Page 38 of Never Your Valentine

Luther’s wearing steel-toe boots and jeans with a Carhartt jacket that looks new. Working man’s chic. I hear he’s driving a snowplow now, although I can’t imagine how he passed a background check to get a county job.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

He looks me up and down. “Doubtful.”

“Why are you standing outside my door?”

“Meeting someone.” Luther is still messing with his phone. Is he texting Annabelle?

She has no idea. Stories flash through my mind. The one about Luther being marched out of yet another trashed apartment, this time with the police involved and Luther shouting threats to his landlord. The string of jobs he’s detonated with his temper. Not to mention what I’ve seen with my own eyes. The way he sits at The Driftwood bragging about his exes, as if they’re trophies he won and broke on purpose. I had to help Blake kick him out once when whisky made him violent and he swung a chair at a man who dared to breathe wrong.

I heave the bag of trash into the dumpster and approach Luther. “Whatever you think you’re doing here, you’re not.”

“No beef with you, my man.” Luther brandishes his phone. “Just here to pick up my date.”

My chest tightens as a surge of adrenaline rips through me. Every nerve in my body is screaming stop him. Is this my business? Nope. Am I going to intervene anyway? Oh hell yes.

Annabelle bursts through the door. She’s wearing a yellow pompom hat, an orange sweater, and bright red lipstick. She’s still zipping her coat, gloves in hand. “You must be Luther,” she says. “I’m Annabelle. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s not,” I say. “It’s not nice to meet him, Annabelle.”

“Yes, it is,” she says. “We’re going for coffee.”

“Don’t.”

“We’re walking there,” she says, as if to reassure me that she’s not getting in his car. Or maybe she’s reassuring herself. Her voice has lost its chipper tone and her eyes hold a whisper of doubt as they dart from him to me.

“Let me talk to you for a second.” I shoulder my way between them, cutting Luther off. He knows better than to object.

“I’m really sorry,” Annabelle stage-whispers to Luther.

“Don’t be.” I march Annabelle to the center of our small lot, out of Luther’s earshot. “Why’d you let him come here? What happened to girl 101?”

She puts her hands on her hips and tilts her chin to glare at me. “I didn’t let him come up. Not to my door.”

“You should have met him in a public place.”

“He already knew where I live. Small town, duh.”

“At least he knows I live here too. That will make it easier.”

“Make what easier?” Annabelle asks.

“Getting him to leave.”

“Excuse me?” Annabelle’s blue eyes are stormy as her eyebrows slam down. “Since when do you have the right to⁠—”

“You don’t want to go anywhere with that guy.”

“That’s not your decision.”

“True. It’s not.”

“Good. Thank you. Now get out of my way.”

“We’ll make it Luther’s decision.”

“What? That’s not⁠—”