Page 11 of Never Your Valentine

“Sure,” I say. “Nothing says ‘love’ like being born on the world’s most fake holiday.”

“You don’t like Valentine’s Day?”

“Overpriced roses and pity hugs? No, thanks.”

“Oh no. Somebody’s got issues.” She seems delighted to have touched a nerve. She snaps a picture of my license, hands it back, and puts her phone away without sending it to anyone.

I make a ‘gimme’ gesture with my fingers. “I showed you mine, now show me yours.”

“I suppose that’s fair.” She pulls a purple wallet out of her bag and extracts her license.

Annabelle Kerr. Ann Arbor address. We’re both thirty years old, although her birthday isn’t until May. I take a picture of it before giving it back, then press a few buttons on my phone.

“Are you actually texting it to someone?” she asks.

I nod. “My brother.”

“No. Stop.”

“Fine.” I shrug. “I’ll send it to my sister.”

“Somehow, worse.”

“I’m just messing with you.” I put my phone away. “I’m not texting it to anyone.”

“Right. You wouldn’t want word of your troll-chasing habits to get out.”

I freeze, both hands flat on the table. “I don’t chase.”

“I just meant⁠—”

“We need to get clear on this. You approached me. You sat next to me. If this is going to happen, it’s because you want it to.”

“If?” Annabelle drains the rest of her cosmo, leverages herself out of the booth, and holds out her hand. “Babes, it was a forgone conclusion about thirty seconds after you walked into this bar.”

There’s something about this pint-sized woman calling me Babes that scrambles my brain. I shouldn’t like it as much as I do. I should remind her that my name is Grant and she’s going to be moaning it in my ear before long.

But I don’t say any of that because fuck me, that casual endearment coming from her is hot. Everything about her is hot, from the sway of her hips in her tight jeans to the seductive smile she’s flashing over her shoulder as I follow her to the elevator.

The doors open. We get on. She pushes the button for the third floor. The doors close.

We crash into each other with the supernova burst of colliding galaxies. Limbs entwined, chests together, necks bent and reaching, reaching, reaching for each other. Is she on her toes? She must be. I grab her under the ass and lift, and now we’re face to face, lips together, her legs wrapped around me. It’s not like any first kiss I’ve had before. This is pure heat. This is whirling and spinning. This is taking and receiving with an urgency that’s more than two mouths together. More than lips and tongues. This is open, raw need. I can’t get enough of her.

The doors open. Someone clears his throat. An old man is waiting to board.

I put Annabelle down. She picks up her dropped purse. I grab my coat. We tumble out of the elevator, all grins, as the old man grumps past us. The doors close again.

“Damn.” Annabelle fumbles in her bag and retrieves her key card. “I knew I was going to like living in Echo Creek.”

I swear, I hear it. I don’t just imagine it. I clearly hear the ripping noise of an old-fashioned record scratch. It’s the sound of this entire night going to hell.

Annabelle waves her key triumphantly and lunges for me again. I back up, stepping out of her orbit. “You live here?”

“Yeah. I just moved here.”

“But…” This is not how the evening is supposed to go. We’re supposed to have mind-blowing sex and never see each other again. She’s supposed to be here today, gone tomorrow. Keyword: gone. “You were recording yourself on Cedar Street. I saw you.”

“So?”