Page 8 of Never Your Valentine

“Of course it is. Someone writes those words.”

“Unless the card’s blank. In that case, you write them.”

“I never buy those. I never know what to say.”

“See?” I lift my drink with a satisfied smile. “The world needs me.”

“My hero.” He’s staring at my left hand. No ring. He’s noticed. “Are you Up North with friends?” he asks.

“Just me.”

“We don’t get many solo travelers.” He tilts his head and gives me a minor squint, as if he can’t quite figure me out.

That makes two of us. I mean, I think I know what I’m doing, but I’m not a hundred percent sure. More like fifty? Maybe moving to Echo Creek will be the best move I ever made. Maybe it will be a bust, and I’ll scoot back to Ann Arbor, out of business and flat broke. Again.

But that can’t happen. I can’t let it happen. I believe in my greeting cards, and I believe I can make a living from them. I inherited a building, fully paid-for, with an apartment to live in and space to rent out. It’s the cushion I need to get started.

I think. I hope.

“So you’re from Michigan,” Grant says.

“What gave it away?”

“Your accent more than anything else. But you don’t sound like a Yooper. More like someone who’s grateful she made it across the Mackinac Bridge before the storm hit. Are you from Detroit? Grand Rapids?”

“Ann Arbor,” I say. “And don’t you dare call me a troll.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You’re thinking it.”

“Of course I’m thinking it. I meet someone who lives below the bridge and…” He spreads his hands. “But I won’t say it out loud. My mama raised me right.”

“Good mama.”

“The best.” Grant takes a drink. “What was your bridge song?”

“How did you know I—” I cut myself off as I deflate in my seat. My voice is very small as I ask, “Does everyone have a special song they play when they cross the Mackinac Bridge for the first time?”

He nods.

I thought I was so cool, starting my song the moment my front wheels touched the edge of the bridge. I felt like the adventure was truly beginning and I wanted to mark it with a soundtrack as I drove across the five-mile span. Turns out I’m not cool at all. I’m a cliché.

Grant puts his elbows on the table. “It was Taylor Swift, wasn’t it?”

“Ha. It was not Taylor Swift.”

He tilts his glass toward me. “Indigo girls? ‘Closer to Fine?’”

My jaw drops. “Dammit.”

“It was, wasn’t it?”

I crumple in the booth. “Well, that’s embarrassing.”

“Why?” he asks. “The Barbie soundtrack is iconic.”

I perk up a little. “You liked that movie?”