minutes later. “Sofia.” I hear the strain in his voice before I turn to see it written all over his face. “He can’t fix the halo. We need three new fans.”

“Three? Only two went out.”

“When he was testing the system, one of the others started throwing sparks. He recommends replacing all five, but three would get us operational.”

Except we both know we can’t get three. We can’t get one. When we had a custom hood built for the restaurant, it felt like such a good idea, a statement piece. Little did we know the problems the slim profile and continuous curve would cause us down the line. Nothing off the shelf fits, and even if the original manufacturer’s parts weren’t on backorder, we know they’re faulty. Tearing the whole thing out and installing a new system would require a city permit, a route we probably should have taken, but it’s too late now. Even if we filed today, we’d be approved in a month or two at the earliest.

“What are we going to do?” I ask.

“There’s nothing else we can do,” he says, swallowing hard.

“What happens if we don’t open tomorrow?” He knows what I’m asking.

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