Page 7 of Never Your Valentine

I put my hands under my chin in mock prayer, praying for escape. My new friend nods in agreement, his eyes rolling toward heaven.

Solduxe is looking forward to a big meeting with someone named Bronson. They’re going to keep going until they find the sweet spot, keeping it hands-on while drilling down to the most important action item, all while straddling objectives.

The guy in the corner tilts his head toward them and mimics a hand job. I cough into my fist to disguise a laugh, which only encourages him.

But what really sets us off is when the youngest of the business bros says—more than once—that he wants to “open the kimono.” My friend looks left and right, grabs either side of his flannel shirt, and holds it open.

I can finally read his t-shirt. It says “Michigan’s Better Half” with the outline of the Upper Peninsula.

I’m done. Gone. This man is more than attractive. He seems fun.

The bartender runs the blender. The conversation at the fireplace is low in the background. The business theater goes on. Meanwhile, we’ve got our own private channel and are saying a whole lot of something.

I grab my sketchpad and a marker from my bag.

I write nice shirt in block letters and hold it up.

He pats his pockets as if looking for a pen to write me back, then spreads his hands. Empty. He raises his eyebrows and waits, eyes locked on me for seconds that seem like hours. I go warm all over and every nerve in my body is concentrated between my legs. When he points to the seat across the booth, I gather my tote bag and drink, and head over.

“So you don’t like sitting at the bar? Is that it?” I ask.

“The bartender is my cousin. She gossips.”

“Well, you do look like tomorrow’s scandal, so…”

“Quick. Sit. Shield me.”

I sit opposite him. “I’m Annabelle.”

“Grant.” He lifts his drink and I lift mine. We clink glasses. He takes a small sip, his lips kissing the edge of the glass.

“That looks delicious,” I say.

Grant nods. “It’s called a Northern Flame. Made with cinnamon schnapps. Warms you up on a cold night.”

“Not many men drink cocktails.”

“They’re missing out.” He says it with calm confidence that’s extremely attractive.

Loud laughter erupts from the center table. Grant frowns at them. “I take it you don’t work for Solduxe?”

I try to parse the logo on their clothing, but it’s nothing but generic circles and lines. “What do you suppose they do?”

“No idea.”

One of them chokes on something. He coughs and swears while his buddy pounds his back and the others laugh at him. “I’d like to find out,” I say.

“Why?”

“So I can do whatever’s the opposite of that.”

“What do you do?” he asks me.

“I design greeting cards.” I’m getting used to saying it and decide that I like it. I let out a breath that feels like exhaling all the stress of last year. I’m glad to be here. Glad I took the chance to work for myself. To make my dream come true.

“Wow,” he says. “Until today, I didn’t know that’s a job.”

“It is, though.”