Page 43 of Never Your Valentine

“Yeah,” I say without thinking. “You and that whole online cheering section you’ve got.”

“How would you know about—” Her frown turns to slow, dawning triumph. “Oh my God. You’ve seen my Instagram.”

I don’t react fast enough. Rookie mistake.

“You have,” she says, a gloating smile on her face. “You’ve been stalking my Insta.”

“I’ve glanced,” I say.

She touches her fingertips to her cheeks. “Grant Neverly, town cynic, glanced at my Instagram.”

“Won’t happen again,” I say, holding up the relentlessly sunny card. “Now let me guess this one too.”

She steps closer, pretending to study the card with me. “Read it. I dare you.”

I flip it open and read it out loud. “Hope looks good on you.” I make a gagging noise loud enough that my aunt shoots me a look. “You paid someone actual money to print this.”

“I’m spreading joy,” she says.

“You’re spreading weaponized positivity.” I put the card back. “It’s tragic, really.”

She nudges me with her elbow. “Only because you’re emotionally stunted.”

I put a hand to my chest. “You noticed.”

She reaches for another. Two coffee mugs clink together, their cheeks rosy. “Even you can’t spoil this one.”

“You keep me grounded even when I’m bitter,” I guess.

“Not terrible,” she admits.

“We go together like exhaustion and bad decisions.” I lift the card dramatically. “Wait. I know: You’re the reason people switch to tea.”

She lets out a sound somewhere between horrified and wheezing. “You should not be allowed in society.”

“Look,” I say, opening the card, which says: You warm my mornings. “More lies. Coffee warms mornings. People ruin them.”

“How?” she asks.

“By existing. In my space. Nobody should talk to me before ten.”

“So you’re not a spend-the-night guy?”

“She’d have to handcuff me to the bed. And not in a fun kinky way.”

Annabelle’s right eye crinkles up. “No pancakes?”

“You like pancakes?”

“Something wrong with that?”

“No, no, not if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“Newsflash, a lot of people are into that sort of thing. You’d be a lot luckier if you were too.”

“I’m as lucky as I want to be.”

She stares at me like she can’t figure out whether I’m serious or messing with her. I’m not quite sure myself. “Let me guess,” I say. “You’re a cuddler. You want to be the little spoon.”