Page 55 of Never Your Valentine

“Don’t laugh,” I tell Felix. “I was on my high school archery team.”

“They have those?” June asks.

“We won the state championship.”

Felix is laughing for real now, his head thrown back. “I’m sorry,” he says, when he sees me glaring. “I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at Tim. In advance. Yes, you can come. Please come with us, and do not tell the guests you can shoot.”

“Why not?”

“It will be funnier.”

More cards on the table, another trick taken by Blake and Scott. Dammit. June and I are losing.

“What time do you need us there?” Grant asks.

Felix picks up a trick. “If Annabelle is helping, I don’t need⁠—”

“I’ll be there.”

The words land in my belly and refuse to sit still. A second ago, the answer was absolutely not, and now he’s volunteering? Is he worried about me? Afraid I’ll embarrass myself in front of the tour group? Does he just not want me going without him? As I try to catch his eye, my knee gives a tiny, rebellious bounce against the table leg before I can stop it. Grant is looking everywhere but at me.

“Are you going to…” June nods at my final card and I realize everyone else has played. It’s a lousy off-suit nine. I throw it on the pile. We lose this trick and we lose the tournament.

Grant and Dylan are on their feet, high-fiving each other across the table. Grant demands that I give him back his lucky shirt.

June points to me. “Hasn’t she just proven that it’s not lucky?”

“No, no,” I say. “I’m sick of wearing it anyway.” I duck into the bathroom where I strip off the shirt and then put my flannel on and button it. When I get back to the living room, I ball up the t-shirt and toss it to Grant. “Here you go, complete with girl cooties.”

Grant dangles it from a finger and thumb, holding it away from his body. “You’re not going to wash it?”

“That wasn’t part of the deal,” I tell him. “You want it clean? Wash it yourself.”

Chapter 22

Grant

Wash my lucky shirt? Not a chance.

Two days later and it’s still folded on top of my dresser. I like looking at it. I like sleeping in the same room with it. I don’t sleep with it, because I’m not a complete pervert, but I’ll admit to taking a sniff or two. Maybe three. The scent is subtle but unmistakable, filling the space between thought and feeling. Annabelle. A blend of soap and skin, softness and sunshine. The hem is twisted where she bunched up the shirt to make it shorter. I don’t try to smooth it.

I’ll wash it sometime between now and our next family dinner. But at this moment, I’m keeping it as-is. I’ll call it my birthday present.

A soft thump hits my front door. Then another. If someone’s knocking, they aren’t trying very hard. I look through the burglar hole to see Annabelle standing in the hall.

I sweep the door open. “You can borrow one egg, neighbor. But not two. Not in this economy.”

Annabelle is gripping her phone so hard her knuckles have gone white. The screen is spiderwebbed with cracks that weren’t there yesterday. Her lower lip is caught between her teeth like she’s punishing it, and she stares at me with blazing focus. Whatever has brought her here has scraped her raw. She holds up the rage room coupon I gave her all those weeks ago. “Is this still valid?”

“Um…” I take a step back. “The Break is closed tonight.”

“So open it.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened. I have a coupon and I want to break things.” She shoves her phone in her hoodie pocket and brings out a thick, cream-colored envelope. “Do you know what this is?”

“No.”