Page 22 of The Valentine Inn

She nodded like she got it. “Love is stupid when you think about it.”

“How’s that?”

“It’s just a chemical reaction.”

“Uh-huh,” I played along.

“It makes you blind and fail cognitive tests.”

“Did you read that in Reader’s Digest?” I teased.

“It’s a scientific fact, thank you very much.” She flipped her beautiful tresses.

“Don’t worry, Izzy, I’m not blind to Drake, and I promise not to fail any cognitive tests. I just need to get over the sucker punch of him being here. Which, by the way, is your fault.” I pointed at her.

“I did it for your own good. You’ll thank me one day.” She smirked.

“Today’s not that day, sister.” I turned on my heels and headed down the hall to the sound of her laughter. As I went, I took deep breaths in and out, trying to work up the courage to enter the infamous honeymoon suite. George was so right about that night over six years ago—entering that room had changed my world forever. I would have never guessed how, but Jameson was the best surprise of my life. I’d been hoping he would be Drake’s too. I let out a heavy sigh and reached for the door, determined to start vanquishing him from my life.

With a surge of courage, I threw open the solid-wood door and slid in like I was stealing home, shutting it behind me. Good thing, too, because I faltered when I got a whiff of Drake’s signature let-me-own-your-body-and-soul scent. I had to plaster myself against the door and grip the handle.

You can do this, Charlotte.

I scanned the room that looked untouched, as if Drake hadn’t even stayed here. The silk comforter on the bed had not even a ripple or wrinkle in it. The only thing different was that the brass wastebasket near the bed was now filled with crumpled-up pieces of the inn’s stationery. Curiosity got the better of me and I tiptoed over, trying not to get trapped in the memories of what had taken place in the room years ago. I was losing the battle, as my mind began to play the tender scenes of days gone by.

The fireplace ensnared me. Not only did we share our first kiss in front of it, but that entire night we stayed right there. He held me while we ate and talked and laughed. We didn’t make love that night. It was something even more intimate. Drake wanted to know everything about me, from all my dance recitals to why I chose my degree in event planning and management. It was as if I couldn’t tell him enough. Then, after I’d taken a shower the next morning, I came out of the bathroom and Drake did something for me no man had ever done. He brushed my hair. I know it sounds silly, but there was something so touching and evocative about it. That led us to the bed, where Drake was gentle and generous. We stayed there for the rest of the weekend.

I stared at the four-poster beauty where Drake had whispered that he wished we could stay forever, just the two of us. He didn’t answer his phone once that weekend, even though he was missing important meetings. How quick he was to change his tune.

I needed to remember that. I shook my head, forcing all the beautiful memories out. I marched toward the wastebasket, almost filled to the brim with crumpled-up papers. I assumed Drake was working on lines. Sometimes if he was having difficulty memorizing particular lines, he would write them out.

Hesitantly, I sat on the bed, made up with the same bedding Drake and I had gotten cozy in six years ago. I really needed to get rid of it. We were going to update the room anyway. Yes, yes, I would throw it away instead of laundering it. Baby steps. Yet, I found myself running my hand over the smooth silk, remembering how it felt against my skin.

Stop, Charlotte. Please, stop, I begged myself. I focused on the trash can, thinking I should probably just leave the crumpled papers alone. Yet, they called to me, and like the fool I was, I answered. I plucked the first balled-up paper from the top and tried to straighten it out to see what Drake had scribbled on it. He should have been a doctor for how terrible his handwriting was. Have no fear though, I was able to perfectly decipher the handwritten note, or partial note, for better or for worse.

My pulse raced just reading the first line: Dear Charlotte.

I swallowed down my heart before digesting the rest. There wasn’t much.

Staying in this room, I feel all too human. You make me want to . . .

That was it. I desperately wanted to know what I made him want to do. I grabbed a few more crumpled papers to see if he’d finished his thought. Maybe this was just the rough draft.

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