Page 21 of You Had Me At Valentine

I’m still sitting in the library going through old photos, pretending to focus while actually reliving our dance, when Tabitha appears in the doorway. My actual best friend.

“Are you here with news about the inn?” I ask, but her expression tells me everything I need to know. “That bad?”

“I’m so sorry.” She sinks into the chair across from me. “Mom tried everything. The Heritage Trust can’t help. The inn doesn’t meet enough criteria for historical designation.”

The finality of it hits me as if she socked me in the jaw with her fist.

This is terrible news.

I was counting on this. It was supposed to be my ace in the hole, a sure-fire way of ensuring the inn can’t change hands. I’d even planned out the whole speech to my father where I gleefully informed him that Byron took the inn off the market because it’s protected.

“What’s the criteria?” My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “There has to be something we missed. This inn has been here since the beginning.”

“Since your great-great-grandfather built it. I know.” She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “But there have been too many updates over the years. And none of the original interior remains except—”

“The stained glass.” I drop my head into my hands.

When I was a kid, I called them the windows that let in rainbows on sunny days.

The memory hits hard, of afternoons spent chasing those rainbow patches, Gran’s laughter warming the room more than any sunbeam. I used to think this place was enchanted. Now I’m not sure magic is enough.

A sound in the hallway catches our attention. Byron stands in the doorway holding takeout bags, his expression making it clear he heard every word. The concern in his gaze unfurls something inside.

He used to look at me like that all the time. As if my feelings mattered.

That’s why I struggled with our relationship ending until…well, this morning, honestly. How could I have mistaken whether he returned my feelings to the point where I thought things were going in a completely opposite direction?

How can I trust my own feelings if I’m that bad at gauging the situation?

I touch the pendant. A late graduation gift my behind. He kept it for reasons he has yet to share and I refuse to believe otherwise.

“We’ll find another way,” Tabitha says softly, standing. She gives Byron a pointed stare as she passes him. “Fix this.”

I almost laugh. Byron doesn’t fix things. At least he never did before.

Wasn’t I just schooling myself on the fact that things could be different this time? He’s helping me with the party. Maybe this is his chance to redeem himself and all I have to do is let him.

He holds up the bags. “I come bearing gifts. And before you say you’re not hungry, I got your favorite from The Golden Dragon.”

“You drove all the way to Breckenridge for sesame chicken?” The smile sneaks out despite everything. “That’s like a thirty-minute round trip.”

“Some things are worth the trouble.” His intensity is off the charts, as if everything has meaning, and the air between us shivers with possibility. “Besides, you always said no other place makes it right.”

The fact that he remembers such a small detail makes my chest ache. We used to grab takeout after his shifts at the café and spread it out on one of these same library tables. Sometimes Gran would join us, telling stories about the inn’s history while we picked through the container of crab Rangoon she always ordered extra of, just for us.

But the food came from one of the local Douglas restaurants, not Golden Dragon, and I always commented on it. Today I’m getting the real deal, courtesy of Byron.

Those are some serious inroads toward redemption, I tell you.

He sets the food on the table, careful not to disturb my piles of useless research. The familiar scent of ginger and soy hits me, and my stomach growls.

“It’s not the end,” he says, pulling containers from the bag. “The historical designation was just one avenue.”

I accept the box he hands me, noting how his fingers brush mine. On purpose. “It was my best shot.”

“No, your best shot is the Valentine’s Day party.” He settles into the chair next to me, closer than strictly necessary, his knee grazing mine in a way that tells me it’s not accidental. “The cards are already working their magic. Did you see Mrs. Henderson’s face when we delivered hers?”

“You cried too,” I point out, stabbing a piece of chicken. “Don’t pretend you didn’t.”

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