Page 17 of Sweet Valentine

“Love you, too!” I shout as she waves without looking back at me and shuts the door behind her. I look at my watch and curse. Shit, I need to get going if I’m going to have everything ready by morning rush.

It’s been a crazy morning, and for the first time today, I finally have no one in the shop and can sit and eat my lunch. I look at my watch and see that it’s just after eleven a.m., and I know I’ll be slammed again in about half an hour. So, I grab one of my croissants and the secret jar of peanut butter I stash away for emergencies. I slather the pastry in the nut butter and take a huge bite. Just as I finish the sandwich and go in search of my water bottle, I hear the bell over the door jingle, and I turn to see a very well dressed, very poised woman walk up to the display case.

“Can I help you?” I ask as I make my way over to where she’s standing. The moment I’m within a foot of her, I smell the overwhelming cloud of Chanel, and it takes everything in me not to cough at the scent. Her hair is short, blunt-cut, and black. Her skin is like porcelain, and her outfit screams “money.” She is the type of person that Chris wanted me to become. Someone who looks the part. Judging by the look in her eye when she scans me from head to toe, she knows how different we are.

“I was told that this was the place to go if I was in the mood for something sweet. And from the look of this display, I think I was led to the right place!” She smiles, and I can’t help the grin that overtakes my face. Although I can almost feel the judgment falling off her in waves, I will always have a soft spot for someone who appreciates my bakery.

“Thank you so much. Was there anything you were looking for specifically?” I ask, watching her eyes scan the display.

“I think I’ll take two of the red velvet cupcakes. They’re my kryptonite,” she says, laughing.

“Honestly, me, too. It takes everything in me not to bake extra just for myself.” She laughs, but I can tell it’s fake.

“Sweetie, I envy your willpower.” I smile as I box up the cupcakes and bring them to the register.

“Anything else?” I ask as her eyes scan the goodies once more.

“I think I’ll take the butter tarts to my husband. Since he’s the one who told me to come here in the first place. He loves them.” I gather everything in a bag and ring her up.

“Well, I hope he likes them,” I say, handing over her purchase. “Can I ask who he is, so next time I see him I can thank him for sending me business?” I say jokingly, but what comes out of her mouth sends my whole world upside down.

“His name is Noah. Noah Taylor. Have a great day!” she says, smiling as she walks out of the shop, carrying a bag of goodies for the man I’m falling in love with. And she’s his wife.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Bye, Mr. Taylor!” Derek yells as he walks out the door. I wave, shutting the door behind him and heading back to my desk. The piles of paper scattered over every inch of the mahogany top make my anxiety rear its ugly head. I knew starting this family tree project was going to be a big undertaking, but I’m not sure I realized just how much work it would be on my end. The kids love it, though, so I guess I have to suck it up and start grading before it’s too late, and I have to pull an all-nighter.

As I stare at the pile of papers in front of me, I sigh. When you become a teacher, no one ever tells you that you have to become an expert at hieroglyphics because reading an eight-year-old’s handwriting is like trying to decipher some kind of ancient code. Some of my students have great cursive, and I hate to say that most of them are girls. I don’t know what it is with boys and messy handwriting, but it’s like we’re born with no desire to write legibly. It took me years of practice to make sure my handwriting was clear for the kids, especially when they’re this young. If I taught high school? I would make them read my horrible penmanship just for fun.

I stare at the pile of papers in front of me again and then glance at the clock. It’s just past three in the afternoon. That gives me at least five hours until I have to be at Val’s place. Thinking of Val sends a horrible sinking feeling down my whole body. I know she can sense that I’m hiding something. Well, not hiding exactly. Maybe I’m just scared that when she finds out about Amy, she’ll run for the hills. I would.

My relationship with Amy has always been complicated, and still is to this day. But the idea of Val leaving me, exiting my life like some fall breeze, makes me sick. Val is everything I want in a woman. She’s smart, sexy, and easy to be around. She makes me feel like a normal human being. She’s down to earth, doesn’t care about others perception of her, and is dedicated to making her dreams come true, which is an amazing quality to have. I knew the moment I met her that I would fall hard for her. I just didn’t expect to fall so fast and realize it when we weren’t on speaking terms, and in the middle of a fight I didn’t know if I could win.

I look at my phone for the millionth time today, wondering if Val texted, but I know she hasn’t. I haven’t heard from her since she agreed to see me tonight. At lunch, I sent her a quick can’t wait to see you text and waited for something from her but heard nothing.

Shit.

I’m going to have to grovel like I’ve never done before. But I’m ready to fight for this, for us. I know we’re meant to be together, and I know she knows it, too…I can see it in her eyes when she smiles at me. I just need to convince her that the fight is worth it. That I’m worth it.

Just as I’m about to call her so I can hear her voice, a knock comes from my classroom door. I look over, already smiling because it’s probably Sarah needing more markers since she seems to go through them like most people go through pens. But when the door opens, it takes me a minute to realize who is standing in the doorway.

What the fuck is she doing in my classroom?

“Noah! Honey, look at you! You look so quaint in your little classroom!” Amy squeals as she shuts the door behind her and makes her way over to my desk. She sets down her purse, which is probably worth more than my monthly salary, and leans against one of the kids’ desks.

“Amy, what are you doing here?” I ask sternly. I make eye contact only for her to wink in my direction, making me shake my head. She will never change.

I take in the sight before me. The woman who, at twenty, I thought I would spend the rest of my life with. Her short, black hair is the same as it always was, straight with no hair out of place. She reeks of that perfume she swears is designer but just smells like chemicals, and her outfit is as perfect as she wants me to believe she is.

When she doesn’t answer my question, I break eye contact and go back to grading my papers. “I’ll ask you again, Amy. What the fuck are you doing here?” The bitter hatred in my voice saturates every word, and for a split second, I wonder if I was too harsh. But when I hear her fake laugh as she leans forward, her palms resting on my desk, cleavage on full display, I remember exactly who and what this woman is.

A manipulator.

“What? I can’t come and see my husband at work?” I almost laugh in her face. Instead, I stop what I’m doing and look up at her, wondering what I ever saw in her in the first place.

“First of all, I’m your ex-husband, or did you forget the yearlong divorce we went through. And, second of all, you are never welcome here. Ever. I believe I told you at our last hearing that I never wanted to see your smug face again…yet, here you are.” Her smile falters, the façade breaking for a moment before that fake-ass smile appears once again.

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