Page 33 of The Valentine Inn

Drake cringed at the mention of a torn cervix. Yeah, it wasn’t fun. I loved sitting on a donut and taking a million stool softeners for days. For that, I should get some perks. He shuddered, as if trying to get the image of Jameson obliterating all my lady parts out of his head before he responded, “I think since you didn’t give me the chance to be part of his life, that puts us on an even playing field.”

“Oh no, no, no.” I waved the tape around. “Jameson is mine. And when it comes to him, you better think, WWCT. What would Charlotte think? For instance, if you are dating Marissa again, Charlotte would think that’s a big fat no. She isn’t stepmother material. At. All,” I emphasized, as emphatically as I could.

I thought he might get upset with me; instead, he smirked.

“I forgot how infuriating and adorable you are.”

I gripped the ladder and bit my lip. He wasn’t allowed to be charming. “I still don’t like to be called adorable.” Infuriating, I was totally on board with.

“That’s a shame,” he crooned sexily.

I cleared my throat. “Well,” I said, two octaves too high. “That doesn’t matter. What I need to know is if you are seeing Marissa or any other bimbo . . . I mean tramp . . . I mean woman. I get so confused when it comes to your girlfriends.” I wickedly grinned.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, all while the corners of his mouth ticked up, like he was confused as to whether he should smile or berate me. He finally went with a long sigh followed by, “I’m currently not dating anyone.”

“Perfect.” I pressed my lips together so hard to keep from smiling.

“What about you? Who are you dating?”

I reached up and smoothed the piece of tape along the edge of the ceiling. “I haven’t dated anyone in years.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“Why?” I tore another piece of tape off the roll.

“Because you’re adorable.” He flashed me his dampened smile.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well I have a knack for making poor choices when it comes to men. And Jameson doesn’t deserve for me to screw up again.”

“Do you consider me one of those poor choices?”

My cheeks pinked. “Izzy certainly does.”

“I don’t care what your sister thinks,” he growled. “What do you think?”

“I think our time together was too good to be true,” fell out of my mouth before I could stop myself. “Anyway . . .” I blinked a hundred times, completely flustered. I even forgot why I was on the ladder. Seriously, why did I say that to him? “Um . . . just look at Jameson . . . I mean his books.” Anything but him looking at me the way he was, with his impassioned gaze that made me feel seen in a way that no one had ever seen me before. Like he knew exactly what I was made of.

Drake stared at Jameson’s photo album. “You were too good for me. You understand that, right?” he whispered.

“Is that the excuse you’re going for? It was you, not me.”

“It’s not an excuse. It’s the truth,” he spat.

“Maybe it is.” I shrugged. “But it doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago.” I tore another piece of tape off, while swallowing down the lump my lie had created in my throat. As much as I didn’t want it to, it very much mattered to me.

He must have agreed, as a silence settled between us. Drake took to studying our son’s pictures while I taped and held back tears. Drake was bringing up too many feelings I had suppressed. I needed to shove them right back down where they belonged—in the depths of Siberia.

After a good half hour of uncomfortable quiet, Drake held up a book and pointed at the cutest picture of Jameson without a shirt on, standing on the table, covered in tomato soup. He was all of two years old and still had a hard time getting all the food in his mouth. Yet he insisted on feeding himself.

“Does he like tomato soup?” Drake asked.

“Yep, and grilled cheese sandwiches. It’s his favorite dinner.” I gave him a knowing look.

Drake set the book back in his lap. “I haven’t eaten that meal since that night,” he said wistfully.

“George introduced Jameson to it during one of our visits.” I had vowed to never eat that meal again, but George was George and he thought Jameson deserved to know the wonders of the meal that had brought his parents together. Now we have grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup a few times a month.

“How often did you come here?”

“Two or three times a year.” I climbed down the ladder so I could move it over.

“Why so often?”

“George’s only son died in a car accident a long time ago, and with his wife gone, Jameson and I became family to him.” You know, and this place is magical and calls to my soul, but Drake didn’t need the gory details.

---