Page 15 of You Had Me At Valentine

Did I say brains were sexy?

Clearly his arms heard me say that and want me to be aware that they are also in fact sexy.

“We’re looking for guest records,” I croak and clear my throat. “To see if anyone famous stayed at the inn. I would love it if we found proof of someone famous being born here.”

“Got it.”

We work in silence as we eat, which I appreciate. This is not a date. Though I’m a little curious why he’s not making small talk. Seems like something a lawyer would do.

“Found one,” he says, showing me a leather-bound ledger. His arm brushes mine, setting off a contagion of sparks that I promptly ignore. “Guest records from 1952.”

“Add it to that pile over there.” I focus on forking up ravioli so I don’t stare at his forearms flexing as he lifts the heavy book.

But when he settles back into his chair, I look up automatically. His perfectly styled hair is in a disarray, as if he ran his hand through it a few times, and there’s a smudge of dust on his cheek that I have to sit on my hands to avoid brushing off.

He looks more like the boy who used to carry my books to class and the memory zaps me in places that I closed off a long time ago.

“You know, I’ve been curious about something,” he says, and I do not like the look in his eye.

As if he read my thoughts and he’s having them too.

“How much over you’re going to be on your dry-cleaning budget for the month?”

His smile reaches his eyes, creating the same crinkles that used to make my teenage heart swoon.

“People who go to court as much as I do have astronomical dry-cleaning budgets, so I’m good. No, what I’m wondering is why all of this is so important to you.” He gestures to the piles surrounding us. “Saving the inn. What are you saving it from?”

“Being lost,” I counter frostily. Because come on. “It’s been in our family for decades and it belongs to us. To me. Selling it makes no sense. How much money does Laird MacLellan need, anyway?”

“Maybe it’s not really about the money for him,” Byron suggests as if I haven’t thought of this.

“Everything is about money, especially when you don’t have any,” I grouse. “What do you think it’s about then, Smarty Pants?”

He’s looking at me with this laser focus that I want to look away from. But I can’t. I don’t want to. Let him look. Hopefully he’s eating his heart out that he lost me.

Regrets. That’s what I’m trying to avoid by saving the inn. Mostly mine. The inn is important to me and it took this fiasco to remind me how much so. I don’t intend to lose it now that I’ve been presented with the harsh alternative.

“You have money,” he says, which makes me snort.

“I do not or I’d buy the inn myself.” It’s my turn to stare at him. “You do all of dad’s finances. Surely, you’re aware that I draw a salary from the resort and that’s it. The rest of the money is in the trust you manage, which I benefit from only when Dad dies.”

Which I’m certainly not wishing for. I don’t need his money. But I do want his hotels.

“I just never thought about it,” he says honestly and threads his fingers through his hair, messing it up even further. “The MacLellan wealth is renowned, and I’ve put my head down over the last decade to make inroads toward my own version of that. So, I could stand shoulder to shoulder with people like your father.”

My heart does a complicated little flip. Is that why he’s on Team Lachlan? He’s trying to feel worthy?

I never thought about how he must have felt to be dating me back in high school. When you’re seventeen, your parents’ money matters a lot more than it does as an adult—especially to other people on the outside looking in.

Not all Kilt Valley residents are wealthy, but it’s a resort town with year-round activities, like the film festival during the summer and Scotoberfest in the fall. Some of the families—my own included—make a pretty penny from the tourists.

My brothers chose different paths, and for the first time, I start to understand why neither of them wanted to follow Dad’sfootsteps. They both probably realized there’s a whole world out there once you step out from Dad’s umbrella.

“I think your father is selling the inn because he had no idea it was important to you,” Byron says, his eyes holding mine, and there’s something in them I can’t quite read.

Or maybe don’t want to.

“Yeah, I got that. I’m trying to correct that notion as we speak.”

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