Page 25 of You Had Me At Valentine

It has to be here somewhere. I just handed Mrs. Peterson’s Valentine to her granddaughter ten minutes ago. Which means the old box of cards is still on the front desk.

I scan the room, looking for any signs of cream-colored catastrophe. At least Lyra is occupied, surrounded by well-wishers near the fireplace. She catches my eye across the room and her smile curves higher. Just for me.

The memory of last night floods back—her fingers in my hair, her lips on mine, the way she chose to be in the moment. With me.

And that Valentine will blow it all up. The words inside create a narrative I can’t use as an asset if I can’t control how it’s delivered.

Before I can form a plan or get my heart rate under control or recall what air feels like in my lungs, Lyra appears in my path, her gaze on my face. Her concerned gaze.

And I don’t have time to school my expression.

“What’s going on?” Lyra steps closer, and everything else fades away. “You look a little—”

“Sparkly?” I laugh to dispel the tension. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.

“I was going to say tense.” Her fingers brush my sleeve. “This party could actually give me the momentum I need to get Dad to agree to keep the inn. You’re not having second thoughts about helping me, are you?”

“Never.” The word comes out raw.

Her smile could light up half of Colorado, and it warms me in places I thought I could survive being cold. I can’t. I have to figure out how to make this second chance happen. Which is exactly why I need to find that Valentine before—

“Valentine time.” She reaches past me for the box on the desk. “I need to do one more delivery round before the big finale.”

My heart stutters because what if someone put my Valentine back in the box? “I can help with that.”

“I want to do it and this is my party.” She pulls the box away from my grasping fingers, laughing. “Though I appreciate your newfound enthusiasm for Valentine delivery.”

“I just want to help.” I sound strangled. Probably because my tie is strangling me. “Make sure everything goes the way you want.”

“It already is.” She peers into the depths. “Look how few are left. I can’t believe how many people showed up. How many connections we’ve made.”

The opportune time to tell her the truth unfolds before me. I can see it happening in slow motion. But every time I open my mouth to confess, the words stick in my throat.

There’s still a possibility that Lyra doesn’t want that second chance. That I’ll tell her and she’ll laugh at the idea that I really thought she’d ever trust me again. All she could talk about last night was having fun.

And then I’ll have ruined her relationship with her father for nothing.

As I stand there waffling, she starts sorting through the remaining Valentines.

“What’s this?” she says.

The room revolves once as she pulls out a cream-colored envelope addressed to her.

“It has my name on it.” She turns it over. “Byron, this is your handwriting.”

“Lyra—”

“You wrote me a Valentine?” Her voice goes soft with wonder, and my stomach turns itself inside out as I register that she’spleased. Because she thinks I wrote it tonight.

Against all odds, this situationcanactually get worse.

I reach for the envelope but she’s already breaking the seal. It makes a sound in my head as if we’ve been dropped into a horror movie right when the character unknowingly sets loose a cadre of demons.

I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but watch as she unfolds the paper inside.

Her eyes widen as she starts to read. “Dear Lyra, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She recites the poem I wrote over a decade ago. Words about stars and forever and a future I thought we could have. Words that will lead to questions I don’t know how to answer.

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